by Nessa Morgan
“Well, Alexia, you can start by, I don’t know, not talking about it anymore.” I shrug my shoulders, crashing into the soft cushion of the chair. “I’m ready to move on. Are you?”
Her blue eyes focus on me. A gaze that would’ve terrified me earlier in the year, but now I know what’s behind it.
She’s thinking. Those little gears in her mind are spinning away.
“Do you honestly believe you can just move on? Just like that?”
No. Not really. It’s going to take hours and days of effort not to attack her as she stands near me, not to mention, picturing myself murdering her every chance I pass her. But I won’t know until I try and—holy crap, I can’t believe I’m about to sat this—I’m ready and willing to try.
“Yeah,” I reply honestly. “I do.”
With those three words, I feel a huge weight lifting from my shoulders. It’s relaxing and exhilarating. I feel ready. Ready for Alexia’s friendship—so help me, Jesus—I never thought I’d ever say something like that.
“Okay,” she replies excitedly, kicking her feet from the chair.
“Guess what, Alexia Cavanaugh.” She turns to me, looking at me cautiously, as if I could change my mind and push her away. “You’ve made yourself a new friend today.” I hold out my hand, ready to make this official. In the most awkward way, but it’s the thought that counts. She takes my tiny hand in hers, shaking it slowly. A smile blooming through her features, breaking apart her glossed lips.
“Now what?” she asks when our hands release.
“Now we do friend things, like talk about boys.” We share a laugh. “Like Milo. What’s going on there?” I ask her, watching her cheeks bloom in a blush, one that rivals mine. It’s adorable.
Then she starts to tell me.
The end bell rings overhead and I’m on my way to my locker, my car keys swinging and swaying from my wrist. Opening the metal door, I shove the books I don’t need for the weekend inside—all of them since I’m a week ahead on my homework—and slam it shut, I grab my violin and head outside. Neither Zephyr or Milo have tried contacting me since lunch period. I received a few I’m sorry texts I didn’t reply to, but that’s it. Nothing more.
You’d think they’d try harder to apologize. I am incredibly pissed. Everyone and their mother knows I won’t stay mad at Zephyr for long but he needs to at least speak to me for me even to consider accepting his apology—which I’ll do in less than ten seconds. Eleven tops.
But I can wait.
I’m good at waiting.
So I exit the building, heading toward the back of the student lot.
“FIGHT!” The voice rings through the air, alerting the masses of the eventual fight gathering somewhere nearby.
I stop, knowing I shouldn’t be concerned—it’s not my problem, but some little piece of me is curious and worried. Still, I let it pass and continue my trek through the lot toward my silver Focus.
“FIGHT! FIGHT!” someone chants. The person screaming the chant leads a group of students behind the school. A bad feeling develops in the pit of my stomach, like a heavy stone digging into me.
I follow. Against every part of me, every piece of me that wants to turn and head home, I follow the growing crowd. I follow the group past the tennis courts, past the swamp the science classes use to collect samples, through the trail, to the neighborhood behind the school. The crowd is large and throbbing—pulsing with anticipation—they’re ready for action.
If the crowd is this large, how long have they known about this? I haven’t heard anything all day.
“Zephyr! Zephyr! Zephyr!” They start chanting.
Shit!
How did I know this was the main attraction? I knew there was a reason I had to be here. My boyfriend. He better not be fighting—
“You can take him, Milo!” Someone nearby yells.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
I drop my violin and backpack on the sidewalk, hoping nothing breaks, and push my way through the crowd, hoping I’m hearing everything wrong. Sure enough, my boyfriend and my friend are squaring up, preparing for battle. Neither of them notice me as I glare at them, nearly ready to throw a few punches of my own.
Stepping into the middle of the circle, I throw up my hands. “What the HELL is going on here?” I shout. The din of the crowd quiets to nothing, my fury seeping through. They all know not to mess with me. I am the daughter of a murderer after all.
Sometimes the rumors have their benefits.
“Jo—” Zephyr starts.
“Uhn uh,” I interrupt him. “Don’t you even dare Jo me. What the fuck are you doing?” I turn to Milo, expecting some kind of answer. “Same goes for you, buddy boy?”
I get nothing but nervous stares.
“Come on! Fight!”
That’s it.
“Whoever the fuck you are”—I step toward the crowd—”shut the fuck up! This concerns none of you. Now, you. Speak.” I point to Milo. He seems like the reasonable choice for an answer. Zephyr will only talk circles around me because he wants a reason to punch Milo in the face. This is his reason.
“This is the only way he’ll shut up.” Milo flips his hair back, out of his eyes.
After hearing his answer, I point to Zephyr, my might-soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend.
“Jo, come on.”
“You’re time for pleading has ended, dude,” I tell him, closing the distance between us. I stand to my full height of five-feet and try to seem taller—it doesn’t help when your boyfriend is over a foot taller than you are. I should kick him in the shin, even the playing field a bit. “Now speak or I will let him kick your ass.”
Zephyr leans back, the cockiest of grins covering his smug face as he barks out a laugh. He doesn’t believe me. The urge to punch him myself is too overwhelming but I have to hold back, I have to suppress the urge, or people could be chanting my name in twenty seconds.
“Fine,” I mutter, backing away from the most confident of asshats. “You two want to fight each other?” I turn from Zephyr to Milo. “Go. Right. Ahead.”
It’s as if the bulls had been released. Zephyr attacks Milo so quickly, if I’d have blinked, I’d have missed it. My boyfriend leapt through the air—the most hilarious of shrieks, or battle cry, ripping from his throat—landing on Milo and throwing the first punch straight to his face. He hits, bruising Milo’s eye. Milo responds by throwing Zephyr to the ground and making a few punches of his own. Oooh, that’s looks painful.
I never knew Milo could fight. That worry I had when he walked into class was clearly a worry that wasted my time. I hear Zephyr’s grunts ring through the air. I’m tempted to pull Milo away and cover Zephyr with my body to protect him. The protective girlfriend thing is clearly trying to take over. It’s almost winning.
Keyword: almost.
I’m pissed off and Zephyr wanted a fight. I’m giving him what he wants.
The chanting has changed. With every successful hit Milo lands, his name rings a little bit louder through the air. With every successful hit Zephyr lands, his name slowly grows louder.
I’m standing off to the side, a yawn pouring from my lips as I check the time on my phone. Ten minutes of this crapfest has passed—ten minutes of my life wasted. And it doesn’t look like it’s ending anytime soon.
Zephyr shoves Milo away, pushing him across the tiny circle opened for them. Another yawn escapes my lips. I’ve never been so bored before in my life. And I’ve sat through a summer college course of Sociolinguistics.
I watch Zephyr make a punch, aiming for Milo’s cheek, only for Milo to block his hand, knocking him down to the ground, pinning his arm painfully behind his back.
He struggles for a few moments, trying to tug his arms free. “Fine!” Zephyr shouts through the air. Milo let’s up, backing away from my boyfriend, wiping blood from beneath his eye, as I approach, shoving past people.
“You happy?” I ask as Zephyr writhes on the cool cement.
“Why are you b
eing—”
“Listen to me, Zephyr. And listen well.” I crouch down, until I’m eye-level. “I am your girlfriend. Your girlfriend. Not your property, not some little toy you get to play with. Your girlfriend. This thing between you and Milo—what were you even doing, fighting for my honor?—yeah, that’s not going to work for me. So you need to pick yourself up and get over whatever problem you have with Milo. Because he’s not going anywhere. Got it? He’s a cool dude and I like hanging out with him. That isn’t changing any time soon. Kay?”
I help Zephyr up to his feet as he nods. Don’t get me wrong, I’m pissed with him. I probably will be for a while, but I still love the guy.
“Good.” I pat him on the arm. “I’ll see you later.”
I turn away, heading toward my violin and backpack on the sidewalk, ready to head home. I need some time to process before I do something even dumber than these two and that’s a possibility.
Saturday morning, I lie in bed with a book and my iPod, listening to Agnes Obel—calm music for a hopefully calm day—when my phone beeps, alerting me to a text message.
Milo: Are you not going to talk to me anymore?
He sent me a few texts last night that I ignored. I wasn’t in the mood to hear how he could justify that fight. So I pretended as if I never received them. I thought that was working.
Guess not.
Me: What gave you that idea?
Milo: Seriously?
Me: I’m talking to you right now.
Milo: Technically we’re texting.
Me: Shut up, smartass. Talk to you tomorrow.
That should keep him calm for a while. But it isn’t long before my phone beeps from another message.
Zephyr: I’m sorry.
Me: Contrary to popular belief, the girlfriend doesn’t always want to hear an apology.
Zephyr: What do you want?
Me: If you have to ask, you don’t know me at all.
Zephyr: You can’t always get what you want.
Me: Remember that.
I turn off my phone—not in the mood to hear or read any more apologies. Milo and Zephyr don’t get it. Or if they do, they just don’t care. I don’t want to be the thing they fight over. I don’t want to be a game for them to play. Last time I checked, I wasn’t a pawn.
Believe it or not—I have better things to do with my time. But I can’t do any of it because I’m too busy worrying about them.
And it’s exhausting.
The weekend passes and I don’t turn on my phone until Monday morning. I browse the internet, read two books, and play a lot of music on my violin. We have a competition in Oregon coming up and Solo/Ensemble. I’ve finalized my solos for both and I’m feeling pretty confident.
Tossing my violin into the instrument storage room, I step into the hall, passing students on their way to morning band or choir.
After turning on my phone this morning, I saw missed messages and calls from Zephyr and Milo, a few from Kennie and Harley, and even one from Alexia. I clicked ignore on all right before I left my house. I didn’t need to read any of them, not when I’m seeing everyone in a few hours.
Ducking into the classroom, I unload everything I need onto my desk. A few minutes and half a page of reading later, Milo walks in, his eyes searching the room. “There you are,” he blurts. Before I can respond, he ducks back into the hall. I hear him shout, “She’s in here,” before he dodges back into the room, bolting to his seat next to mine.
Zephyr is right behind him, dragging his hand through his hair.
They don’t look too pretty. The weekend didn’t help to heal their injuries from the fight on Friday. Milo’s got a black eye and a purple bruise on his cheek. Zephyr’s got a black eye, a bruise on his neck, and a long cut along his cheek. My heart hurts for them but I can’t show any remorse, I’m still angry with them.
“Oh, look who hasn’t killed each other,” I mutter, sarcastically before faking a smile, then going back to my work.
“Joey,” Zephyr starts.
“If you even start to mention how y’all worked out a schedule for time with me,” I begin, lifting my gaze from my page. “I think I might leap across the table myself and strangle the both of you.”
Milo chuckles. “We promise it’s nothing like that.”
“Then what do you want?”
“We’ve thought about what you said,” Zephyr tells me, grabbing a chair and sitting across from me. He pulls the book from in front of me.
“I was reading that.”
“We’ve thought and talked about it, and we realized that we were being stupid,” Zephyr explains.
“Well, one of use was being stupid, the other was completely within their right,” Milo adds.
Zephyr shoots him a glare.
Whatever they’re talking about is going to take some work it appears.
“What are y’all talking about?” I ask, tired of the back-and-forth.
“I was jealous,” Zephyr admits. “Of Milo. And how much time he spent with you. I now know that nothing would’ve happened between you two.”
“Like I hadn’t been telling you that since we got back together,” I snap.
“Just give me a minute, Jo.” Zephyr takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. To you, to Milo, I’m truly sorry. I never noticed what this did to you, I was only concerned with what I wanted, and it was you. I just wanted you all to myself.”
I look up at him and his eager brown eyes as they stare back at me. “And?”
“And… I realize I should have listened to you.”
I smile, reaching for his hand. This makes me a happy Joey.
I turn to Milo. “Now it’s your turn.”
“I’m sorry?” he says slowly.
“For?” I beckon.
“For the fight?”
“You suck at this,” I tell him.
“Zephyr’s the man for speeches; I’m just here to look pretty.” He chuckles, his familiar grin covering his swollen features.
“I’d say Zeph’s got you beat, there.” Even with the bruises.
Zephyr tugs my hand up, kissing the knuckles. I notice the cuts on his, rubbing my thumb over them. I know that won’t help but it makes him smile.
“Wait,” he says, disrupting our moment. “How’d you know he’d kick my ass, anyway?” he asks, nodding his head in Milo’s direction.
I smile. “You wanted it too much.”
fifteen
“You okay?” Zephyr asks me as I sit on my bed. I'm zoning out, staring at a blank space on my wall. I've tugged the bin from my closet but I can't bring myself to open it. After a brief surge in confidence, I’ve decided now is the time to read these letters. This bin has been haunting me for months. It’s time. “I can stay, you know, to be here when you open it.”
Hilary already left for her shift so it's just me and Zephyr alone in the house. Just him, a thousand letters, and me. A thousand letters I'm not ready to read. But after last night, I need to. I need to do this.
“I don't need you here,” I mumble, half dazed, still staring at the wall.
Last night, I had another nightmare. It wasn’t anything from the past; it was in the present. I walked into my room to find my father sitting on my bed, waiting for me. That’s all I remember before I woke up in a cold sweat.
I can't believe that I'm about to do this. I can't believe that I'm about to open these letters. Do I really want to know what any of them say? What he has to say? There is nothing more terrifying than reading his words, hearing his explanations as to why I've grown up the way I have.
No. I don't want to.
But I have to.
I have to know what he wants me to know.
It doesn't mean I have to believe him.
In a rush, I flip the lid from the bin, launching it halfway across the room—I’m skaing from nervousness. It lands in front of my dresser, propping itself against the chair. The hollow sound of plastic fills my ea
rs.
And there they are. There are all the letters, long and white, some beginning to yellow. The front of each, that I can see, is the same. My birth name and my grandparent's address is scribbled in the center, my father's name and some number is scrawled in the upper corner, then there's an address. The usual mail markings cover the front, along with a forwarding address.
It’s all so plain and normal. Now what I was expecting. They all look so harmless. To someone else, these are the letters from a father to his daughter. To me, these are dangerous bombs ready to explode. These are from a murderer to one of his victim.
“You sure you want to do this, Jo?”
And I’m about to rip them open.
No, I'm not sure. Actually, I'm sure I don't want to do this, but it must be done and I'm the only one to do it.
I start by dumping the letters in the center of the room. The letter mountain is taller than I originally guessed and now I'm wondering how they all fit into the bin.
“Uh,” I start, since Zephyr hasn't left. I'm guessing he's here for the long haul. That helps. “I guess we sort them in order.” I might as well read them from first to last, right?
We spread them out as best we can. Zephyr takes roughly one-half, I take another, and we start sorting. I'm done with my side before he is, and then we combine them. When we're finished, I stare at the large mass on the floor in front of me.
“Where are you going to start?” he asks quietly. His hand glides over the letters, tapping a few as he makes his way toward the end.
I can't see his eyes. His hair is blocking my view, but I want him to look at me. There’s so much honesty and love in his eyes, I just want him to look at me.
He lifts his head, slowly raising his eyes. His mouth breaks into a smile and instantly, I'm warm inside. I know I can do this, I know I can do anything when he looks at me.
I just don't want to do this.
Reaching out, I grasp the first letter. It's yellowed and thick. I hold it in my lap, debating whether to open it, debating if I really want to know.
Curiosity wins out and I rip open the top.
