Again, Sandra and I spoke at the same time.

Me: “Oh, no, we need to get an early start back—”

Her: “Oh. Yes, we would love to. We don’t have to be back till late. What time should we be there?”

I cringed. I noted that she was smiling.

Again, as though I hadn’t spoken at all, Nico addressed Sandra, “That’s great. I’ll tell her to expect you both around, say, ten?”

I didn’t even attempt to contradict; instead I allowed Sandra to nod vigorously. “Yeah, yes, we’ll be there at ten.”

“Good,” he said. I felt him hesitate for a moment before taking a step back and out of my path. “See you then.”

Sandra beamed at him. He lingered. I knew he was looking at me, but, coward that I was, I just couldn’t meet his gaze. One more painfully long second passed then he walked around us and back toward the gym. I waited until I was sure he was gone then led Sandra by the hand in the direction of Micah. He was waiting for her at the edge of the hall.

“You can loosen your grip on my hand now before you break something.”

“Oh.” I immediately released Sandra’s hand and rubbed my suddenly sweaty palm against my skirt.

“What did I interrupt between you two?” Sandra handed me my purse.

“What? Nothing. Nothing is going on.” The words were a little too loud, a little too fast, a little too false. I was out of breath and recognized that it had very little to do with my spurt of exercise.

“Riiiight. Anyway,” Sandra leaned closer to my ear. “Micah wanted to get out of here and get a drink. I was thinking of going with him, but after that outburst of yours and now that I know you were trying to escape naughty Nico, I’ll just blow off Micah.”

I shook my head. “No, you should go. I’m good. I’ll just head back to the house and take advantage of this very rare sleep opportunity.”

Sandra wrinkled her nose and brought us to a halt. “I’m staying with you.”

“You came with me to see the world’s largest truck stop and I couldn’t even make that happen. Go with Micah. I’m just going to go to sleep when I get home.”

She wasn’t convinced. “Are you sure?”

I could tell she didn’t believe me so I decided to yawn for good measure. “Yeah.” Big yawn. “Yes. Now go, and have a good time.”

Sandra reached for and squeezed my hand. She gave me one last scrutinizing gaze before she left to join Micah.

As soon as she turned I bolted for the door, not wanting to give her an opportunity to change her mind, not wanting to interact with any more of my high school acquaintances, and not wanting to chance another Nico interaction.

Chapter 7

Boy Bands are sent by God to aid women of all ages in their quest to avoid reality, but specifically to trick young women into believing that males think about topics other than sex.

When I listen to boy bands at a loud volume I can almost forget about stress, about sadness, about life and death and the unfairness of both. The innocence lures me into a superficial, cotton-candy world, and it feels so good to be mindless, worriless, unburdened, new, and blissfully ignorant.

Bursting into the front door of my childhood home, my shoes came off first, then my dress and petticoat. I left both at the bottom of the stairs and rushed up the steps in my strapless bra and underwear. Upon reaching my room on the third floor—which was actually the attic—I placed my phone on the docking station and simultaneously pressed play. Opening bars of “You Don’t Know You’re Beautiful” by One Direction filled the expansive space. I cranked up the volume until I couldn’t hear my own thoughts.

Contentment that accompanies the avoidance of worry eased my tense muscles, and I sighed, closing my eyes. Eventually I bebopped around the room—pulling on pajamas, brushing my teeth, using my hair brush as a make-believe microphone—until I was ready for bed.

But I didn’t go to sleep. Instead I rested on the quilt and stared at the ceiling, listening to the song on repeat, trying to believe the words even though I knew they were all lies.

A shadow moved across the wall in my peripheral vision, and I bolted upward in bed, eyes wide and searching.

I spotted him immediately.

Freaking Nico.

His expression betrayed his thoughts about my music choice, and he hurried from the window to the speaker dock, immediately paused the music and groaned.

“I can’t believe you still listen to boy bands.”

My hands were white knuckled, gripping the sheets. I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Nico! What the hell? You scared me.”

I meant to breathe out a relieved sigh, but I couldn’t—likely because I didn’t feel relieved. Instead I just kept gulping in air and had to force myself to stop before I ended up with the mother of all hiccup attacks.

“Sorry.” His steps sounded on the wood floor as he crossed to the bed. I felt the mattress depress under his weight. This small action made me scramble to my feet and launch out of the bed.

“What are you doing here?” I went to the docking station and claimed my phone, navigated to the clock alarm feature and set the alert for nine o’clock.

“You have excellent taste in everything except music.”

“That’s why you’re here?”

“No, I’m just stating a fact. Your taste is excellent except for music.”

“How would you know that?”

“Because I know you.”

I didn’t turn, but I accepted the bait. “You don’t know me. I could have terrible taste in a lot of things. For example, I like that shirt you’re wearing.” I gestured to his New York Yankees T-shirt then met his gaze. “See? I have terrible taste.”

His smile was crooked and sincere and adorable, and it annoyed the heck out of me.

He ignored my insult. “I think you listen to these bands—and I use the word band lightly with a great deal of disrespect—because you’re trying to hold on to something that’s been gone for a long time.”

I lifted my chin. “You’re talking about Garrett.”

Surprise glinted in his gaze and over his expression, made him pause. His eyes searched mine. He stood and walked to me slowly, stalking, as though not wanting to frighten a skittish creature. “So . . . You can say his name now.”

I shrugged. “Yes. I can say his name now.”

Nico studied me for a moment then scratched his chin. “The last time we were together—”

I lifted my hands to my ears, but didn’t exactly cover them. Instead I waved them around my head and turned away. I crossed to the small white vanity where my baseball cards were neatly stacked. “I don’t want to talk about that. I don’t want to talk about what we—what happened.”

He was silent for a moment then I heard him release a small breath. When he spoke his tenure was lower, gruff. “I was just going to say, the last time, you couldn’t say his name.”

“Well, I can now.” I picked up the baseball cards and started thumbing through them absentmindedly. “Garrett. Garrett Thompson. Garrett P. Thompson. Garrett Patrick Thompson.”

It was true; I could say his name. It was easily done. I could say it and with no residual ache, only a weird numbness where something else used to be.

Oftentimes I wished there were a corporeal mark to demarcate the before and after of Garrett Thompson in my life. Once or twice I’d gone to a tattoo parlor looking for a design to brand my skin, to prove what his prematurely extinguished existence did to me. At least a physical wound provided proof of the hurt.

“He’s been gone for eleven years.” Nico’s voice—sabulous, strained—was closer than I expected. He’d crossed the room while I was pretending to look at my baseball cards.

I attempted an unhurried saunter to the window; my objective was distance.

Though still cold, it was unseasonably mild for April and the sky was clear, moonless. I affixed my attention upward. Every star felt within reach, hovering just inches above my window. The soft and relatively moderate spring breeze teased the white eyelet curtains. If it were summer the wind would be rustling the corn. At times a strong gust mimicked the sound of the ocean breaking against the shore.

Again, Nico’s voice was closer than I’d anticipated and this time quieter, softer. “I don’t know if you. . . Eleven years is a long time.”

I glanced over my shoulder, startled by his gentle tone. Inexplicably, I couldn’t quite draw a full breath so I whispered, “I know that.”

“I miss him too.”

“I know you do.” I nodded.

“Elizabeth. . .” In my peripheral vision I saw his hands lift; he hesitated then placed them gently on my shoulders and turned me to face him. “Do you—?”

“I’m not in love with him anymore, okay?” I clenched my teeth. “I’m not. I was just a kid—we were kids.”

What I didn’t say was that whether or not I was still in love with Garrett was completely irrelevant. I wasn’t capable of loving anyone—nor did I want to. That part of me was forever broken because I would never take the risk again. Loving was a kamikaze mission that only ended in misery.

His handsome mouth lifted, a rueful tilt that ended with his lips, and he pinned me with a searching gaze. “What’s with the boy-toy bands?”