by Callie Hart
“And what would you know about that?”
“Oh. Y’know. Not much. We did recently pay her father a visit, though. That wasn’t very pretty.”
“What are you talking about? Her father’s in the military. He’s posted out in Israel.” I don’t like the look on his face, now. He seems tired. Worried? Settled? Resigned? I can’t tell what the look is or what it represents, but it makes me uncomfortable.
Dash sighs, letting his head fall back against the sofa. His eyes roam up toward the ceiling, avoiding me at all costs. “I don’t know. Ignore me. I’m talking shit.”
I can’t ignore him. The last time we spoke this much, everything was perfect between us. He’d just been inside me. He’d just told me that he was in love with me. It’s been a very long time since I’ve been this close to him, and I’m caught off guard by the way his proximity is affecting me.
“She’s strong. That’s all I’m trying to say,” Dash concludes. “Like you.”
He shouldn’t have said that. I mentally rifle through the contents of my school bag, trying to remember if there’s anything inside of it that could be used as a weapon. “And what would you know about my strength, Dashiell? You fucked another girl right in front of me and then didn’t even bother to defend yourself afterwards. Didn’t try to explain, or apologize, or find out if I was even still breathing. You just fucking bailed and never even spoke to me again. You—you—” I shake myself, pulling myself out of the dark hole I was descending down. Fuck, I need to breathe. Why can’t I stop shaking so hard?
Dash kicks his long legs out in front of himself, crossing them at the ankle. He laces his fingers together, resting his hands on his stomach. He says nothing, and my temperature rises so fast that my anger feels like it’s cooking me from the inside out.
“And I hate your shirt. Your stupid pants, and your stupid shoes. Who the fuck are you kidding, anyway? How can you go back to dressing like that after you finally realized you weren’t a mannequin and had some personality?”
He baulks a little at that, jerking his head back, but still he doesn’t say anything.
“You started driving around in that car that you hate. You don’t play in the orchestra room anymore. You’re completely emotionless, aren’t you. You just—” I throw my hands up in the air—“float along like a fucking mindless amoeba, waiting for the world to tell you what to do and how to react.” I’d love to say that I stop here, but once I start, I can’t stop. All of the pent up, jagged-edged emotions that have been lacerating me on the inside push their way up. They want out, and it hurts too much to keep them in anymore.
I call him liar.
I call him cheat.
I give him the most blistering dressing down of the century, and I hardly pause for breath while I’m doing it.
Dash sits in silence, staring down at his hands. Just sits there and takes it. He denies nothing. Every once in a while, he looks up at me, eyes open and clear, his expression so confounding that I stumble in my assault, hating him for not fighting back.
Tears begin to spill down my cheeks, and he reacts at long last. His jaw clenches, a deep, unhappy v forming between his eyebrows. “Don’t. Don’t cry, Stella,” he whispers.
I swipe the errant tears away angrily, ducking my head. Hopefully no one has noticed. “And what would you prefer I do? Should I shut my mouth again and continue to suffer in silence? I thought this is what you liked. A girl, brought to her knees by you. Don’t you like it when girls cry over you?” The thing about such venom-tinged projectiles is that they hurt you on the way out just as much as they hurt the person you fire them at.
I catch the sob building in my throat, closing myself around it, embracing how well it burns. My next words come out softer.“Well? Answer the question.” I need to know. All this time, I’ve tried to comfort myself with the knowledge that what Dash did in that observatory spoke of his own brokenness and not mine. But I’ve never been sure. The strands of it all have never woven together correctly. Everything is so knotted and tangled, and for the first time I want to hear him speak the truth. He owes me that much.
He takes in a deep breath and lets his head roll across the back of the sofa so that he’s looking at me. “Power’s a heady, addictive thing, Stella. It corrupts even the best of people, and I wasn’t even close to good. I was the lowest of the low. Taking power and lording it over others used to make me feel like I was in control. With you, I learned that true power is trust. It’s partnership. Vulnerability. Kindness. Friendship. You showed me all of that. You saved me from a lifetime, trapped in an ugly, vicious cycle that never would have made me truly happy. And for that, I will always be grateful. I never wanted to make you cry. I wanted to love you, and I still do.”
The bell rings, splitting the air apart, and Dash gets to his feet.
“Pax is planning another party at the house soon. You should try and talk Elodie out of coming if you can. And as much as I’d like to see you there, Stella, it’d probably be for the best if you stayed away, too.” He heads for the exit, and there’s a resigned slope to his shoulders. He stands tall, though. Proud. For once, I don’t think it’s his arrogance that keeps his spine straight. I think it’s a kind of relief.
45
DASH
I thought…
Fuck, I don’t know what I was thinking.
I figured if I let her tear me a new one that I’d feel better. If I witnessed her wrath, or her indifference, or her disgust, that I’d feel guilty, and then it would be easier to stop thinking about her. Clearly, that hasn’t been the case. I trip through the next week like a zombie, barely even aware of the world around me.
I think a lot about my mistakes, and I realize how stupid I’ve been. Wren is in love with Elodie Stillwater. For his birthday, we traveled across the world and beat her father half to death because of the horrible things he did to her. Wren showed his hand very plainly when he asked Pax and I to do this for him. He wasn’t afraid to ask, because the depths of his feelings for the girl demanded it. I should have done the same thing for Carina.
I should have prioritized her over all else. I ought to have cherished her more than anything in this world, including my friendship with Pax and Wren, because that is what she’s worth.
I told myself I was keeping her safe by hiding our relationship, but I’ve come to face facts now. I was scared.
Pathetic.
What I wouldn’t give to go back in time and fix things. Do them right first time around. Hindsight’s a bitch of a thing, ain’t it?
Instead of fading with time, the one beautiful memory I have of being with Carrie in my bedroom at Riot House strengthens. I oscillate between obsessively composing music—all of it about her—to abandoning my instrument and leaving it untouched for weeks. The piano sits in the corner, pensive and moody, judging me in its silence. It gets to the point where I can’t tolerate lingering within the four walls of my room without experiencing a crushing pain in my chest. I sleep on the couch a lot. When I’m awake, I drive down into Mountain Lakes, taking my laptop to Screamin’ Beans, so I can do my assignments somewhere far removed from Riot House.
I also relish the disgruntled sideways looks from the waitstaff, who all appear to love Carrie and hate me very much. Their scorn is just another fitting punishment for my crimes.
On Friday, I’m working in a booth at the back of the café when I sense someone approaching my table. Thinking it’s Jazzy, the waitress who hates me the most, I don’t bother looking up from my screen. Turns out it’s someone far more unexpected.
“Hey, man! It’s Dash, right? Carrie’s ex?”
I recoil from the guy, physically and mentally. My shoulder hits the window as I slide away from him, and he laughs apologetically. “Whoa, sorry, dude. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you, there.”
He thinks he made me jump. He has no idea that his very presence is as painful as a brand to me.
“It’s Andre, remember? We met at the party? Mind if I join you?”
I look up at him, horror wrought on my face, but Andre sees none of it. He slides into the booth opposite me, setting a takeaway coffee cup down in front of him, grinning at me. Wow. Completely oblivious. Impressive.
“How are you doing, dude?” He cups his hands around his coffee.
“Great,” I say stiffly. “I’m doing great. Thanks for asking.”
“Cool.” He nods. It’s late in the season, officially spring now, but it’s still cold enough for snow tonight—one last flurry before the temperature picks up and the wildflowers begin to shoot up all over the mountain. Andre watches the tiny white flecks eddy on the still night air through the glass, staring blankly. “Cool,” he repeats.
“How are you doing? Are you okay?” It doesn’t escape me, how weird it is that I’d ask Carrie’s new boyfriend if he’s okay, but there’s just something so damn likeable about Andre. It’d suit me down to the ground if I could hate him, but I can’t. And something is clearly off with the guy.
He drums his fingers against the tabletop, nodding faster. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. I saw you sitting over here, and I thought fuck it. I wanted to come ask you something. I know it’s weird and all, but do you mind?”
Oh boy. Here we go. Where the hell is this leading? I lean back, shrugging. “Sure.”
“Did Carrie ever tell you that she loved you?”
“Wow. Just gonna…come right out with that, huh?” I admit, this is not quite what I was expecting.
He picks at his thumb nail, avoiding eye contact. “I guess I am,” he says. “I told her that I loved her a while back—”
I do not like hearing that at all. It’s one thing to know the girl you love is with someone else. Another thing altogether to find out that the other person is in love with her, too. I shift uncomfortably, clearing my throat, and Andre picks up on the tension. He looks dismayed.
“Ohh…sorry, man. Carrie didn’t tell me much about you guys in the end. She said you were only together a couple of months and then you ended it. I guess I figured you didn’t have feelings for her anymore.”
I pull a face, shaking my head. “I don’t.”
Andre’s expression drops. He looks like the wind just dropped right out of his sails. “Ahhhh fuck. I’ve been so stupid, haven’t I?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t follow.”
He looks me dead in the eye. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
I stare back at him, thinking. I’ve failed to do the right thing at every turn recently. I know what I should do now, and I’m going to do it. It just fucking sucks. I take a deep breath. “No. I’m not in love with her. We’re not even friends.”
Andre doesn’t seem heartened by this. He dips his head, peering despondently into his coffee. “My dad’s a professional liar,” he says quietly. “I can never trust a word out of his mouth. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I learned to spot a lie a long time ago, and that…was not the truth.”
What does he want me to say? I wanted to stave his face in with a rock very recently, and now he wants me to lie more convincingly to him about not being in love with his girlfriend? I’m trying, people. I. Am. Fucking. Trying. I lay my hands flat on the table, wishing I’d stayed at the house now. The memories are nowhere near as bad as this. “Okay,” I say. “Let me ask you a question. Is there any realm or reality in which you could know how beautiful, and fierce, and smart, and sassy Carrie is and not love her?”
Andre sags, letting his head hang back against the red pleather upholstery. He closes his eyes.
“Didn’t think so. Look.” I tap my finger against the side of my laptop. “Carrie deserves to be happy. I want that for her. She’s a good person. So good that I don’t think she told you how badly I fucking treated her when I had her. I’m not going to interfere in whatever you guys have got going on. If she can be happy with you, then so be it. I fucking hate it, but I’m making my peace with it. Slowly. Just don’t invite me to the wedding or anything.”
Rubbing his chin, Andre groans. “There isn’t going to be a wedding.”
“It’s just a turn of phrase. She’s eighteen years old. I’m just saying—”
He narrows his eyes, but not with any malicious intent. He looks like he’s preparing for the worst. “You didn’t answer my question just now. Did she ever tell you that she loves you?”
“You really need to know?”
He waits.
“Yes. She did.”
Andre nods sadly. He slides to the end of the bench and gets up, taking his coffee with him. “Doesn’t matter that she’s only eighteen. I would have asked her, anyway. But I won’t, because she’s still in love with you.” He slaps a hand on my shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “I hope you get another shot with her, man. And I really hope you treat her better next time. You’re right. She does deserve to be happy.”
46
CARRIE
ANDRE: Hey, sweet girl. Hate to do this but I’m on the road back to Albany. My workload just tripled and driving to and from campus is making life impossible. I’ve had a lot of fun hanging out with you, though! I really hope things go well for the rest of your senior year. Have a coffee for me next time you’re at the café. A x
I stare at the text message—text message?!—trying to make sense of it. Is he fucking kidding me? Things have been moving slowly with Andre, but I didn’t think he’d break up with me. What the hell is happening right now?
I re-read the message a thousand times, pulling it apart word by word, trying to decipher the hidden code within the few short sentences, trying to fathom what it really means. ’Cause it can’t be this simple, surely? We have so much in common. We love the same things. He makes me laugh. He told me he was in love with me for fuck’s sake! What is it with guys telling me they’re in love with me and then bailing?
I lock my bedroom door and reschedule the lunch date I had penciled in with Pres. For the rest of the afternoon, I cry—wearily, in a weird, resigned way—and I watch garbage reality TV shows on Netflix. All the while, my mind is spinning its wheels, trying to figure out what went wrong with Andre. But that’s the problem. Nothing went wrong. He knew I wasn’t ready to have sex with him yet, and he was okay with waiting. I know he was. He was never pushy. He was a perfect gentleman whenever we hung out. He pursued me. He wanted to spend every waking moment with me, and when we did hang out, it was nice.
I begin to look for other explanations. External explanations. And that’s when Lord Dashiell Lovett’s name crops up in my head. He basically told me that he was still in love with me in English, which is possibly the most evil lie he has ever told. It took me hours to recover to a point where I felt like I could breathe again after that. He’s certainly arrogant enough that he would meddle in my affairs. But why would he bother? Does the bastard not think he’s done enough? The more I mull it over, the more I’m convinced that he’s had a hand in this.
By the time I visit Elodie’s room in the evening to tell her what’s happened, I’m certain of it. This is Dashiell Lovett’s fault. Elodie’s sweet and wants to hang out, but I’m in no mood for company. I tell her that I want to spend the evening alone, sulking and finishing off some assignments, but when I get back to my room, I can’t think. The words printed inside all of my textbooks swim around on the page, giving me a splitting headache.
By the time it goes dark and the lights from the observatory go on, mocking me from the ridgeline out of the window, I’m officially livid. If Mara were here, she’d know exactly how to teach Dashiell a lesson. She’d already have her revenge mapped out with bullet points and everything.
Thinking about my wayward friend makes me miss her for the first time in forever. It’s been easy to stay mad at her. It still stings that she left without one word of goodbye. And one postcard since she left? One? It would have been nice of her to call. Let me know that she’s getting on okay.
Lying there on my bed, I suddenly remember Mara’s diary. It’s still sitting at the bottom of my bag. I’m g
lad Elodie trusted me enough to hand it over, even though her curiosity over the Mara mystery is growing now because of it. I still feel guilty as hell for not coming clean and telling her everything that happened with Mara, and Wren, and Fitz, but Fitz’s threat wasn’t something to be taken lightly. He wouldn’t hesitate to land the boys in shit with Harcourt and the cops. It’s perverse, this rotten need to protect Dashiell that still exists inside of me. But what the hell am I supposed to do? The lingering emotion I feel for him is like a cancer, making me sicker and sicker over time, causing excruciating pain, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t cut it out. Believe me. I’ve tried. Should I just let Fitz report the boys to the cops and let them all be kicked out of the academy? Could I sit by and watch without a scrap of remorse as Dash is shipped back to the UK?
Fuck, I can’t think about this anymore. I get up and grab my bag, opening up the zip and emptying its contents on my bed. Mara’s diary is the last thing to land on the comforter. It sits there, the light from my bedside lamp casting a warm orange sheen across the tan leather binding.
It’d be wrong to read it. That’s what I’d normally think, if this were someone else’s journal. But Mara surrendered the right to her secrets when she abandoned her diary at Wolf Hall, and me and Pres along with it. No, I don’t feel too guilty about the thought of flipping through the pages of the book. I study the tarnished leather for a while, wondering at its contents. Mara’s phone was turned off shortly after she bailed. The texts I send her never go through. The few times I’ve tried to call, the number is never in service. I try and reach out to her every couple of weeks anyway, just in case, but nothing ever comes of it.
Maybe…
I open the diary and I begin to read. Mara always talked about going to Los Angeles. Could be that she mentioned something about that in her diary—where she wanted to go. Where she planned on staying…
