by Ella James
“You’re a glutton for punishment, Dashy.”
“You’re dramatic.”
Lexie sighs. “I know. You love me anyway.” I can almost see her making a face at me through the phone line. “Call me soon, okay? I want to hear more but I’m kind of busy right now.”
Before the line goes dead, I think I hear her sniff. I slip the phone into my pocket, tell myself it’s my imagination.
I have the impulse to call an Uber, and for that reason, I don’t allow myself. Why should things be easy for me?
I consider killing time until I’m good to drive, but I don’t feel like pool or trivia or partying. It takes me half an hour to walk to Birchwood Towers. I stall at the revolving doors, thinking she’s here somewhere—and it’s true; I know she is. Imagine puts up everybody here at Birchwood. Short-term workers get a smaller unit on the first eight floors, with a lot of the young, single perma-staffers on the upper four floors.
Amelia is living in my building.
I could probably find out where if I tried.
Fucking nuts.
Upstairs, I chug some water then throw some healthy shit into the blender, shutting my eyes as the thing scrapes and screeches. I take the drink out to the deck and stare down at the city. Still sunny. Benignly busy.
Back inside, I do six miles on the treadmill, relishing the headache I get afterward. I break a couple of plastic sparring boards, kick the bag, and lift as much as I can handle. Nothing satisfies me. Finally—my stroking hand and memories.
It’s wrong. I know that. I don’t fall asleep until the sun comes up.
Eight
Amelia
I arrive at work on Tuesday morning sleep-deprived, over-caffeinated, and irritable—and my morning takes a giant nose-dive the second I step into the gorgeous, circular lobby. Dash is waiting at the elevator bank.
I know it’s him not because I can see him clearly through the sunglasses still perched on my nose, but because my body does this little zingy thing that feels the way I imagine a seizure must.
Ugh.
I take my sweet time walking around the little indoor grove of maple trees, praying that he’ll go ahead and go, but no dice. By the time I make it to him, he’s already pushed the “up” button, so I see no reason to speak or give him more than a slight tightening of my lips when he turns my way.
My goal had previously been to behave neutrally, but since that doesn’t seem to be possible, I’ll settle for rude, same as him.
It will be good for me to be around Dash. This is what I told myself last night. My brain can’t help but think of him the way he used to be, because that’s all I’ve really known so far. The way he disappeared that day, the time I finally broke down and tracked down Lexie on a Friday night when she was snorting coke at some Atlanta club, only to have her tell me, “Just leave him alone,” as if she needed to protect him somehow… These things heightened his mystique and softened my stupid little lovesick heart, even when they should have done the opposite.
For years, I had this imaginary narrative running through my head in which he couldn’t help but skip town. Maybe the mafia was chasing him, or he had some kind of health crisis.
My friendship with Lexie all but dissolved during our senior year: she getting more into coke and pills, me clinging more tightly to my tamer friends: Lucy, Charley, Mags.
The elevator opens, and Dash steps in.
I wait a second before following. The small space feels too tight for both of us. His shoulders seem to fill most of the space. I settle in the back, right corner as he presses the key, hoping I look nonchalant in my black jumpsuit. It has a deep V-neck that’s lined with lace, and I know I look hot in it. I’m five-foot-five, and still as skinny as I was when I was a kid; for some reason, my body type is really suited to these jumpsuits. They’re kind of like pants suits, but weirder. More high fashion.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and use the second that my hand’s in front of my face to get a peek at Dash. He’s wearing charcoal shorts and a light blue, stripey t-shirt, fitted, like the one he wore yesterday. Also, different sandals. These are brown, and even though the outfit shouldn’t work, it does. He looks casually sexy.
He looks like some kind of model. The shaggy hair with the perpetual five o’clock shadow and hipster glasses—it’s the perfect look for adult Dash. The square jaw, the high cheekbones, the smooth, tanned skin. The long-lashed hazel eyes and flawless lips. It’s unfair that he’s even hotter than he used to be.
I wish I didn’t want to touch his stupid hair. I wish the eyes behind those glasses didn’t look at me so gently, as if he’s preternaturally aware of all my thoughts, as if he feels bad for what he did when logically I know he doesn’t.
If he did, he would have called or emailed.
If he cared for me at all, he would never have left the way he did.
I don’t look back at him, at least not for any length of time. I just…can’t.
The elevator opens, and I almost push the ONE button and ride back down. But Dash extends his arm, as if he’s waving me in front of him, and he looks so polite, so innocent and nice, it makes me want to claw his face off.
Who does he think he is?
Suddenly I don’t care why he turned out how he did. I’m not thinking about the past, about the way he hurt me—worse than mom’s death, even—I’m thinking of now, and all I want to do is hurt him back.
I’m keeping this assignment, the one where I have to make a movie about a dove with Dash, and I’m doing it because I can’t be done with this, with him. Not until I feel more satisfied. Less…used.
I put my calm, cool, just-business cloak back on and keep it there as we walk to our studio space—Dash a step behind me, my shoulders so tight they ache. When we get into the room, Dash instructs his animation people to start making bird models, while I touch base with Carrie, Meredith, and Bryan. It’s awkward that I’m technically in charge of them. I get it that Weiss—Dash’s boss, and the intern coordinator—wants to test our leadership skills, but it’s still weird since I’m the youngest. It doesn’t take me long to realize we can’t really do much work without more plot details. According to the instructions Dash gave me yesterday, it’s up to him and me to finalize that.
I sit in a chair near his and roll over to him, reminding myself to breathe as he lifts his eyes from his computer’s keyboard.
“Yes?” The word is slightly sharp.
I square my shoulders. “I think we need to have a little powwow.”
His brows arch; his lips press together, making him look slightly like a duck.
“About the plot.”
“Okay.” He steeples his fingers, looking at me like he’s waiting on me to talk.
“I think she should be a girl dove. Definitely inexperienced,” I say to my notepad. “Used to living in the cage… We could go older, like she’s spent her whole life in the cage, but that seems kind of depressing.”
I slant my gaze toward Dash and find him looking thoughtful, with his fingers still tented. “Agreed.”
“So she’s like sixteen in bird years. Whatever that is. She’s a teen bird. We can work out all the logistics later, but basically she gets let out and I think that’s our starting point. Does she have family? Where’d she come from? What’s the end point?” I drum my fingers on the pearly-sleek surface of the desk.
“What do you think?” His voice is low and quiet, making my stomach feel unsteady.
“I think Meredith was right, we can’t go too Nemo. So she should have a teenage feel, not like thirteen, maybe more like eighteen even. That’s the feeling. Because of course, we won’t say her age. I’m not sure her family should be in the picture.” I press my lips together. “Maybe there should be one family member. Or one old friend. Someone she has in mind when she first gets out. And she quickly decides she won’t see him—or her—again. So she meets a bunch of animals and people, and at the end, she finds this person. Animal,” I correct.
Dash nods slowly.
“I’m fine listening to your plot ideas for now. If you want to keep on with it,” he says.
There’s this awful moment where our gazes are locked, and it feels comfortable. Just for a heartbeat. Dash knows I do my best thinking out loud. I need to talk things through. He never did mind listening to me ramble.
Heat suffuses my throat and face. My eyes sting slightly. I should cut straight to Dove, or whatever the hell her name is; fast-track that so we figure out what kind of bird she is so this conversation can be over. Instead, I keep talking general plot stuff, with Dash’s eyes on my face.
“I read—we did some research yesterday afternoon and found that baby doves in the wild have a high mortality rate. The mother pushes them out of the nest after two weeks and forgets about them. She’ll lay new eggs and forget about the old ones.” I swallow hard, willing my voice steady. “Sometimes other birds will help these abandoned ones. Kind of like adoption. Anyway, maybe she should have a sister she really wants to find. Or a brother. They were kicked out of the nest together and they helped each other.”
“I like that.” He looks approving.
“So, her mom sucked. But maybe she had a sibling or two. Maybe they’re who she goes looking for.”
Dash’s eyes are all over my face. Yes, my mother had her wreck en route to a man she was cheating with. Yes, she was pregnant. Dash knows how I used to cry sometimes about it when I first found out. “Maybe when she saw the bright light or whatever, she didn’t want to stay with dad and me. She didn’t fight to stay. Would she have left us if she’d lived? Why didn’t she want us, but she wanted a new family?”
I inhale deeply. How much I hate it that he knows these things.
“I think I like that,” I continue. “Our girl decides to search for her brother and sister. I feel like the film should be about her journey. Maybe at first she wants to get into a home again, into a cage, where she’d feel comfortable and safe. So she meets a friend as she flies around the neighborhood. Then maybe she meets another bird or something. I don’t know.” I rub my forehead, feeling drained. “I think the end could definitely be her finding her brother and sister, and them living somewhere awesome. I don’t know what that would entail. A bird sanctuary? Wild life refuge? Not sure. Let’s talk about her, though. Basic personality traits so your team can get going on that.”
I make sure to keep my voice even and slightly energized. Not cheery, but professional. When I dare another look at Dash, his face is solemn.
“She probably should have a certain Dory type of quality. A little clumsy or naïve or something? Kind of adventurous. What should we name her?” I ask.
“What about Dove.” It’s more statement than question.
“Just Dove?” My blood pressure spikes at the sound of my old nickname.
He shrugs. “It’s nice.”
“Is it?”
Dash blinks, then says slowly, “I think so.”
“It’s not very…meaningful.”
“No?”
“A little lacking, in my mind.” Score one for Amelia!
“Seems like the kind of thing you’d call a bird,” he says. “Something simple.”
“Simple.”
Dash’s eyebrows arch. “For a bird.”
“The bird doesn’t even deserve a name?”
“I think maybe she does,” says Meredith; she’s rolled over in her chair.
Dash shakes his head. “It’s like Mr. Cat.”
At one point long ago, Dash and Lexie had a cat called Mr. Cat.
“What the hell does that mean?” Bryan asks, looking lost.
“That’s a strange name for a cat,” I say, as if I’ve never heard it.
Dash runs a hand back through his hair, pressing his lips together for a moment before he says, “Sometimes people go for simple names.” He looks around the room. “In my experience with test groups, we’ve found the audience responds better to more general character names.”
“I’ve heard that before,” says Ashley, Dash’s fellow animator.
“I guess so,” I say. “I’m not sold yet, though.”
“We’ll think on it,” Bryan says, winking at me.
“We’re going to go over some software stuff,” Dash says, waving Adam and Ashley to his desk.
Carrie, Bryan, Meredith, and I spend the next hour discussing story. It’s a fun enough discussion, meaning there is no excuse for how thoroughly Dash holds my attention. I note everything he does: finishing his meeting, giving Adam and Ashley marching orders, putting on headphones, checking his phone, checking his phone again, rubbing his hand back through his stupid pretty hair, touching his glasses. He’s a few feet away from me, to my right. In my periphery, I notice him take out a pack of gum and catch myself waiting to hear the punch of gum through foil. Instead I hear the whisper of a wrapper. Trident. Sweet mint.
Is he really still chewing that stuff?
I bite down on my bottom lip, my mind whirling. I’ve told myself so many times that he’s so different than he was; that over time, people change so much sometimes you can’t recognize them even if you’re in a small studio making a film with them.
But here he is with his fucking Trident Sweet Mint gum. I can even smell it now.
I toss a glance over my shoulder. When Dash’s eyes meet mine, I get up.
Bathroom break. I’ve earned one.
I step back out and almost run right into him. His hand wraps around my elbow loosely.
“Sorry, Am.”
I jerk my arm away. “Amelia.”
“Right.” His eyes widen slightly as he stuffs his hands into his pockets.
“What are you doing out here? Stalking me?”
He nods at something behind me.
“What?”
I turn around and realize: it’s a unisex bathroom.
Perfect.
“Sorry.” I stalk past him, moving fast as hell, because seriously, I’m embarrassed. For the thousandth time, I think of going home, just calling the internship coordinator, John Weiss, and telling him I can’t. I can’t with Dash. But then I’ll never know.
Maybe I should just admit…I want to know. How could I not? Dash’s jetting out of town the morning after what happened has been one of my life’s biggest mysteries, right up there with what was my mother thinking and the Titanic. Maybe I don’t even want to know, but I deserve to. Dash deserves to have to tell me.
I think that’s what I really want. On the last day of this internship, I’m going to accost him in the parking lot and demand he tell me. I owe poor, fifteen-year-old Amelia that much. Nineteen-year-old Amelia who ended every relationship just shy of sex and let a lot of nice guys get away. Twenty-two-year-old Amelia who doesn’t trust anybody to be what they seem to be.
By the time he comes back into the studio room, my crew and I have fanned out at our own computers, typing up the ideas we just brainstormed. I’m banging comfortably on the keyboard, feeling in my element.
Fuck Dash.
I don’t want him. Even though he’s close and smells like our old gum, I wouldn’t kiss him if my life depended on it. Even though he’s acting nice and being weird and serious and quiet and not as rude today, I don’t feel sorry for him. He did this. Not me. I would have walked through fire for Dash. He couldn’t even stay in town a couple hours for me. Hell, he couldn’t even call.
I put my own pair of ear buds in my ears and crank up the one Coldplay album I like: A Rush of Blood to the Head. It’s not perfect, but I really like the energy. Quiet fury.
When my computer tells me it’s noon, I decide to get the hell out of dodge and take a liberal lunch break. I stand up, and Dash stands with me. Like a shadow.
“Am—I mean, Amelia.”
I take a slow breath before I turn to face him.
“Hey… Look.” He loo
ks so big and tall, so…grim. “I was hoping you might take a walk with me,” he says, too soft for any ears but mine. I’m sure shock and confusion twist my face; I see them echoed in his features. “To see birds,” he clarifies. “I need to watch them fly.”
“Okayyy…”
I see him double down on his resolve. “There’s a park near here, a block or two. It has a pond. I wanted you to walk with me—if you don’t have other plans.”
“I don’t.” Damn me. “But I don’t think I want to go.” Good save, Amelia. Good job. I see his brow rumple and feel a shot of glee. Take that, asshole.
His face softens. So does his voice. “Please?”
I blink. And of course, I fold.
Nine
Dash
I know she doesn’t really want to do it. That’s the hardest part of this: I can still read her like a book. I know she doesn’t want to work with me, but she can’t pull the plug either. I know she hates me, and she cares, too—despite her own good sense.
She doesn’t understand. Of course she doesn’t. I don’t know what she went through after I left that day—Lex and her stopped being close their senior year—but I know I must have hurt her.
I had no idea I’d see Amelia again until yesterday morning, when Weiss emailed me her CV and I nearly lost my breakfast. For the few weeks prior, he’d mentioned her a few times without saying her name, telling me he had a beautiful, brilliant intern for me.
“Smart as a whip,” he said proudly. “You’re going to love her.”
Truer words have never been spoken.
As we ride the elevator down to the lobby in silence, my mind slips back to the night we shared out on the roof of my house, right before I left for art school in Rhode Island. Her convincing me—or trying to—that I would love it up in Providence. By then, everything had gone to hell, and I thought nothing would ever be good again. But I remember her trying. How much I wanted to kiss her right before I left, and how I hugged her hard instead.
I remember one of my college roommates asking if I was joking when I told him, one night when we were doing shrooms, that I was in love with a fifteen-year-old, my sister’s best friend.