He stills once more, and I exhaleslowly.
Pulling back the edge of the blackout curtain reveals the soft colors of the early-morning sun peeking over the hills and trees along thehorizon.
I make a lap of the room I haven’t visited inmonths.
Tyler’s schoolbooks and bag sit on the desk my dad and Haley got when he moved in. His guitar rests against the wall by the door. He got it secondhand from my dad’s label, played it until his fingersbled.
A pile of street clothes is neatly folded on the dresser. Faded T-shirts, black and gray. A Henley. Two pair ofjeans.
The same day my dad’s agent sent him a car for his final album hitting platinum, I got Tyler a Ramones T-shirt for hisbirthday.
He wore that shirt until the hemfrayed.
I miss those days. We didn’t care about anything but having fun and being alive. Every second we spent together—messing around with music on my dad’s tour-bus-turned-studio, or questing to find the best cheese fries in Philly, or doing impressions behind the soundboard—felt like we were taking control of our lives. Making newmemories.
Tyler didn’t value our friendship. He traded it for popularity atOakwood.
I’d figured the pain would fade over time, but seeing him every day—even for a moment in the hallways or before or after school—means the ache in my gut never quite goesaway.
He saved your ass lastnight.
He saved my ass because if something had happened, my dad might’ve thought he was involved in the party and come down on him. It’s the onlyexplanation.
The boy I knew, the one I laughed with and dreamed about, is longgone.
I tug on the door of the pool house and step outside in my bare feet. The speakers have long since gone silent, and there’s no breeze, but I can still smell him as if he’s followedme.
I clean up the patio, collecting bottles and cans before putting the bags behind the poolhouse.
When the cleanup is done, I sneak upstairs to myroom.
I don’t bother hitting the lights. The ominous, lumpy shapes are my king-sized bed, my dresser and desk, and the comfy armchair by the window I use to read and do homework. The dark spots along the wall across from my bed are music boxes, lined up on the shelf likeguardians.
On impulse, I stop by the last one and lift thetop.
“It’s a Small World” streams out until I shut the lidagain.
It’s the same song every time, the same arrangement, played by gears instead of humans. The little dancing dog in a tutu has always been the bestpart.
I’ll figure out how to keep my part in the musical and keep Carly and her damned minions at bay without Kellan’s help. Withoutanyone’s.
In my ensuite, I reach for a washcloth, but the reflection of the girl in the mirror makes mefreeze.
Not because she’s hungover orlonely.
Because she’s wearing a frayed Ramones T-shirt.
* * *
Sunday morning,I shower off the booze and party, dress in jean shorts and a tank top, and fluff out my damphair.
There’s a text from Pen with a picture of the villa they’ve rented, asking how the partywas.
I enter and delete a few texts, settling on:No one died. I don’t think Carly and I are destined to be best friends. Go drink morewine.
Tyler’s T-shirt sits on top of my laundry hamper. I toss the T-shirt and some other clothes into the laundry, then grabThe Great Gatsbyfor English class and pad down the hall. The sound of a guitar pulls me toward thekitchen.
I pause to listen, my eyes closing as I lean a shoulder against thewall.