by Ella James
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 smile 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 out 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.
I know without asking that Dash is taking us to the tree: the one where we once left notes for each other. We walk down the trail that winds all through this neighborhood, moving in the direction of my old house. Dash stops a foot or two from the tree, with its little oval hollow. He looks over at me—blinking slowly, like he’s not quite sure how we got here.
“I still have the drawings that you left in here for me.”
Dash just stands there staring at the tree, and my heart bleeds for him. Finally, he runs a hand back through his hair and blows his breath out. “I said I love you.” He blinks at me.
“You did.”
He blinks a few times fast, looking down before he looks back up at me. His eyes are red. “You’ve been good to me, Ammy, but I’m a bastard. You would be better off not knowing me at all, but if you’re gonna be near me…I want to be sure,” he rasps, “you know that I love you. It wasn’t something I said because I was drunk.”
I nod slowly, my heart pounding. “Okay.” Dash is reaching for my hand, so I take his. Our hands are clasped together as the sun shines through the swaying trees, dancing over Dash’s anguished face.
“I know I fucked things up with you. You feel like you can’t trust me or you’re worried that you can’t.” His lips press together; he gives a shake of his head. “You can now, Am.” He brings my hand up to his lips and kisses my knuckles. “Now that’s all I want. To have your trust. I want to make you feel like you make me feel.”
“How is that?” I blink, because my eyes are leaking.
“Like you’re my end point. Like everything—the bad shit, the great shit—is a big circle around you. And you’re the center. You’re what makes it all make sense, Amelia. Like my sister dies,” he rasps, “and you’re what’s keeping me alive.” He pulls me closer, wraps his arms around me, so he’s speaking into my hair.
“I don’t think I wanted you because I couldn’t have you, Am.” He shifts his weight, putting enough space between us so I see his face, his earnest eyes. “Tha
t’s reactive…and how I felt about you wasn’t reactive. I think you were just…the one for me. And maybe it was bad luck, who you were. That you were Lex’s best friend. The girl next door.”
“But that’s how you knew me.” I can’t help but point it out.
He nods. “I think it can be possible that what makes something what it is, can also make it not work.”
“I think they call that fatalism,” I say softly.
“Are you familiar with amor fati?”
I am, as it happens—but I want to know what he’ll say, so I shake my head.
“It’s one of my favorite things. It’s an idea that’s attributed to Nietzsche. It means ‘love of fate’, but what it really means is accepting everything that happens to you, the good shit and the awful shit, as necessary. It’s saying that you want it anyway. You want your life. You’ll take it.”
I swallow. “Is that what you believe?”
“I think it’s what has to be. That’s what I thought before Friday.”
At the sound of pain in his soft words, I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing my cheek against his chest so I can hear his heartbeat.
“Sometimes things are taken from us and it seems like too much,” I whisper. “Way too much.” My own chest tightens with the memory of my mother, and the violent want of her that I still feel. That I will always feel. “I’ve felt the total opposite of what you said. Like I didn’t want any of it. I’ve felt like that before, and when you left,” I whisper. “I still feel that way at certain times. But I think you’re right, that it’s not possible to really live like that. You could exist like that.”
“I know.” He spreads his hand out on my back.
“I want to live,” I say. “And I think you do, too.”
I look up at his face, the face I love, the face I loved the first time my glasses settled on my face beside his pool, when I was dripping wet and crying. And I know I have to say it back. Even though I don’t want to. Even though I don’t feel amor fati. I’m scared, and there’s a part of me that wants to run.
