by Sarah Dessen
“Yep,” I said, brushing past her to put the bucket down. “Do you want these all here together?”
“Sure,” she said, watching Ambrose as he tied an old scarf I’d found in my backseat around the dog’s neck. The dog, who had not calmed down one bit during the hour drive, kept trying to lick him.
I walked back to the van, pulling open the other door and reaching for a bucket of tall gladiolas in bright pinks and purples. A moment later, Ambrose was beside me, removing the Gerbera daisies. “I think he’s thirsty,” he said to me. “You think I can grab him some water?”
“My mom’s not exactly an animal person,” I advised him. We both looked over at her: she was studying the dog as it gnawed on the scarf. “Whatever you do, I’d proceed with caution.”
“Right. Thanks.”
We went inside, putting the buckets down. Glancing into the conference room, I saw William at the table, unloading mason jars from a cardboard box. He called out, “Did you bring lunch? I’m starving.”
“One sec,” I told him. “We’re just getting the flowers in.”
He glanced around me, out at the car and Ambrose. “Is that—”
“Yes,” my mother, still in the doorway, told him. “They brought a dog back, too. Which was not on the list.”
I grabbed a bottled water from a nearby counter, along with a plastic thermos cup that had long ago lost its bottom half. When I went back outside, Ambrose was at the van, pulling out the sunflowers. “Here,” I said, handing them both to him. “Just try to keep things low key.”
“I always do,” he said cheerfully. I couldn’t tell if he was kidding.
I unloaded the lunch stuff, then left William and Mom at the table with their salads and went back outside, where the dog was now lapping water out of the thermos top. When he saw me, he stopped, lifting his dripping snout, and started wagging his tail.
“He likes you,” Ambrose told me.
“I smell like lunch,” I replied, not quite convinced. Still, I bent down, scratching the brittle hairs behind the dog’s ears.
The truth was, I wasn’t much of an animal person. I remembered a time, back in first grade, when I’d wanted a cat or dog more than anything. But my mom worked so much, and she claimed her former life on the farm had been quite enough animal caretaking, thank you, so eventually I stopped asking. It wasn’t that I didn’t like pets; I just figured they were for other people, like nose piercings and gluten-free diets.
Ambrose, however, felt differently. It was obvious by the way he was watching the dog drink, as if he was both adorable and genius. “I didn’t hear him get called anything, did you? Guess that means we can name him whatever we want.”
We? I thought. Out loud I said, “What’s Bee going to say about this?”
“Oh, she’ll be fine. She loves animals.” The dog finished off the water, then sat back and shook its jowls, sending droplets flying. “And anyway, she won’t have to deal with him. He’ll go everywhere with me.”
“On foot,” I said, clarifying. He nodded. “What’s going to happen when you crash at people’s houses, like last night?”
“This is a small dog,” he replied. “Compact. Won’t be a problem.”
“You’ll have to feed it. And take it to the vet, make sure it’s healthy. And what about in the fall, when you go back to school?”
He looked at me then. “You think way ahead, don’t you?”
“No,” I said, although I couldn’t see why this was a bad thing. “I just think. I don’t just take a dog and deal with the consequences later.”
“Right now, there aren’t consequences, though,” he replied. “There’s just a happy dog. What do you think about the name Jerry?”
The dog leaned down and began licking the empty bowl hard enough to make it scrape against the pavement.
“Why didn’t you ask me about what Mrs. Kirby said?”
It was like I’d both planned to say this, and totally had not. My discomfort earlier, when this discussion had seemed inevitable, had passed with all the excitement of the abduction and ensuing ride home. Now I didn’t feel like I just wanted to get it over with: instead, I was genuinely curious. Ambrose clearly had no problems traversing or outright bursting over any other boundaries in conversation or otherwise. So why not this one?
“You mean about your boyfriend?” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Did you want me to ask?”
“No,” I said. “I never do. I hate talking about it. But that’s never stopped you before.”
“Are we already at a point where our relationship is in nevers?” he asked. “That was fast.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I do.” He stood, the dog watching him, tail still wagging. “Look, Louna. I might be a dog stealer, as far as you’re concerned, but I am able to follow the basic rules of civility. If I was going to talk about a bad breakup, I’d want to be the one to bring it up. You did not.”
A bad breakup? I thought. Then I said, “I don’t always have the choice.”
“Clearly. So why would I make it worse by then pushing for more details? People will tell you what they want you to know. I’m annoying, not an asshole.”
I had to admit this was not what I was expecting. But as I went back over what Mrs. Kirby had said again, I realized it made sense he’d drawn this conclusion. Everyone had breakups they didn’t want to talk about. Why would he assume it was anything else?
As if to punctuate the moment, the dog burped, spitting water. I opened my mouth to say something, to respond, but realized, again to my surprise, that I had a lump in my throat. I swallowed. “I don’t think he’s a Jerry.”
“No?” He squatted down, giving the dog another scratch. “You might be right. No worries. He’ll tell us his name when he wants us to know it.”
“He’ll tell us?”
“Well, in his way.” He patted his head. “Stay here. I promise I’ll come back. Okay?”
In response, the dog wagged its entire back end. As we walked away, it was still going full speed.
It was the shortest of walks back to the conference room, not nearly enough time to explain what I’d been thinking when I asked him about what Mrs. Kirby had said. The truth was, I felt I owed it to Ethan that he not be just a boy I once loved, much less one more face in a news story you dreaded having to hear. He was more than that, and yet talking about him to others felt, too often, like appropriating something. What did it take to claim a person, really? One perfect night? A few weeks of phone calls, hundreds of texts, all of them full of future plans and promises made? I’d spent less than a day with Ethan, but still felt he knew me better than just about anyone. You can’t measure love by time put in, but the weight of those moments. Some in life are light, like a touch. Others, you can’t help but stagger beneath.
This was on my mind all afternoon as Ambrose and I rinsed mason jars, packed them with flowers, then put them in lined boxes to be transported to the armory for table décor at the rehearsal dinner. Occasionally he went to check on the dog, bringing him snacks, more water, an old dishtowel I’d found under the sink to curl up on, but otherwise we worked in silence. People will tell you what they want you to know, he’d said. If that was true, I would have brought up Ethan right away, not just with him but everyone I met. That’s what you do about the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Unless, I guess, it is also the worst.
At six p.m., Mom and William left for the venue, releasing us to our respective evenings. I was expecting to be asked to transport Ambrose and the dog to wherever their next place might be, but then, as I was locking up, a black VW Jetta pulled up at the curb. A pretty redhead with seriously ripped shoulders, wearing yoga clothes, sunglasses perched on her head, was behind the wheel.
“Hey,” she called out to me. “I’m looking for Ambrose?”
“He’s around back,” I replied. “Should be out in a sec.”
“Thanks.” She smiled, then pulled down her mirror, taking out a lip gloss and applying a coat. Was this Milly? Someone else? Of course I wouldn’t ask. He hadn’t told me.
A moment later Ambrose came around the corner holding the scarf, the dog lunging excitedly at the opposite end. “Annika,” he said. “Namaste!”
She smiled. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”
“I am full of surprises.” He climbed into the passenger seat, then patted his lap. As the dog leapt in, Annika burst out laughing, reaching over to rub his head with one hand. Ambrose waved at me, and I nodded, then started over to my own car. When I looked back a moment later, they were pulling out of the lot, the dog’s head poking out the window. On the way home, I changed the radio station six times before I decided, finally, on silence.
CHAPTER
8
“OKAY, SO that’s the Big Dipper,” I said, pointing. “See how it looks like a ladle? And below it is the Little Dipper. And under that, the little one that looks like a crown? That’s Cassiopeia.”
Ethan turned his head to the side: I felt his hair brush my cheek. “And what about that one?”
“Which?”
He lifted his arm, moving a finger in a circle. “That clump there, at the bottom.”
“I have no idea.”
He shifted again, this time facing me. “I thought you said you knew this stuff.”
“Some of it,” I said, rolling toward him as well. “Okay, I know those three.”
He laughed, that sudden burst that was even more startling close up. “And here I thought you could get us home strictly by celestial navigation.”
“Nope. We’d be screwed,” I told him. “Sorry.”
“Hey, at least you can name a few. I’ve always just made up my own.”
“Your own constellations?”
“Sure. It’s like inkblots. You can tell a lot about a person by what they see in the sky.” He moved onto his back again. “Take that weird square, over there. I’d call that Dented Laundry Hamper.”
“It just doesn’t have the same ring at Cassiopeia.”
“But it’s clear what it is.” He pointed again. “Okay, and that one, over on the left? That’s Dish Scrubber.”
Now that I looked, I could sort of see the resemblance. “So what does it say about you that so far it’s all household items that you see?”
“I’m glad you asked,” he replied, and I smiled, already recognizing this as a classic Ethan expression. “I think it speaks to my domesticity. Also, lack of imagination.”
“What about that one?” I asked, lifting my finger to point.
He didn’t even hesitate. “Potholder.”
“And that, the cluster by the Big Dipper?”
“EKG.”
“That’s not a household item.”
“Well, maybe not at your house.”
This time, I laughed, and as I did, he reached up, taking my pointing finger and pulling it toward him. I shifted my grip, interlocking my hand with his as he placed it on his chest, then curled up against him.
After the dance—sweet, awkward, perfect—we’d walked past the end of the world, through the shifting tides. It was then he’d taken my hand, wordless, easily. A stretch of dark, damp sand later, we found ourselves on the other side of the Colby peninsula. When the lights of the boardwalk appeared in the distance, we both stopped walking.
“Not yet,” he said, and I knew exactly what he meant. We sat down and started looking at the stars.
I’d always been nervous about boys. I wasn’t like Jilly, coming alive when faced with the opposite sex, the very presence of a guy causing the inherent glow in her to brighten. Instead, I was always jumpy, too aware of the particulars. The mechanics of a hand on mine, or an arm over my shoulder. The way my lips fit his in a kiss, specifics of saliva and tongue as if I was being graded on form. The kind of passion and attraction I saw in movies or read about in books seemed impossible to me, entirely too fraught with details and elbows.
From the start, Ethan was different. I felt so comfortable with him. Even just standing near him, there at the breaking waves, I’d wanted to lean in closer. It was the same way I felt now, as he reached his free hand to smooth back my hair. When he kissed me, I thought of nothing but how he tasted.
For the rest of that night, in my memory anyway, we were always in contact. My hand in his, his arm over my shoulder. The easy way he cupped my waist to pull me against him as we lay there in the sand, and later, crossed the length of the empty beach. We walked for an hour, maybe longer, talking the entire time, before we finally came up on the boardwalk.
Everything seemed bright and different after so long in the darkness, even though most of the businesses were closed. There was one neon sign lit, however, in the window of a narrow storefront. COFFEE AND PIE, it read. Two bikes were parked just outside.
I looked at Ethan. “We have to,” he said, answering the question I hadn’t even asked. I shook the sand out of my shoes, then dropped them onto the boards beneath my feet. My hair felt wild as I tried to smooth it, my lips raw from kissing. When I looked up at Ethan, I saw sand along his temple.
“Hold on,” I said, reaching up. As I did, he lowered his head, leaning into my fingers. It was such a simple, fleeting moment, but later, when I’d think of it, I would sob until my chest ached. The big moments with Ethan weren’t, well, big. Instead, it was these tiny increments and gestures that I clung to in order to hold on to him. It was why, now, I was never able to tell this story all at once. My memory fractured in certain places, wanting to just stop right there. On the boardwalk, in the thrown light of a neon sign. His head dipped down as I pulled my fingers through his hair. Sand falling onto my feet. That night still in progress, with daylight hours away.
CHAPTER
9
“NOW?”
“No.”
A pause. “Now?”
I shook my head. Another pause. Then, finally, William gave me the nod.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “Now.”
Ambrose leaned down over the ring bearer, a kindergartner named Ira, saying, “Okay, dude. It’s go time.” He rubbed his shoulders like a boxer’s trainer, about to send him into the ring. “You got this! Walk!”
I sighed as Ira, in his tiny tux, carrying a white satin pillow with the two rings very loosely sewn on, started forward. In BRR, my mom reached into her pocket for some M&Ms.
One, two, three, four, five, I counted, then nodded at Ambrose. He said something to the two flower girls—both redheads and plentifully freckled—that made them giggle, then gave them the go-ahead. The older one began tossing rose petals carefully, as I’d demonstrated; the younger threw most of hers out in one big clump. Well, you couldn’t have everything.
“Oh, my God, y’all, I’m so nervous!” Julie, the maid of honor, said loudly as the first bridesmaid and groomsman began their walk. My mother and William had christened her an SS—Spotlight Stealer—at the rehearsal dinner the night before, when her speech stretched to twenty minutes, only ending with her sobbing happy tears, reportedly much to the bride’s obvious annoyance. Weddings were like truth serum, or so my mom always said. Whatever your personality, it would come out in spades. “Does anybody have a mint?” Julie said. “I’m serious. I need a mint!”
I was reaching into my pocket for one when Ambrose beat me to it, stepping back beside her as the next couple from the party began walking. “The flavor is cool waterfall,” he told her, holding out a roll. “I find it both surprising and refreshing.”
“Oh, bless you.” Julie helped herself to one, popping it into her mouth, then smoothed back her hair. “Do I look okay? I’m a wreck!”
The groomsman she’d been paired with rolled his eyes. Short and stubby with a red face, he had a whiny wif
e, plus two small children who’d been running around like wild animals. I’d seen him taking multiple gulps from a flask during lineup, either thinking no one would notice or just not caring. There were lives you envied, I guess, and those you didn’t.
“You’re stunning,” Ambrose told her as I walked back to where the bride, Charlotte, was standing with her father, blinking rapidly as she looked ahead at the packed church.
“Excited?” I said to her, the word we used instead of nervous. She nodded, blinking again. “You’re going to do great. Remember, it’s supposed to be fun!” I saw her face relax, slightly—I’d take what I could get—and then Julie’s voice drifted back to us. “Oh, God, I’m next! I’m a total wreck! Does anyone have a tissue?”
Charlotte tensed right back up, a full body clench. Her dad glared. Ambrose, oblivious, gave Julie a tissue.
I looked ahead, into the church. In the back row, my mom was looking right at the bride. I had no doubt that even from a distance she was following this entire exchange solely by body cues and expressions. By the time she turned her attention to me, I was already sliding in closer to Charlotte, cupping a hand on her elbow.
“You look gorgeous,” I told her. She and her dad were the only ones left now, Julie and her groomsman halfway down the aisle. “And remember, this is your day.”
“I’m going to fucking kill her tomorrow,” she declared through gritted teeth. Her lipstick was perfect.
“And not a soul would blame you,” I replied smoothly. “Ready to get married?”
She sucked in a breath as I bent down, fluffing out the beaded train of her ivory, full-skirted dress one last time. When I stood, I saw Julie up at the front of the church, dramatically dabbing her eyes as the photographer, oblivious, moved in for the candid shot. As the organ began again, William, stealthy like a shark, moved in to say something to Julie. Then everyone stood, blocking my view.
“Wow,” Ambrose said, a few minutes later, after we’d eased shut the back doors of the church, then taken our places by the side entrance where we’d wait to corral everyone post-ceremony. “That was intense. It’s like coordinating an explosion.”