The Beauty That Remains

by Ashley Woodfolk

  “Take a few deep breaths,” he says softly. “This happens to the kid I babysit, and that’s how his mom tells me to calm him down.”

  I start trying to, but it kind of hurts to breathe. I didn’t even know that Aden babysat, which is just more proof of how awful a friend I am.

  “That’s good,” Aden says. He looks down at his shoes, which are brown leather boots with bright red laces.

  “Logan. I’m really glad you told me all that. But what I don’t get is why you felt like you couldn’t tell me in the first place.” He looks over at me, and his eyes seem sad. “I thought we were friends.”

  My head aches, so I hold it in my hands. My eyes hurt, so I close them. My throat feels like I’ve been screaming for hours. But I still manage to say, “We are.”

  “I’m sorry you feel…responsible for what happened to Bram. And it sucks that he died,” Aden says. He pauses for a beat, and when I open my eyes, he’s staring at his hands.

  “But you’re drinking all the time. And even with the amazing rehearsal we just walked away from, I’m worried you don’t care about this band, or anything, very much. It’s fine that you’re still in love with him—”

  “What?” I say, standing up. “I’m not.”

  “Yeah, you are, Logan. I can tell by the way you talk about him.” Aden shakes his head and meets my eyes again. “You should see your face right now.”

  I think about the last few months. How consumed I’ve been. My life has revolved around Bram’s death like the duller planets revolve around the sun. Everything about Bram was like an undeniable force while he was alive. Even now he still has a hold on me like gravity.

  I’ve been trying to stop myself from picturing Bram’s eyes, from imagining his smile, from wanting every piece of him. But I can’t—I never could—so Aden must be right.

  This kind of longing has to be love.

  I’m in love with a boy who hasn’t been mine to love for half a year. A boy who belonged to his mother and Yara, Nico and no one, all at the same time. A boy who left a gaping hole in my life when he dumped me and who carved an even larger one right through everything when he died.

  What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

  “I think we should break up,” Aden says, and his voice cracks on those very words. “That came out wrong. Not us. I mean, we probably shouldn’t hook up anymore. But what I really mean is the band. I think we’re in different places. And I’ll be honest—I stuck it out because your voice is amazing. It also helps that you’re hot as hell. But being a part of a band is the most important thing to me right now. With people who are as focused and serious about this as I am.”

  Even though he doesn’t say anything else, I can see what he’s thinking in his eyes: In the meantime, maybe you should try to get your shit together.

  It looks like he wants to kiss me, but he doesn’t. “Let’s tell Nico that Undying Light is no more.”

  I nod, but when we get back inside, before Aden can say anything, I speak up.

  “Why don’t you two just look for a new singer?” I say.

  Aden looks at me as if he doesn’t know who I am. And I’m not sure where the idea came from, but something about it feels right.

  “What?” Both he and Nico say this at the same time.

  “You heard me. You guys sound good together. Good as hell.” I swallow hard, and my eyes start to sting again. I try not to think about how blotchy my face must be.

  “I don’t want to be responsible for another band falling apart.”

  Nico nods because he knows I’m the reason Unraveling Lovely broke up. Aden gets this weird, sad look on his face. “Are you sure, Logan?”

  He’s using my full name, so I can tell he’s all business. I hesitate for a second, but then I say, “Don’t look so upset. You’ll be fine.”

  “Maybe,” he says. “But will you?”

  I smile. “I’ll survive. I swear.”

  Aden comes over and hugs me, hard. “I’ll miss jamming with you,” he says.

  “Jesus, Aden. We can still jam,” I tell him.

  “Stop being so damn adorable,” Nico says, and Aden laughs.

  I say goodbye to both of them. I tell them I’ll definitely be at any shows they play. I wish them good luck.

  When I turn to walk away I don’t look back, but I can hear when they start talking and laughing, strategizing and comparing notes on who might be able to take my place in a band I started. Before the door closes all the way, I hear them start to play music.

  I grab a coffee and then sit on the steps of one of the university buildings to drink it. I watch the cars for a while before I pull out my phone to add Undying Light to the Battle of the Bands website, something I was planning to do anyway as soon as we came up with a name. I go to the band description. I hesitate for a second, and then I cry a little as I type in Aden Brooks as the guitarist and Nico Aronson as the drummer, leaving the line for lead singer blank. It’s only now, staring at the page, that I realize Undying Light is another failed band of mine that begins with the letters U and L. “Motherfucker,” I say to myself. The subconscious mind is a bitch.

  I upvote them, even though there’s no music on the page yet, and I feel cleaner somehow—like the tears washed something away or, at least, like telling Aden about Bram and sacrificing myself so that Undying Light could continue wasn’t a mistake.

  I check the time on my phone. It’s 9:34 p.m. Ironically, as soon as I don’t have a band, I’m able to type out a line of lyrics that I don’t hate. The familiar swirl of words and music starts to fill me up like sadness, and I finish the song I’ve been trying to finish for so long. Then I get the urge to write another one.

  BAMF // DEMO REVIEW…OUR NUMBERED DAYS

  It would be easy for me to say that Our Numbered Days is awesome. The lead guitarist, Rohan Malik, is one of my best friends. I could call their single “Relatively Speaking” “inspired,” and because I’ve known her for years I could mention that Jo Rollins kills on the drums. I could also praise Pooja Patel, for her work on the bass, because she and I bonded while UL was on tour last summer. And Marc Black on the keyboard takes all of it to the next level. But I won’t say any of those things. I’ll just say this: all they have is a demo so far, but you can bet your ass they’re gonna make waves.

  —Shay (Sasha’s sister)

  I’m not ready to find someone else to write reviews for BAMF, but I’m pretty sure Callie will kill me if we don’t stay on the schedule she created and laid out in the content calendar. So I write a review of Our Numbered Days’s demo myself.

  It’s not as good as Sasha’s reviews were—she had this great way of distilling a whole album into a few sentences. (People are lazy, I hear Sasha say in my head. They like it short and sweet.) But it’s a start. I read over the review, making sure I don’t have any typos, and I post it with a photo of Rohan that Deedee took, since their demo doesn’t have any album art.

  I go downstairs to Sasha’s room, and when I push the door, open, Mom’s in there, lying on Sasha’s bed. Her sad music is playing. And she’s crying, looking straight up at the ceiling.

  “Mom?” I say because I’ve never seen her cry except during sad movies. She turns her head and just opens her arms to me. And it’s weird that it doesn’t feel weirder when I walk over and fall against her. I can’t remember the last time we were close like this.

  “I couldn’t remember what she smelled like,” Mom whispers as one sad song ends and another one starts.

  “It’s like a mix of flowers and laundry lint,” I say, and she laughs.

  “Well, yeah. It’s kind of impossible to ignore in here.”

  “Momma?” I say.

  “Hmm?”

  “I’m sorry for that stuff I said, or I guess, the way I said it. I’m glad you’re here now.”

  She squeezes me tighter to
her, and I feel like a little kid. I wish I could stay here in Sasha’s bed, in Mom’s arms, forever.

  “I’m sorry it was true,” she says.

  She shifts around, and my sleeve slips up a little. She sees the tattoo. I try to yank it back down, but I’m too slow.

  “Is that a…?”

  Crap. “Don’t be mad,” I say, sitting up and crossing my arms.

  She sighs. “Let me see it, Shay.”

  We only just got to a good place, and I don’t want to ruin it. But I guess being in a truly good place includes being honest.

  She puts her hand out, and I sigh and place my wrist in her palm.

  “It’s a little red,” she says. “Are you moisturizing it correctly? Make sure it doesn’t get infected.” She twists my wrist from side to side. “Is that her handwriting?” she asks. I nod. She bites her lip and nods, too. Then she drops my arm.

  I look at her. “That’s it?”

  She shrugs and then sinks back down into Sasha’s bed.

  “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m mad. You should have asked me first, and I don’t even think I want to know how a sixteen-year-old got a tattoo without parental permission. But mostly, I’m surprised. I would have guessed you’d be too scared.”

  She doesn’t say it, but I know what she’s thinking: Sasha was the gutsy one.

  “Maybe needles scare me less because I had to give so much blood to Sasha.”

  Mom looks at me for too long and then stretches her arms out again.

  Once I’m tucked against her, the fabric of her shirt making soft sounds in my ear, I whisper, “It was pretty scary, though.”

  She chuckles.

  We read the words written across Sasha’s ceiling to each other, and Mom asks me where each quote is from.

  “That one’s definitely from a song,” I say, “and I’m pretty sure that one is completely made up.” Mom laughs.

  “No, Shay. That’s poetry,” she says. “ ‘Do I dare disturb the universe?’ I remember that from college.”

  “Sasha was so much smarter than me,” I say.

  “Nah,” Mom disagrees. “She just had a lot of time to read.”

  When she turns on the TV, Intervention is on.

  “What in the world?” she says.

  “No, Momma, I swear. It’s so good. This is a really good one—she’s addicted to those lollipops pregnant people use to help their morning sickness.”

  Mom looks at me as if I’m speaking French, but she watches and keeps watching, and when she says, “Oh Lord, this one is about meth? Should you be watching this? I feel like a bad parent….” she pauses. “Maybe just one more.”

  In my head I hear Sasha say, See, you guys do have something in common!

  * * *

  —

  My phone vibrates from where it lies between us on the bed, and it makes us both jump. We’d fallen asleep, cuddling, wrapped up together, the way Sasha and I used to. Mom starts laughing while I rub my eyes and pick up my cell. It’s a group text with Callie and Deedee.

  CALLIE: Your review has so many likes!!!!

  SHAY: How many is so many?

  DEEDEE: EVERY TIME I REFRESH THERE ARE MORE.

  SHAY: Like more than a thousand?

  CALLIE: More than 5,000 ;)

  SHAY: No way.

  DEEDEE: I’M TAKING SCREENSHOTS.

  I go to the BAMF blog. And there are 5,381 notes, and more are pouring in. I read over my post. There’s nothing exceptional about it. I click through to look at some of the reblogs. But (not) surprisingly, no one is really talking about my review. They’re talking about Rohan, Unraveling Lovely, and Sasha.

  Hey, it’s the guitarist from Unraveling Lovely!

  I miss UL.

  I miss Sasha’s reviews.

  His new band is called Our Numbered Days, and his gf died???

  OMG, this is SO SAD.

  So I guess it was the combination of Rohan’s photo and saying I’m Sasha’s sister that pushed the review over the edge. I miss UL too.

  I tell the girls.

  SHAY: Looks like people just fangirling over Rohan.

  DEEDEE: And people sad about Sasha…

  CALLIE: Yeah.

  None of us say anything for a while. I read a few more comments and then send another message.

  SHAY: What if we got Unraveling Lovely back together?

  CALLIE: If that were possible, wouldn’t you have tried it by now?

  DEEDEE: Not necessarily. How would she have had time to organize a reunion show?

  SHAY: Dee, you’re brilliant. An Unraveling Lovely reunion show needs to happen!

  CALLIE: In loving memory of Sasha!

  DEEDEE: OMG. YES.

  I think about Dante then, and his sister. To my friends I send, In loving memory of Sasha AND Tavia.

  They both send clapping emojis.

  I ask Callie to find what nights The 715, our favorite venue, has open in the next couple of months and then tell Deedee to make sure she stays quiet about this so Rohan doesn’t find out, because she’s horrible at keeping secrets. I want to surprise him as a thank-you. He organized the intervention, and it’s changed everything.

  I know Rohan will be into the idea, so I just have to win over Dante. Since Logan was the one who ruined everything, I have a feeling he’ll like the chance to make amends, but Logan’s a real wild card. I message Dante first, since I’ve spoken to him so much more recently. Dante told me he’s always looking for a reason to get out of the house, and the show will be for his sister too, so I hope he’ll be into this plan. Logan is a lot scarier than Dante.

  Is Ro in? Dante sends minutes after I message him.

  He will be, I send back. You know Ro can’t stay mad at anyone for very long.

  I’m still pretty pissed, Dante sends. But I guess I’m in.

  Cool, I send, trying to sound less excited than I actually am.

  I think we’re done, but a second later, my phone chimes again.

  The real question is, will Logan even show up?

  He better, I text back. Then I hold my breath and send a message to Logan.

  * * *

  —

  Jerome is wearing his tweed blazer when I find him after school the next day. He’s posted up near an empty classroom at the end of the hallway where my locker is. I follow him after he looks at me and steps inside the room.

  “Hey,” I say. I hug him, but I’m immediately not sure if it’s the right thing to do.

  “Hey,” he says, against my ear. I want to kiss him so badly, but I bite my bottom lip so I won’t. I tug on one of his lapels, to put a little space back between us.

  “You look like a college professor with this thing on.”

  Jerome grins and slips the blazer off. He walks to the front of the classroom and drapes it over the teacher’s chair.

  I sit in one of the desks in the front row.

  “So,” I say. He levels me with his shiny brown eyes and bats his thick eyelashes, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s waiting for me to do all the talking.

  “I guess I like you,” I say. He smiles pretty widely, so I put up my hand. “Wait! I’m not done. I like you, but I don’t know you very well. I want to get to know you better,” I continue. “And I want you to get to know me, too. When we’re kissing, we don’t do much talking.”

  “That’s true,” he says. He looks a little uncomfortable for a second, and I’m worried he was only in it for the make-out sessions—that he doesn’t like me enough to just want to hang out. But then he says, “So you want to be just friends?”

  “For now,” I say. “But don’t say ‘just friends.’ Friends are really important to me.”

  He nods. “I get it,” he says, and then gets quiet. “I, uh…I don’t usually say too much.”
/>
  “Only during interventions, huh?” I ask, smiling.

  He grins. “I speak up when it counts,” he says.

  “I still can’t believe you guys Interventioned me.”

  “But you’re better?” he asks in that way of his.

  I think of Dante. “I’m working on it.”

  FEB. 4, 5:39 P.M.

  Are you angry that Dante kissed me?

  …

  Because Dante keeps kissing me.

  Tavi, I don’t know what to do. I keep kissing him, too.

  Tavia may not be on Hangouts right now. She’ll see your messages later.

  From: HeCalledItAutumn@gmail.com

  To: TaviaViolet@gmail.com

  Sent: Feb. 4, 11:17 p.m.

  Subject:

  On the way to school, Dante kissed me again. Like we’ve been dating for months. Like it isn’t weird or the kind of thing that normal people talk about. It’s like yesterday I was your best friend—someone he wasn’t even speaking to. But today I’m his girlfriend, without ceremony, without the question of us even being discussed. And oddly enough, I’m mostly okay with it. But some part of being with him still feels like I’m betraying you.

  As soon as I climb into Dante’s car, he kisses me. And afterward, we smile, but we don’t say anything. It’s like we’ve come to an understanding. Or like we’re finally acknowledging that, behind the veil of our grief for you—our anger about what happened and how—we’ve been sinking into something like love, falling for each other slowly this whole time.

  But God. I want to talk to you about it so badly. I want to tell you how he makes feel, the way I always told you everything else. I want, more than anything, to know what you’d think.

  When he reaches across the space between our seats a minute later and lays his wide palm on my knee, I jump a little. Not because I don’t want him to touch me—because believe me, it is quite the opposite. But because I’m so deep in thought about how you’d feel or what you’d think about us that I’d forgotten where I was. Dante pulls his hand away.