The Beauty That Remains

by Ashley Woodfolk

  I think about never calling you again. About never seeing another movie with you. About how we’ll never share another secret. And I look up at Dante, because just like your dad, he has always known how to make things better. But right now, he’s just chewing on his bottom lip. I realize then that’s why his lips always look so plump and swollen.

  When he doesn’t say anything, I shove him away from me. I push him so hard and so suddenly that he trips over the roots of the tree and falls into the grass.

  “You think you know me, right?” I say, standing over him. “You think you always know what I’m thinking? How I feel? Well, did you know that Tavia will always be more important to me than some…guy?”

  I scrub at my face, and my voice is choked and even crueler when I start talking again.

  “I would go back and change everything if I could have been with her instead of you that night.”

  Dante’s nostrils flare a few times. He’s gritting his teeth, so his jaw is working. Then he surprises me. His eyes fill up and spill over. I thought he was going to yell right back. But he’s crying.

  “Fuck, Autumn,” he says, as if I’m a kid and he has to explain something simple. “She was my sister. You don’t think I feel the same way?”

  He turns like he’s about to go back inside, but then he spins back around to face me, fast.

  “Why do you think I didn’t go to that party?” he asks.

  I haven’t thought about it, but Dante likes parties as much as you do. He closes his eyes and puts his hands into his hair.

  “I was going to drive you guys there. But Tavia told me you weren’t going. So I stayed home and called to see if you wanted to hang out with me.”

  “What?” I ask, even though the truth of what he’s saying has already hit me hard and knocked me hollow.

  “I was going to go to the party, to hang out with you. I should have been driving. I should have been there…,” Dante says in the torn version of his voice.

  I can’t look at him anymore, so I turn and look at the gate. My toes are almost completely numb from the cold, but before I can stop myself, I’m running to my car without my shoes or coat, backpack or laptop.

  And almost as soon as I wrench the door open, it starts sleeting.

  I sit in your driveway and cry in my car because there’s no way I’m driving through a storm, but I can’t go back into your house, either. Your brother stands out there in the freezing rain for way too long before going inside.

  When the storm passes, I don’t go back into the house. Dante eventually comes through the front door a few minutes after the rain stops, wearing a clean white T-shirt, sweatpants, and slippers. He has all my stuff. He taps on my window, and when I roll it down, I can smell your shampoo in his still-wet hair.

  I don’t say anything when he pushes all my things into my lap. I just toss it into the backseat and reverse out of the driveway as soon as I can get my key into the ignition. I drive fifteen miles per hour all the way home because even though the sleet has stopped, it’s almost impossible for me to see through my tears.

  I call Willow. I wail and sob, and she asks if I need her to come home. I say that I do, which I normally would not have admitted, and when we hang up, I hear my dad’s phone ring. I know it’s Willow who’s called because he comes into my room a few minutes later. He hovers by the door with a cup of tea and a DVD. I wonder where my mom is, but I don’t ask, and I can’t tell what movie he’s holding because my eyes are so swollen.

  “You can come in,” I say, and my voice is all scratchy from the crying.

  He hands me the mug, and it’s still steaming. When I take a sip, the warm liquid soothes my throat. He added so much honey that it hurts my teeth a little bit, but I don’t complain.

  He doesn’t say anything, but he grabs my laptop and sits beside me on my bed. He’s looking for the disc drive to play the movie. My laptop doesn’t have one.

  “How do you work this thing?” he says. He flips the computer over. By now he has to have realized there isn’t a place for the DVD, but he always takes things way too far. He closes the laptop and shakes it by his head, as if it’s a Christmas present. He taps it like a caveman.

  I start laughing.

  “Dad,” I say. He looks at me. “Just get your computer.”

  He comes back with it a few minutes later, and inserts the DVD, and when it starts to play, I realize it’s a home movie of you and me.

  We’re in the backyard blowing bubbles and chasing each other, two tiny dark-haired kids we’ll never be again. We have on birthday hats, but it has to be my party and not yours because it’s just Willow, Dante, and the two of us.

  I lean against my dad’s shoulder. And even though he knows it’s coming, he still chuckles when you blow out my birthday candles.

  Faye texts later that night. She says she talked to Alexa and that she’s mostly come around. Margo’s still being weird, but Faye’s next message reads: The girl is going to have to get over herself. And some small part of me is glad that at least Faye’s on my side. She invites me to sit with them again, but something about that—needing to be invited to sit at my own lunch table—feels wrong. I tell her it’s okay, that I’ll stick to my new table for now, because you dying has changed a lot of things. But most of all, its stirred up something in me that I haven’t felt in years.

  I’ve always known that being adopted means that at the very beginning of my life, there was someone who at best couldn’t keep me, and at worst, didn’t want me. But I never really felt the pain of that rejection because I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t loved. I had my mom and dad. I had Willow. I had you.

  But I have always had this gaping hole in my life where my biological parents were missing. Just this feeling that there was a part of myself I would never know. And you being gone is just another blank space that I know will never be filled. I don’t want to let Margo, Faye, and Alexa back in just yet because I’m worried they’ll try to fit into the space in my heart that will always belong to you.

  Just before midnight, Dante calls. When I pick up and say hello, he hangs up without saying anything back. I think he just wanted to make sure I made it home okay. I’d finally stopped crying, after the tea, the video, and sending you an email, but I stare at his name on my phone and start right back up again.

  BRAM IS BORED so he sees how long he can stand on his head. (SPOILER ALERT: he passes out.)

  6,139 views | 5 months ago

  Yara and a bunch of other girls I only kinda recognize are leaning against my locker when I get out of last period, and for a second, I’m really confused. I look behind me to see if it’s possible that they’re waiting for someone else, but then Yara waves and smiles. I notice Paige, a redhead who’s also on the cheerleading team, holding a cupcake carrier, and I remember why they’re waiting for me.

  “Shit. It’s today, isn’t it?” I ask as I unzip my backpack and dump all my books into my locker.

  “Yep,” Yara says. “We’re heading over there, like, right now.”

  She reaches out to straighten my collar, like we’re besties; like it’s not weird as hell for her to be touching me. But I’m so surprised that I don’t move away. She smooths it down with her delicate little fingers.

  “Are you nervous? You look like you’re freaking out,” she says, stretching her eyes wide. A few of the girls giggle.

  “I’m not fucking nervous,” I say, shouldering my bag again.

  “ ‘I’m not fucking nervous,’ ” Paige repeats, and it should piss me off, but the impression is pretty spot-on. I crack a smile.

  “Bram always said his mom liked you better than anyone he’d ever dated. Including me,” Yara says, tucking her hair behind her ear. The studs in her lobes sparkle in the sun coming through the closest window. “Don’t be nervous.”

  “Are you nervous?” Paige says
to Yara. “This is gonna suck for you too. I mean, you loved him. You were with him through everything, all the way till the end.”

  That pisses me off. But Yara just looks down. Then she changes the subject.

  “This is weird, right?” she says as we walk to the parking lot. I shrug, because, yeah, it’s weird as hell, but I don’t really want to talk about it. I’m still processing what Nico told me, about Bram being his dealer, but I want to take advantage of being here with Yara, too.

  We’re taking a few different cars, so the girls branch off in different directions, but Yara waves me toward her 4x4.

  “You don’t drive, right?” she asks. I shake my head. “Do you talk?” she continues with a grin. I nod. I thought it would be hard talking to her, but it seems like it might be really easy. You know those people who are charming without even trying? Genuine and annoyingly nice? That’s Yara. It’s like I can’t be an ass to her, no matter how badly I want to.

  “I talk sometimes,” I say eventually.

  “Well, don’t worry. I won’t make you,” she teases.

  We climb into her truck and buckle up.

  “I know this is weird, but we should just try to be there for Ms. Lassiter today. Her first birthday without him? That’s bigger than you and me. The thing is—” Yara starts, squeezing her hands together, as if she’s nervous. But she doesn’t really get to finish because Paige appears out of nowhere and taps on her window. Yara jumps.

  “They don’t have any space left for me,” Paige pouts. “Can I ride with you guys?”

  With Paige in the car, Yara doesn’t really talk much to me, and I wonder what it was she was about to say. I’m a little upset I can’t use the ride over to ask her about Bram, but I just use the time to plan what I’ll say when I get the chance.

  When we get to Bram’s apartment building, I feel goose bumps creeping up my spine like ants. I haven’t been inside his place in forever, and the last time I was here was the day we broke up. I remember the way his room smelled, like Axe body spray and hair gel, and the way the couch in his living room squeaked when you sat down on the center cushion. There’s a burn mark in the carpet by the window that leads to the fire escape from when I dropped a lit joint as I was climbing back inside one day. And worst of all, Ms. Lassiter is in there, with the same tan skin, curly brown hair, and insanely green eyes as Bram.

  I don’t want to go inside.

  “Let’s go inside,” Yara says, pressing the buzzer. Her nails are painted a sparkly shade of pink. Seeing her face this like a badass when all I want to do is hide makes me feel like the biggest wuss ever.

  “Who is it?” comes Ms. Lassiter’s voice, sounding tinny and robotic through the ancient speaker on the door.

  Instead of answering, a few of the black girls on the squad start singing the Stevie Wonder version of the happy birthday song. I join in, only because it’s the Stevie Wonder version.

  Other than Aden and Nico, I haven’t sung in front of anyone since last summer, so I think I forgot how much I love an audience. About halfway through the verse, the girls stop singing one by one, but the change is so gradual, and I’m so into it, that I don’t notice until my voice is the only one left.

  When I open my eyes (I hadn’t even realized I’d closed them), everyone’s staring at me.

  “What the hell?” I say to them, and a few of them start fanning their faces or pretending to faint. Like I’m Paul McCartney or something. Yara smiles at me.

  “I forgot you sounded like that,” she says, and I wonder how the hell she knows. She doesn’t seem like the type to go to shows, but maybe I prejudged her.

  I look away because, dammit, I feel heat creeping up my neck. I can’t believe Yara Cruz of all people is making me fucking blush.

  Ms. Lassiter’s staticky voice comes through the speaker again.

  “Well. I’d know that voice anywhere. Come on up, Logan. And whoever else is with you.”

  Yara smirks. And Paige looks at me, like I’m her best fucking friend. She links her arm through mine and pushes me through the door when it buzzes long and loud. I swallow hard and step into the building.

  When Ms. Lassiter opens her door, she’s in pajamas. The cute kind that have a matching top and bottom, but it’s still depressing as hell to see her dressed like that at three-thirty in the afternoon. Especially since it’s her birthday.

  “Happy birthday,” the girls say, their voices a chorus of squeals that make me flinch. Yara’s holding the cupcakes now, which she places on the coffee table. When Ms. Lassiter sees them, she smiles a sad smile and pats her hair nervously, as if she’s only just realized what she looks like.

  “Girls,” she says, like I’m not standing here. “I can’t believe this!”

  The cupcakes are red velvet, her favorite, and I know from the ride over that Yara’s mom made the cream cheese frosting for her because after three tries, Yara still hadn’t gotten it right.

  Ms. Lassiter looks at me and purses her lips. She looks even more like Bram than I remember. I walk over to her because she’s a magnet, just like her son was. Before I even realize what’s happening, she’s hugging me really tightly.

  “Thank you for coming,” she mutters into my ear between sniffs. She says this only to me, even though her house is full of pretty girls in short skirts with cupcakes and ice cream. People who actually did remember it was her birthday, when I didn’t, because I was too preoccupied with watching her late son’s dumb videos.

  “Of course,” I say. I hug her a little tighter. She doesn’t know this wasn’t my idea, but maybe that doesn’t matter.

  “So,” Yara says. “What have you been up to today, Ms. L?”

  While they talk, I make my way through the apartment. I stick my head into their extra bedroom, and I see that she hasn’t gotten rid of any of Bram’s books. I pour myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen, and Bram’s last report card, a mediocre mix of Bs and Cs that’s pretty similar to my own, is still stuck to the fridge, magnetic poetry pieces for the words “chocolate” and “sky” holding it in place. I try and fail to ignore the fact that this is where Unraveling Lovely got its name.

  He and I were messing around with the magnetic poetry on his fridge one day, giggling like little kids at our shitty attempts at art. As we stumbled through perverted poems and stilted stanzas, we somehow lined up the words “unraveling” and “lovely.”

  “That would be an awesome name for your band,” he said, even though I didn’t have my own band at the time. Bram was the only person other than my parents who had ever heard me sing. In every band I’d ever been in before UL I just played guitar and stayed quiet. After he found some crappy, scribbled lyrics on a napkin I left behind at a lunch table, he pulled it out of me that my dream was to become a famous singer-songwriter.

  With him egging me on, I started Unraveling Lovely. We entered Battle of the Bands and were selected to play live, and after all that, he dumped me right before the concert. I showed up late and wasted because I couldn’t imagine singing songs about him sober. We were disqualified when I puked onstage, and the BotB officials figured out it was alcohol related and not just a stomach bug.

  The memory makes my heart beat like crazy, so I stumble away from the fridge. I go into the bathroom to take a piss before heading back to the living room. But before I even catch my reflection in the mirror, I spot something on the sink that stops me dead: Bram’s green toothbrush. It’s still in the small glass cup beside his mom’s. It’s leaning against hers, like it can’t stand up on its own, and it makes me feel sadder than anything else in this apartment has. I stare at it for a while, feeling torn up and reckless, forcing away the urge to put it in my mouth and taste it. To put it in my mouth, hoping to taste him.

  Another memory comes out of nowhere, and it’s so vivid that I almost choke: Bram used to let me borrow his toothbrush. Whenever we drank or smok
ed and I needed to cover the smell; if ever I fell asleep and ended up spending the night. He’d give me one of his wrinkled T-shirts or put his gel in my hair, or spray me with too much of his cologne. And he’d lend me his shitty toothbrush and kiss me hard and long while my mouth was still foamy.

  The bristles are smashed to hell, as if he’d kept it for way too long. I step farther inside the bathroom and close the door and keep watching the toothbrush; like if I look away, it will disappear. I put down the lid on the toilet and sit. I pick it up, and as I hold it in my hand I start to cry. Because…Fuck.

  Before I leave, I flush the toilet, even though I didn’t piss.

  After the toothbrush, I rejoin everyone else in the living room, afraid of being destroyed by another random thing he touched or owned or used.

  I want to leave.

  I can’t leave.

  Almost the whole cheerleading squad is here, and the girls are spread out around the small living room, sitting on the arms of the couch, the floor, the windowsills. Ms. Lassiter is in the kitchen making more coffee and hot chocolate and boiling water for Yara, who only drinks herbal tea, because of course she does. I lean against the wall closest to the stove and watch Ms. Lassiter’s small, steady hands while she fills the kettle with water.

  She hands me a cupcake right away, like she knows I was just crying in her bathroom over a toothbrush. I shove more than half of it into my mouth, eating it the way Aden eats everything.

  “It’s so good to see you, Logan,” she says again. “I was hoping you’d come around.”

  I take another big bite from the cupcake and nod because I don’t trust myself to say the right thing. I smile around the food in my mouth and lick the icing from my fingers.

  “Do me a favor and grab a few mugs out of that cabinet, would you?” she asks me.

  She points to a door near my elbow, so I open it and start pulling down cups.

  “There’s, like, a million girls in there,” I say, peering through the doorway and counting cheerleaders and then counting out mugs. Ms. Lassiter smiles.