That stops me cold. I don’t think about my dad often, because really he’s not worth thinking about.
But I’ve seen the pictures. Mom doesn’t know it. But back when I was still smoking pot I snuck in her room one time looking for cash. In the back of one of her drawers I found not cash, but a wedding photo album.
Larry Paris was a handsome man when he was young. My parents didn’t have a fancy wedding—after all, they were way too young to be having kids, way too young. My Mom would have graduated high school in 1988, but she had me instead. Dad was a couple years older, and like me, he was a high school dropout. Like his son after him, he was a drunk.
The thing is, in those pictures in the photo album, they were only a year or so older than me and Alex. Only a year or so older, and so obviously in love.
They were in love. Deeply, passionately. And seven years later, he was punching her in the face because she talked back.
I can’t do this. I can’t fucking do this. I turn around, ready to storm back into the hostel, but instead I come face to face with Alex.
My resolve to walk away from her instantly crumbles.
“Alex,” I say.
She looks up at me, concern writ on her face. “What’s wrong, Dylan?”
I take a breath and just stare, struggling for an answer. She grabs my arms and says, “Come sit. Please. We need to talk.”
I follow her. Two benches face each other, too close really, near the front entrance of the hostel. We sit facing each other. I swallow, then light a cigarette, because that’s easier than talking.
Her eyes blink, and she looks — confused, her eyebrows drawn down close. “Dylan, talk to me. What’s wrong?”
I look up at the sky. I don’t know how to answer. Too many words are jumbled in my head. I open my mouth and stop. Then I do it again. Christ.
“Dylan…”
I finally get a word out. “Alex—the thing is… I know we said we were only temporary…”
She suddenly looks deeply apprehensive. I stop talking.
“What is it, Dylan?”
I take a deep drag off my cigarette, then say, “Alex… I don’t know what to do from here. Are we just going to go home and pretend none of this ever happened? Are we going to go back to dating people we don’t even like? Or… do we stay together? I don’t see how that can work!”
She leans closer to me. Her eyes are watering, just a little.
I stand up and pace for a second. “Alex… I don’t know what to do!” I stamp my cigarette out, then turn back toward her and sit down on the bench.
Her question cuts right through my apprehension. “What do you want to do?”
I struggle for an answer. Because what I want to do is kiss her and never ever let go. But I can’t get my words around it. I can’t spit it out. She moves suddenly to the bench I’m on, facing me, and hits me right in the chest with her fists.
“Why can’t you tell me how you feel?” she shouts.
I blurt out my response suddenly. “Because I love you!”
Chapter Eighteen
Because I love you (Alex)
Because I love you!
He really said that. I didn’t mean to hit him, I just got so frustrated, and then he blurted that out. I feel my chin start to quiver uncontrollably, and then tears are running down my face and I hate that I cry so damn much and I say, “I love you too.”
“You do?” he asks, looking shocked.
“Yes, idiot. I love you. I love you.”
Then we’re kissing, and I’m still crying, and we’re kissing more. Our lips come apart for a moment—just long enough for him to say, “Alex, I love you,” and then we’re kissing again, our lips pressed together. One of his hands is at the small of my back, pulling me to him.
I don’t know how long the kiss lasted. I know it was a long, long time. Cars passed by, an eternity passed by. I felt a fat raindrop hit my face, then another. I ignored them, concentrating only on him.
He broke away from me, just by a few centimeters. I say, “You still haven’t answered my question. What do you want to do?”
His voice is ragged when he responds. “I want us to try. I … I know it’s long distance, we live thousands of miles apart. I know we’ve got sort of different plans for after high school, and I know your dad will probably hire secret agents to have me killed, but… I want us to try it. I don’t care if the odds are against us. You’re worth it.”
I nod, feeling tears threatening again. “We’re worth it,” I say.
“It’s not going to be easy,” he says.
“Why should everything be easy?” I reply.
“We’ll stay in touch online. And call each other. And I’ll come visit.”
Then we’re kissing again. It’s an urgent kiss, our bodies pressed against each other in an effort to fill the void we both know is coming. More rain splatters against me, one drop, then another, then another. The wind, already high this afternoon, is picking up even more.
In a haze, we get up and move back into the hostel.
Forgotten ghost (Dylan)
My watch starts to beep its alarm at 5 am. I quickly reach over and silence it.
Alex is asleep. We stayed up talking until 1, then came up here. John wasn’t back—and we both had the feeling he wasn’t coming back—so Alex stayed here with me. We talked more—Alex laying on her back, hands clasped across her stomach. That posture, of course, pushed her breasts against her sweater in a way that made me very intensely aware of her every move. We talked and she laughed and I laughed—and she cried a little. We kissed so much that my lips are chapped. I wanted to do more, but I didn’t push—she’s not ready for that yet.
Asleep, she looks so pure. Her long eyelashes arch gracefully, her lips turned up in the faintest of smiles. About an hour ago she turned over to face me, bringing her knees up in front of her, her hands together almost in an attitude of prayer in front of her face. In a slow rhythm, not unlike the sea a few blocks away, her breath rises and falls.
I’ve been watching her. I couldn’t sleep. I keep telling myself that we’ll make it, that this isn’t it, that when we say goodbye it won’t be the end, it will just be a brief intermission before we’re together again. In my heart, I’m terrified. I don’t even want to take my eyes off of her, not even for a second, because I’m terrified life is going to snatch her right out of my arms. I lay facing her, my left hand on her waist.
I love you.
That’s the words that run through my mind every time I look at her face. I can hear her saying it, over and over again as we kissed.
I love you.
She stirs a little—the alarm disturbed her. She opens her eyes for just a second. I whisper, “You’ve got a little while to sleep.”
She whispers back, “I love you, Dylan.” Her eyes are already closed again, fast asleep.
It seems hardly fair, that I get to have her. After all, who am I? I'm just some guy. Nothing unusual about me except that my dad abused my mom and then she kicked him out, and let's face it, there's nothing special about that.
Alex—she's just about the most beautiful girl I've ever seen in my life. Every time I look at her long silky brown hair, her flawless skin, emerald eyes, I can only think that somehow I got mixed up in someone else's fate. Like I've inherited the life of someone who I'm not—someone strong, a hero, a knight who would someday swoop in to protect her.
I'm not those things, but I'll do my best to live up to them. I'll do my best to deserve her.
It's 5:30 now, and her breath is slow and deep. I can just barely make out her eyes moving under the eyelids. She's dreaming.
I try to picture what her dreams must be like. I wonder if I'm in them? She stays that way for what feels like a long time. Her body jerks a couple of times, just a tiny bit, as if she’s startled. But then she subsides, her breath shortening, and her eyes open slightly.
For a few seconds I'm caught up in the wonder of her eyes. Then I say, “Good morning, beauti
ful.”
She smiles. “I dreamt about you.”
“How did you sleep?” I ask.
“I’ve never slept better.” She looks shy as says the words.
“I love you,” I say.
“I thought you were never going to say it.” She sits up just a little, resting on her elbows. “It’s getting lighter. Is it time?”
“It's getting close. A little after 5:30.”
“I need to go pack my bags,” she says.
I’m irrationally unhappy that she has to go, even if it's just for a few minutes. I don't want to let her out of my sight.
She leans close to me, and whispers, “I want you to know, this was the best night of my life, Dylan.”
“Mine too.” With that, she slips out of the room.
Twenty minutes later we meet in the dining hall downstairs. Everyone is quiet, all too aware that this is the last meal we will share as a group. That this is the last morning we’ll spend together. Across the table from me, Elle leans against John, her face streaked with tears.
I study them for a second. John looks as sober as I've ever seen him. He eats with his left hand, keeping his right hand wrapped around her waist. My heart is heavy. It's hard for me to imagine what it’s going to be like going home. I have friends back in Atlanta, people I care about, but they seem so distant in the last weeks. I've never had anyone like Alex.
After breakfast, we gather our bags and move to the bus out front, like prisoners shambling to their execution. For the last time we load our bags on the bus, get on board, and find our seats. As she often does, Alex leans on me and closes her eyes.
It's not raining outside anymore, but it feels like it could start again any minute. The wind whips up the street, shaking trees and branches, and blowing a plastic bag end over end down the street, like a forgotten ghost.
Alex snuggles closer, and I wrap my arms around her.
It's her (Alex)
I slept most of the flight to New York.
We barely slept at all last night, and to be honest, I think it was easier that way. During the bus ride to Ben-Gurion airport outside Tel Aviv, I could feel my heart breaking. And so, most of the flight, the armrest between our seats was lifted, and I slept leaning on Dylan's lap. I don't think he slept at all. Because every time I woke up, he was sitting there looking at me, an expression of love in his eyes.
Our flight had a layover in London. It was two hours. Not enough time to explore or do anything. Dylan and I, with Elle and John, sat around a table having a cup of coffee and playing cards. No one really wanted to talk, because we were all feeling the same way, but didn't want to acknowledge it.
Then we got back on the plane, and here we are. When the plane touches the ground with a bounce and slight screech of tires, the passengers erupt in applause. I’ve heard it before—it’s surprisingly common when an international flight touches down in the United States. I have an ache in my chest, and my stomach turns. I lean against Dylan. The plane is taxiing to the gate. We’re back in the United States.
“What time is your flight to Atlanta?”
“In an hour. What about you? When do you have to be at your sister’s?”
“She's expecting me soon. I'm going to call and tell her I'm not coming until after your flight leaves. "
The thought of his flight leaving makes my stomach turn. The engines on the plane begin to wind down, and I hear a thump as the moving walkway connects to the plane.
We are in the back of the plane, so it's going to be a little while. I stay close to Dylan. Ellie comes back to our seats, and asks, “How long are you going to stay in New York, Alex?”
“Just three days. I'll be staying at my sister’s apartment near Columbia.”
Ellie says, “I’ll call you. Let's have lunch before you go?”
We follow the line of passengers off the plane. Most of our connecting flights are leaving out of the same area of the airport, except for the group from Milwaukee. They are going to have to run, in order to make their flight on time. Dylan won’t have long either—it takes us nearly twenty minutes to get off the plane.
Megan throws her arms around me, crying, tears pouring down her face.
“I’ll miss you,” she says.
“I’ll miss you too,” I croak, my voice breaking up.
Megan hugs Dylan and John and Ellie as the chaperone for Milwaukee calls, “Come on, we're going to be late!”
And then they are gone. Megan, the last of the group, runs as fast as she can down the corridor.
“I’m going to call my sister,” I say. I take out my phone and switch it on. It takes a minute to start. then it pops up an alert. Two new voicemails.
One of the calls is from Carrie. I don't recognize the other phone number, from the 404 area code. I don't know where that is. I start to press the button to listen to the message but my phone starts ringing.
It's from the same 404 area code number. I answer.
"Hello? "
“Hello… I’m trying to reach Alex Thompson, " The voice is female, young, and has a southern accent considerably thicker than Dylan’s.
“This is she,” I reply.
“My name is Rachel. I was told that you’re with Dylan, and that he is looking for me.”
I gasp. It’s her! “He's right here,” I say, my voice shaking a little. I lower my hand with the phone, and I say to Dylan, “This call is for you.”
His eyebrows draw together in a quizzical expression. But he takes the phone, puts it to his ear, and says, "this is Dylan.”
He listens for one second, then staggers, eyes suddenly shining with tears.
I Promise (Dylan)
When I hear the words, “Dylan, this is Spot,” I feel as if someone punched me in the gut. A rush of emotions floods through me. Confusion, love, and incredible relief. I sink into one of the plastic chairs bolted into the floor, my eyes on Alex in wonder as I reply.
“Spot? It’s really you?”
“I don't actually go by that anymore,” she says. “That was part of the different life.”
“Rachel, then? That's what Alex’s sister said your name is.”
“That's right,” she says. “Rachel.”
“Scott—told me that you were dead.”
“I’m not surprised he thought so. I did my best to leave all of that behind.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing all that special. I got arrested. When I got out, I went to my parents. I didn't know where else to go, and Dylan… I was afraid to be out on the streets again, and I didn’t know where you were.”
I asked her, “What did they say? Are they still treating you wrong? You can come stay—“
“Dylan, it’s okay. It really is.”
Relief. I ask, “What did they say?”
She sniffs, loudly. “Dad … when he saw me … he fell on his knees. And he begged me to forgive him.”
Oh my God. “Sp—Rachel, I’m so happy. I’m so happy. I thought you were dead.”
“No. I’m back home now. I… I’d like to see you when you get home, if that’s okay. But only if you’re not doing that stuff anymore… I quit getting high.”
“Me too.”
We exchange phone numbers, and I promise to call her, and we hang up. I find myself rubbing my eye with the palm of my hand. Alex touches me on the shoulder. “Your friend is alive,” she says. Her smile is amazing.
I force back the watering in my eyes. “Thank you, Alex. Thank you.” I can’t say how much it means. That on some level I blamed myself for her not getting help, not finding her way home. I blamed myself for not going back that first day after I moved home, so I could help her too.
She puts her hands on both sides of my face and says, “You know I’d do anything for you.”
I meet her eyes. “And I would for you.”
She swallows and whispers, “I don’t want to say goodbye.”
I close my eyes for a second to force back the emotion spilling over. “I don’t
either. I don’t ever want to say goodbye to you.”
I hear the call over the loudspeakers. “Flight 704 to Atlanta, boarding at gate B39.”
“That’s your flight,” she croaks out, her voice cracking. Tears pour down her face as she says the words. Jesus Christ.
“I can skip it,” I say. “I don’t have anything to do in Atlanta anyway.”
She snorts, but doesn’t stop crying. “Except graduate high school?”
“Yeah,” I say. “There’s that.”
We lean together, foreheads touching, tears mingling. “This isn’t it,” I say. “Not by a long shot. I don’t know whether it’s next month or next year or … or what… but we will be together.”
“Promise me,” she says.
Boarding rows 29 to 40, Flight 704 to Atlanta. Please have your tickets out and ready. The words punch into me, far weightier than they have any right to be.
“I promise,” I say. “I promise I’m your forever. I promise I’ll come find you wherever you are. I promise.”
“Please don’t forget me,” she whispers.
“I could never forget you.”
We kiss, eyes closed, the whole world blocked out. I’ve never felt so—so torn, my heart lacerated. Every bit of my being is with her and I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go.
“Dylan, it’s time to board the plane.” I hear Mrs. Simpson’s voice from a great distance.
Last call, Flight 704 to Atlanta, boarding now.
“Go!” Alex urges. “Go.”
We break away from each other and I look deep in her eyes, trying to see, will she remember? Will she stay strong? Will I? I’ve got so many doubts and fears, so many questions. I look up to the gate. Mrs. Simpson is there now, waving urgently for me to come. A flight attendant is walking in my direction.