His body is so big and hard against mine—he has always seemed so big and strong to me—it seems impossible to think of young Dash being manipulated like that. God, he said he wanted to die that year.
I rub my tear-streaked face against his back and wish I could have held him like this then. And then I remember—I did. I held him while he slept that one night on the roof. The night he told me he didn’t deserve to be happy, and I argued that he did.
I cry against his back, because I can’t believe this awful thing is woven into our love story. I would do anything to erase it, write it out like we might do in one of our films. But that’s not how life is.
I can’t write my mother back into this world, or rearrange the timeline so my dad meets Harlow sooner. I can’t skip back a few scenes so Dash knows that Lex is having trouble. I can want these things all day, and they won’t happen. My will won’t execute itself and create magic. I would know. I’ve tried before.
“If I could,” I whisper quietly, “I would have had you come back the next day and tell me this whole story. That’s what I would want.” I feel Dash’s breaths stall, and I squeeze him more tightly. “But you couldn’t. Sometimes we don’t get a choice. The right thing doesn’t happen. People die when they should still be alive, for no good reason. I know—” my voice cracks— “that this shit does not make sense. It doesn’t to me either. But it’s true, what we were saying earlier. We have to take it all. You can’t just cut the part where all that shit happened with Manda. You can’t make it disappear, and I can’t either. You have lived with that for years, Dash—and I can, too. Yes, it fucking sucks. But I can live with it. And, you know, you were a victim. You were innocent.”
I feel him shake his head and answer, “Yes—you were. I bet Lexie said the same thing, didn’t she?”
He takes a big long breath, then lets it out.
“Of course she did,” I say.
“She called her Rapey McManda.” I can hear the smile in his voice, and it makes me feel relieved.
“Of course she did.”
“Of course she did.”
As it happens, Lexie’s funeral isn’t until Saturday, and with our many deadlines, Dash and I can’t miss that much work. We drive back home the next morning and spend the week mostly just working. Dash is slammed with one issue after another: tech problems, artist problems, focus group problems. It’s so good for him, I’m almost thankful.
He doesn’t mention Manda again—or Amanda, as apparently she was with him—and I can’t say I’m sad about that. The one thing he does say is that Lex “hauled his ass to a shrink” last year, so at least I know he’s done a little talking about it.
I make work for myself so I can be at the office with him after hours. Not because I think he’s oh so fragile, but because I want to be near him. I don’t like the idea of him alone with Lex’s death so fresh. While we were driving back to Nashville, he said he could handle things. That he’d be okay. I never knew if he meant Manda or Lex, but really, I’m not sure it matters.
Life is full of shit we didn’t ask for, things we didn’t want and wish we could erase. That doesn’t mean you can. And just because you can’t, that doesn’t mean this world is bad.
Every night when we get back to my place, I help Dash get lost in my body. I act ridiculous and slutty and encourage him to use me just for sex.
“Who’s my whore?” he’ll growl, and I’ll purr: “I am.”
It’s fun, and funny.
“Who’s the little slut next door, with this fine ass?”
“Will you crawl in through my window? Come inside…”
In those moments, I can feel it: that we’re going to be fine.
We drive down to Georgia Friday morning. The Frasiers’ house is packed with all of Dash’s family. We hold hands so people get the drift without a lot of questions. We spend hours with them, talking about Lexie and watching home videos—many of which I’m in—and when night falls, Mr. and Mrs. Frasier have the help pack up the feast, and all the guests leave. Visitation will be midday Saturday, followed by a graveside service.
And that means the night is ours.
I’ve been watching Dash like a hawk, so I know he isn’t sleeping or eating. He didn’t eat more than a few bites of the food at his house today, so around nine, I tell him I need something greasy and we get into his car and drive to Sonic. It’s the greasiest; the worst, really. The one food I can think of guaranteed to push us right into an early grave with Lexie. But…I gambled right. He orders a cheeseburger.
When we get back to his house, I follow him into her room and he just walks around it slowly, blinking at her Sex and the City poster, picking up a Tangled toy she got in a drive through meal when we were in high school. He looks in the mirror over her dresser, the one that’s dotted with stickers from that movie Coraline. I look, too, at bigger Dash, and smaller me, over his shoulder.
He meets my eyes, his mouth twitching. “I think she would have liked this.”
“This view?” I wrap my arms around his neck and Dash kisses me lightly.
“Yeah.”
“I think so too.”
Dash
We end up on the roof, watching our cell phones for the time, so we can see the space station fly over.
Am is eating M&Ms, and I’m drinking grape cola. If I close my eyes and lie down on my back, I can almost tell myself that Lex is right inside, too sleepy or hung over to come out and join the star watch. Instead I have to tell myself that she’s up in the stars.
Am lies down beside me and she holds my hand. I think she can hear my thoughts. “Once when I was little, I told you that my dad had said my mom was in the stars. You told me maybe she was a star. We came out here—I think it was our first time sneaking out here—and you pointed out the brightest star I’d ever seen.”
“It was a planet.” I smile at the memory.
“Well, you told me it was a special star. I bet I was maybe ten?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“I remember arguing in college, like a year or two ago, about that really bright star being a star and not a planet.”
I kiss Ammy’s chin. “I’m sorry.” Still, it’s funny, so I chuckle. “I forget you’re still in college. You’re still just a baby, Am.”
She takes my glasses. “So are you. Without your glasses, you’re helpless as a baby.”
“Why do you like to do that?” I sit up, reaching toward her slightly blurry face.
“Because it’s cute to see you struggle.”
“Sadist,” I tease.
She slips them back on my face. “Better?”
“Better.” I hug her to me, and Am sits in between my legs. I trace the hair over her temple. “I’m sorry that I missed your big eye surgery that summer.”
“Pshh, don’t worry about that.”
“Was it very difficult?”
She shrugs. “It sort of was. It was a new procedure then, I guess it kind of still is. Something they’re doing now in even younger kids who were born really premature like I was. I think it took them about six hours?”
“Damn. Six hours.”
“Six hours for no glasses and near perfect eye sight? Worth it. I can see better than you now, old man.”
I rest my face in that soft spot between her cheek and shoulder. Clouds drift overhead, blocking the stars for a long moment. “I don’t want her to be gone, Amelia. I don’t want to never talk to her again.”
I draw my knees up around her, so I’ve got her locked against me. “Where is she? Amelia, how’d you ever live with a dead mother?”
She laughs, dry. “I wasn’t asked. I didn’t want to. When I fell into your pool, my dad had just showed me the new house. I don’t remember why, but I just ran—into those trees.” She nods out at the grove in front of us, the one that hides her old house from our view. “I didn’t hear him behind me, and I remember thinking that I wished I could fly away with Mommy. Every time I used to hear of ‘heaven’ when I was a little kid, this part of me would t
hink ‘maybe I’ll get run over by a car or get into a wreck like Mom, and then I’ll get to go with her.’ Dad said that was sinful—giving up on life. That we have to keep living since we don’t know why we’re here or what our purpose is. We don’t have enough data to justify escaping.” She smiles, and I know why: that does sound just like her father. “God, he must have been so desperate with this little girl who wanted to die.”
“You wanted to die?”
“I don’t know. Can a little kid want to die?” she says. “I think they maybe sort of can.”
I squeeze her closer. “That’s some sad shit, Am.”
“It is sad.”
“My parents don’t want an autopsy done,” I reveal softly. “Lexie had stuff on her, in her pocket. I think she just had a moment and—I guess it was too much. She’d had a pretty good year otherwise.”
Am and I stay outside talking until sunrise, like another night. It ends the same way, too, with my head in her lap. We stay until the chirping birds are too loud and the sun too bright.
We are the living, but we need to sleep.
I carry her to my bed.
Twenty-Six
Dash
“So what do you think? Feathers out or more inward?”
I flip through a few frames, showing Ammy different versions of our film’s star.
“I like out,” she says, standing behind me. “I think this one—” she points— “makes her look more extroverted and curious. Excited about life.”
“Excited about life it is.” I click the image, and in all the frames we have of Dove, the bird’s feathers transform, perking just a little on her wings, her head and tail.
We’ve only got two weeks left on the film, which means a lot of shit to do. We’re not doing most of the post-production, which is good because I’m in up to my eyeballs capping off the animation and the rendering.
“I still can’t believe how much math there is in this,” Am says. “Geometry. Who knew it would be so useful?”
I snort. “I did?”
“Better you than me.”
Most of Amelia’s writing work is done. Adam, Ashley, and I are here late every night, and on weekends. I stay later than anybody—sometimes until three or four in the morning—and Amelia almost always hangs with me, lately in the guise of being interested in the animation side of things.
“I thought you were interested in the animation side?” I smirk, and she swats my shoulder.
“Did I say animation? Because,” she trails her fingertip down my arm, then moves to my chest. “I thought I said animator.”
She stands between my legs, and I know what she wants. I pull her up onto my lap, then work her hips closer to me, so I can push my dick against her ass.
“I know what I want to animate,” I whisper in her ear.
It’s Sunday evening, so she’s wearing leggings and a longish cotton shirt. I move the shirt aside and reach into her leggings, finding—
“Fuck. No thong…”
She giggles, even as she writhes under my finger. “Just for you.”
I push myself against her ass and rub while my hand works her pussy. I love nothing more than Ammy’s panting little whines which build to moans as I carry her to the cot room, spread her out on one of the cots, and peel her pants down to her knees.
“What if someone comes?” she moans.
“You always say that.”
I taste her and tease her, getting her so ready that her legs, around my neck, start kicking. I could finish her like this, but I want her to come when I do, so I make her wait. I pull her halfway off the cot and flip her over, so she’s leaning over it, her bare ass in the air, her slickness dripping down her thighs, making me want to come before I even get inside.
I wrap an arm around her chest and pull her back against me as I work my way inside. Fuck, she’s tight. She’s always fucking tight, like it’s the first time.
Every time I thrust, she cries out like a porn star. I can feel it building in my lower belly, pleasure tightening my balls. I pump harder and faster, making Ammy jolt and moan.
“Beautiful…” I squeeze her hip. “Who’s my dirty little bird?”
“Me!”
“You like it when I fuck you in the office, don’t you?”
“Yes!”
All too soon, I can’t hold back; I’m coming. I don’t want to pull out when I’m finished. I would stay inside her all night if she’d let me.
She crawls up onto the cot and turns around to face me.
“You’ve got pink cheeks.” I smile as I rub my finger over one of them.
“It’s your fault.” She draws her legs up, folding them chastely. Which makes me chuckle.
I shrug. “Your fault. Leggings. When you’re wearing those things, it’s always your fault.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to be comfortable at work.”
I take her hand and bring it to my mouth, where I kiss it. “You should go home, Am. It’s getting late.”
“I think I’ll stay and read a book while you work.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know, but I want to.”
She slides off the cot and twines her arms around my neck. “Maybe you should come home early.”
“Can’t.”
Her fingertip trails up my cheek and underneath my eye. “You need your beauty sleep, Mr. Animator.”
“Nah.”
But Ammy’s right. We buried Lex two weeks ago. I haven’t gotten decent sleep since before I found out she died. I get an hour or two here and there, but not real sleep.
“Welllll, if you want to talk any time.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “You know where to find me.”
I decide to quit working at ten because I’m tired of keeping Am awake. We go to her place, where I sleep the best, and watch The Martian. Ammy falls asleep against my chest, with one long leg thrown over mine. I shut my eyes and try to do the same—but I can’t.
I’ve never had insomnia before, but it’s weird shit. I’m tired, but I’m not sleepy. I spend a long time moving her off my arm onto her pillow. Then I tuck her in and get a shower. I always have this idea that spending time in the shower, where it’s warm, will make me sleepy, but like usual, it doesn’t.
I dress in my boxer-briefs and a pair of men’s pajama pants that showed up recently at Am’s place. Then I get a glass of water and head out onto her deck. The city’s always noisy, day and night. I like that.
I stand by the rail and watch the cars on their parade down Broadway. I try, as I sometimes do, to tell myself that Lex isn’t in any of them. She’s not at her place in L.A., or on a plane, or in a hotel somewhere interesting, like Iceland. She’s gone. Just gone. She won’t be back. I won’t see her again in this life. Maybe not ever.
The thing is…I don’t believe that. Don’t believe that things end here. I shut my eyes and ask her for some sort of sign. I know it’s cheesy and cliché, but I don’t know…I guess I’m fucking cheesy and cliché.
I keep them closed a long time, long enough that I start swaying. I guess I am tired. When I open them, there is a dove there on the rail. A perfect, plump, smooth-feathered dove, exactly like the one I’m animating. She leans her head back, peering right up at me—and I watch her small eyes blink.
I watch her while she walks around the rail and then eventually flies off. Then I curl myself behind Amelia and I sleep.
Epilogue
Amelia
May 2017
“Oh my goodness, what a precious wittle princie!”
I touch Prince Ollie’s tiny forehead and then beam at Lucy, my best friend and his beautiful mother.
“Maybe I’m biased, but I have never seen a cuter baby ever. Look at all this hair.” I run my fingertips lightly over baby Ollie’s wavy, dark brown hair, and he rewards me with a quick show of his dimple.
“Was that gas? It wasn’t, right? He was totally smiling at me.”
“I’m afraid it might have been gas.” Lucy laughs. “He’s s
till too young to really smile. Just five and a half weeks.”
“Tell her, Ollie. Mama’s wrong,” I coo.
“What is she wrong about?” Lucy’s fiancé steps out of my dorm room’s en suite bathroom, and I rush to hide my minor double-take. It’s possible I used to stalk him on Instagram—way before I had my own honey.
“That Oliver was smiling at me.”
“Oh, he most definitely was.” Liam winks. “He likes a woman in a cap and gown.”
I straighten my graduation cap and smile back down at Ollie. “I’m so glad you guys are here. Happy to meet you, baby Ollie. Even happier to be finished with school,” I tell Lucy.
I got a job offer from Imagine shortly after I returned to school last August. The film Dash and I worked on, now called Dove’s Journey, was the one chosen for expansion into a full-length feature film.
The studio started working on it in January, with Dash in the lead animator spot for the first time in his career. We weren’t seeing much of each other, but in early February, Sara Blaise—whose husband is indeed a friend of Mr. and Mrs. Frasier—decided I deserved to work on the film, too, so Imagine worked out a deal with UGA for me to be in Nashville Thursday through Sunday every week. The studio sends a private plane for me, and sometimes Dash is in it waiting for me. It’s the craziest.
He’s still got his house in Burbank, but for now, he’s working solely out of Nashville.
The past few months have been good to us both. Getting the lead animator job was what Dash needed to get back in sync. I think it helped him feel less sad when I came back to school. The whole fall, we saw each other weekends only; Dash would sometimes have to fly from Burbank on a Friday and fly home late Sunday night. Sometimes we’d rent a hotel for the weekend. Other times, he’d stay here in my room at the sorority house. It’s not really in line with the rules, but since I’m an officer, we bent them.
During breaks, I’d go to him. We spent Christmas with his family in Grenoble, in the French Alps. While we were there, his mom told me over a bottle of wine that she and his dad were separated when Lex died—but now they’re back together. They seem peaceful, if still not quite what you’d call “happy.”