by Ella James
Amelia
His sister?
“Lex?”
Dash’s body shudders, and I realize what I’m hearing.
“Oh my God, for real? What happened?” My shrill words are out in front of me. As soon as I blurt these things, I lock my arms around Dash and push my head against his head, and whisper, “Oh my God, I’m so, so sorry…”
I can feel the punch of sobs before he makes a sound. His hand comes behind my neck and holds me up against him. After one big, jerky breath, Dash cries like I have never heard him cry: his sobs like bellows, his big body rocking mine. He clings to me, and my hand strokes his hair as my mind races.
What to say? What happened? This is why he stood me up. Oh God, he hasn’t even changed his clothes since Friday.
I can’t give him anything. I can’t do anything but hold him tight and stroke him with my hands and words. “I’m so, so sorry, baby... I’m so sorry.”
What’s worse than the feeling that you can’t do anything? I wrap him in my arms and legs and push my face against his hot, damp face, but I can’t take the pain. My thoughts race as I whisper to him, as I stroke his burning back and shoulders. I can see the children on his magnet, eating watermelon, getting covered in the sticky juice, then doing fancy dives into the pool. The water was warm and we were joyous, floating, staring at the sky as it got dark. I see pink clouds shifting over us, moving on fast-forward. I can see the stars from Dash’s roof; I feel his head on my lap. I can hear his drunken words to me down by the lake another night.
I blamed her for it. I could tell she knew something, and she chose Dash. She chose all her vices. The Frasier kids, my once-best friends, became a barbed-wire memory. I stayed far away. I remember little Lexie with her curly head held high, her curving lips and secret eyes and always that excitement. I remember older Lex on Instagram, posing with that sly cat mouth and flawless body.
Was she happy?
What happened?
She was close to Dash. I know because on her Instagram, she would sometimes share some nature shots or action shots and caption them with things like #TakenByMyBachelorBrother.
I missed years. I’m slammed with my own ignorance as Dash goes still and quiet. His shoulders jerk, his hands hold on and then relax. I think he’s asleep before he whispers, “Overdose.” The word cracks.
“God, Dash.”
I feel his tears on my throat. “I just talked to her. I tried to go get her…but they won’t let me.” His whole body trembles on a sob.
“Oh, baby…” I hold him tight against me. When he seems a little more composed, I whisper, “Where’d it happen?”
“Jamaica.” He shudders, his breaths coming in little jerks. “She had…a job down there.”
I rub his back and shoulders, hoping I can get him to stop shaking.
“I’m sorry that…I didn’t call, Am.”
“No. It’s okay. Don’t worry, baby.”
His face presses into my shoulder, and he presses me against him. “I should have called her more.”
“How much you called her wouldn’t matter. I don’t know what happened, D, but you weren’t holding Lex together. You couldn’t have.”
I feel him take a big breath, let it out.
“Had she had issues with this stuff since high school?”
“Yeah,” he whispers. “But she had gotten clean.”
I squeeze him, wrapping both my arms around his head and shoulders. “Do you think it was an accident?”
I feel him shaking as he nods against me. He doesn’t move for a long time after that, but I can tell he’s not asleep because he’s breathing too fast.
“I can’t believe it. I try to…but I can’t.” His words are almost gasps, as if he’s hyperventilating. “I told her I had fucked…it up with you and…she… She wasn’t…like my parents. She loved me.”
His voice cracks on the word, and my heart with it.
“I’m so sorry. Other people care about you, Dash. I do.”
His body trembles harder. “You shouldn’t, Am.”
“But I do. It doesn’t matter if I should, because I do.” I kiss his hair. I rub my hands down his broad back. “I’ve cared for you since you saved me from the pool, when I was six. And all through school, and even after, when it made no sense. I’m here, okay? I’m not leaving. I’m here with you.”
He says something up against my chest, which sounds like, “Don’t deserve it.”
I just keep stroking his back, holding him close. “You do, baby. Try to go to sleep. I’ll stay with you, and I can watch your phone if you want…”
“Love you,” he rasps. The words are warm against my skin.
A few minutes later, I can feel his body slacken. Dash sleeps for maybe an hour. I keep my eyes shut, too, and fold myself around him. As if by holding him as close as possible to me, I can take his pain away.
When he stirs, and pulls slightly away, I let him. I shift onto my side, lying with my cheek propped in my palm as Dash stretches out on his back. His mouth is stretched into a thin line, and his eyes are shut.
After a moment’s hesitation, I reach out and stroke the hair along his forehead.
“I tried to help her,” he whispers. “I thought she was doing better.”
Nothing I could say would help, so I just stroke his arm and lace my fingers through his.
Dash lies in my bed all night, awake with his eyes closed, finally turning on his side, his body angled in my direction. I turn so I’m facing him and fold his hand between mine. I tuck it under my chin, over my heart, and as the minutes slide by, I wonder what he’s playing in his mind… what kind of reels. When I’m not hurting for him, I’m remembering Lex. Over and over again, I see her thrust her hand out to me by the pool that day, the drama on her pretty face, the playful, happy smile she always had when we were friends. I remember racing through the woods, the way Lexie would pose at the end of the diving board, with one hip out. I remember straightening her curly hair and how I used to envy her big boobs when we reached middle school.
Lexie Frasier seemed so perfect then. And then Dash left, and she went off the deep end. I wasn’t comfortable with all the things that she was doing, and I knew Lex thought I was lame. But I still loved her. I remember hugging her at graduation. We went swimming more than once that summer. Every now and then, she used to email. There was never anything but goodwill between the two of us. Sometimes friendships aren’t supposed to last forever.
But it still hurts so much to know she’s gone.
And how much worse when I see tears on Dash’s cheeks.
His eyes hold mine for just a moment. Then he curls himself around me, snuggles close, and sleeps. I’m woken sometime later by a soft kiss on my temple, and his ragged whisper, “Do you have some Advil, Ammy?”
“Yeah…” I kiss his cheek. “I’ll get you some.”
Stupid that I didn’t think of that already. When I get back, he’s in the bathroom with the door cracked open, pulling on his pants.
“Where ya going?” I ask softly.
“I have to go home.” His voice is quiet, and I can’t read his face.
Once his shirt is on, he steps into my room and sits down on the floor to put his shoes on.
“Do you want some company?”
His gaze flicks up, his round eyes holding mine.
“I can stay at a hotel or something. I just thought…I’d like to drive you, if you want. It’s okay if you don’t. No pressure.”
He stands up and moves to me, putting his hands on my face. He brushes his lips over mine, his eyelids heavy as he then kisses my cheek. “You’re too good.”
“Nah. Only to you.”
“Are you sure?” He kisses my temple.
I hug him. “Yeah, of course I’m sure.”
“I’ve gotta leave in an hour. I’ll come back down?” His eyebrows arch.
I nod. “I’ll be ready.”
His hands are in his pockets as I let him out the door. He gives me a small sm
ile over his shoulder, like a little thank you. It slips off his face before he’s fully turned away.
Dash
The trip to Georgia doesn’t feel quite real. For one, I’m hungover as fuck. My head hurts so bad, I worry a few times about getting sick in the car. Every time I think of why we’re driving, I feel like someone kicked me in the chest.
I don’t know how to wrap my head around the fact that Lex is gone. No more phone calls, no more trips, no more roller blading. Never any dancing. Lex is gone. My little sister, dead. I couldn’t even go right to her. Someone had to fly her home.
I realize that it’s real, but every time I think of her like that—alone, on some fucking island—I want to scream and rage.
Other thoughts of her are softer. Sweet and silly Lexie. She was such an awful toddler. Crazy kid. Crazier teenager.
I think of all the things she liked: white powder donuts from the gas station, propping her bare feet up on the dashboard. Then I have to tell myself that these things died with her. I remember the bad babysitters who thought Lex was trouble in a cute disguise, and would make her spend whole days up in her room for doing things like refusing to wear pants. I remember how she loved to eat Play Doh when she was three. All the extra hours she’d spend at the dinner table, staunch in her refusal to eat green beans. I remember last year, when she came and stayed with me for three weeks, flying into and out of Burbank for the jobs she didn’t cancel. I remember how she looked when I left her at rehab: sad but strong, almost mischievous with her thin smile in the window as I walked away, like she knew things the rest of us didn’t.
Is this what she knew? That she would die a pointless, early death? That she would perish in a hotel room with strangers, doing what she told herself she’d quit but never really could. And why not?
I don’t think of Lex as weak. I never could. Flawed, maybe, but never weak. The characterization of addicts as weak is one that drives me fucking crazy.
Lexie wasn’t weak. She was maybe stupid. She was maybe headstrong. She walked too close to the edge. I remember she was two years old and my mother told her “don’t step in the road” and Lexie stuck her shoe into the road and grinned.
Does that mean she deserved to die? My sister, she deserved to die for being wild and reckless? It was part of who she was.
My mind spins. Evolution. Survival of the fittest. Lexie wasn’t fit? She was. She was so fucking fit. My little sister was a champion at living.
And now she’s gone.
I feel like I’m on a bad fucking trip and can’t come down.
And sometimes, Am cuts through the fog in my head.
“Do you want a pillow? I keep one in the trunk.”
“I’m getting food. What do you want?”
Mostly, she talks with her hands…touching my hand. Touching my shoulder. She opens ranch sauce for me, urging me to have a couple fast food French fries. When I can’t, she watches like a hawk as I drink water from a bottle she hands me.
I’m supposed to meet my parents at the funeral home at six. The FUNERAL HOME. To see my sister’s DEAD BODY.
Unreal.
One of the times my mother called me crying, she said it was costing thirty grand to get Lex home fast.
I watch Amelia pull into the parking lot in front of a one-story brick building as if it’s something from a dream. At the same time, hate fills up my chest and head: blind hatred for this place, and pain I can’t assuage.
“I can wait out in the car for you,” Amelia says. “Whatever you need.”
I shrug. Do I want her to come in? I don’t know. When she touches me, that low-level agony I feel all the time—like dread and shock and horror all in one—kind of recedes and I can breathe a little. Yes—I want her with me. But I don’t want to ask her to go in.
Funny the desire I feel to shelter Am. My stomach knots up at the thought of going in myself…
My eyes ache when I think back on Lexie’s rehab. I helped her do that. It didn’t work. What if Mom and Dad blame me?
Then I feel like such a sick and selfish bastard. Lex is dead, and I care what our fucking parents think?
I guess I make some sound or face, because Ammy looks over with her soft eyes. Her hand is on the console in between us, so I take it. Sandwich it between my bigger hands and look down at her small, pale fingers.
“I used to look at your hands…”
“Mm?” I watch as the corners of her lips twitch.
“We were little. You were maybe eight or nine. I would always stare at you. I didn’t realize why until a whole lot later.”
I trace freckles on her knuckles. “I guess the most a little kid can know is they like looking at another person. I liked all your things—your little toys, too. Do you remember?”
“I don’t know.” She looks almost bashful. “You were always super nice to me. You were my hero.”
And of course, the moment ends right there. Because I’m not a hero. If she knew the truth, she’d never say something like that.
I rest my head against my chair and shut my eyes. When she says, “Your mom is here, I think,” I get out—and leave Amelia in.
Twenty-Two
Amelia
Dash goes in with one arm wrapped around his mother. I hate it that I’m not there too, but I didn’t want to be pushy. I feel queasy while I wait for him: more so when a Porsche pulls up and Mr. Frasier climbs out, wearing jeans and a black t-shirt. My gaze trails him to the door, where I notice that he doesn’t take his sunglasses off.
Are the Frasiers divorced? I realize I haven’t told Dash about my dad and Manda. Dad met someone new, now: Harlow, a professor at the University of Georgia. He moved to Athens after the divorce, to be closer to me.
I realize as I tap the steering wheel that there’s a lot we haven’t discussed: Dash and me. I’m not sure he knows what my major is (it’s a double: English and marketing). I don’t know anything about his college years or life after except what I could find online: He was in India for some time after school—that stint abroad that I mentioned at the work party—and he’s worked on three films for Disney. That’s how I recognized his artwork in the bar. Because I’d seen a YouTube video of Dash showing his sketches and talking to a group of inner city kids about his work at Disney. It’s why I applied at Imagine instead of Burbank. And also probably why I applied at Imagine instead of somewhere with no links to Disney.
I wonder if he knew he would be paired with me. If he wanted it. So much about this man I love is still a mystery to me. So it’s amazing that I love him how I do. That I feel ill on his behalf as I wait for him in the car.
Fifty minutes creep by at a glacial pace until finally—finally—the thick, mahogany funeral parlor doors open and Dash strides outside.
He’s got on a green t-shirt and ragged jeans that hang off his hips. His head is bowed, his shoulders hunched. He gets into the car in one smooth motion, and doesn’t look up for a long moment. When he does, I see his face is chalky white.
“You can go.” It’s mumbled.
He leans his head back against the seat and shuts his eyes, folding his big hands together in his lap.
I feel the need to ask if he’s okay, but it’s a stupid question, so I swallow it.
“Where would you like me to—?”
“Just drive,” he snaps.
The funeral home is out in the country, connected to our little suburb town by a winding county road. I pull onto that road and drive beneath the big, tall, leafy trees. The day is shining; farmland behind fences gleams in the white sunlight. Grass looks almost gold. The red dirt and the cracked roads feel like home to me, but there is no peace to be found today.
I cast a covert glance at Dash and find his jaw tight and his shoulders drawn up. Misery rolls off him, permeating me as well. I want to say something so badly, but I’m not sure what, so I just stare out at the road and squeeze the steering wheel and drive toward town.
“Pull over.” His voice is loud and sharp, the order coming o
ut of nowhere.
I run off onto a shoulder, pebbles spinning underneath our tires. Dash’s door is flung open before I get the car in park. He’s out, his shoulders heaving as he bends down near the grass. His hands are on his knees…and then he’s crouching down. I can’t just sit and watch, so I rush after, and find him breathing hard, his fingers curled like talons over the holes in his blue jeans.
He plants his palm over his mouth. Then, with his face still twisting, he gets into the car and slams the door without a word to me. I walk around the front and get in, too. I find him drinking water with his eyes closed.
When he’s finished, I take it from his hand and set it back in the cup holder. God, I want to touch him, touch his arm or take his hand… But I don’t want to make him more upset. Maybe I should give him space.
I start to drive again.
He leans over his lap and puts his face in his hands. Finally, when we reach the first city red light, I put my hand on his back. I can feel him let a long breath out. When he shifts, his head tipped back against the seat again, his hand reaches toward mine. I take it gladly, curling my fingers around his.
“My parents’ house.” His voice is quiet and hoarse.
When I park out front, he gets out of the car and walks around to my side. As soon as I step out, he wraps his arms around me, pressing my back against the side of his car and kissing me hard. As he kisses me, he threads his fingers through my hair. I let out a small cry, and Dash groans.
“Oh…Amelia.”
I can feel his body shaking. Just when I’ve started kissing him back, he pulls back and rests his cheek against my forehead, breathing hard.
“I’m so sorry…” I wrap an arm around his back and Dash squeezes me close.
“It wasn’t her. I kept telling myself…she wasn’t there.”
“No,” I whisper. “It wasn’t her soul or her spirit. Just her body.”
He nods a few times, and I can tell he’s trying not to lose it. When he’s pulled himself together, he takes my hand and leads me around the side of the Frasiers’ big house, to the gate around the pool. Before he reaches for it, he lowers his free hand and shakes his head and redirects us toward the woods. They look the way they always did: big and dark and more vast than perhaps they should, as if stepping into them could get you lost forever.