That mixture of confusion, guilt, pity—I don’t know what—at the way I seem to make him come and go stirs in my chest and all I can do is stare straight ahead through the windshield.
“I found out tonight I had another brother,” I say quietly. I don’t know why it comes tumbling out, but it does and it feels okay. It feels right.
“What happened?” Bus Boy asks, no lightness in his voice.
“He died,” I say. “Almost six years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. He touches my shoulder, and through my layers of clothing, I feel a surge of warmth in my arm. From an imaginary boy.
I don’t say anything for minutes, my mind spinning, spinning, coming to its inevitable conclusion.
I’m not imagining him.
A burst of cold air comes into the car, and when I face the boy, he has a cigarette in his mouth, a lighter in his hand, and the window rolled down.
“What?” he asks, his eyes wide.
“That’s disgusting,” I say slowly. As I continue to speak, my voice gradually rises. “If you’re going to smoke, get the hell out of my car.”
I’m angry, yes, but it’s not just because he’s smoking. It’s not just because of what seeing him has put me through. It’s the way I can feel my life shattering, a tightly confined case of glass dismantling all around me, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Who do I trust? What do I do next?
To my surprise, he pushes open the door of the car and climbs out.
I watch him start to walk off, cigarette in hand, and I wonder where exactly he’s planning to go.
If a tree falls in the forest and there’s no one there…
He knows that when he leaves my sight, he’ll be gone again. And maybe I’ve annoyed him enough that it doesn’t even scare him at the moment.
But then it hits me that if he goes, and of his own will for once, I might not be able to find him again. Whatever mind-conjuring voodoo I did to get him here might have just been luck, and I still have too many questions to let him be gone forever.
“Hey!”
I start after him, but he’s walking quickly and making a point of ignoring me.
“Hey, come back!”
“Why?” he yells over his shoulder, not stopping.
“I think I know who you are,” I yell back. I see him freeze, his back to me. And then he turns around and looks at me.
We are both holding our breath. Even from this far away, I can tell.
“Who am I?” he asks. A challenge.
I don’t yell it because I am confident. Because I am afraid. Because I feel it in my bones.
Don’t forget about me,he said before.
“A Memory,” I whisper.
BEFORE
Early August
Our first-ever date is at Schiavoni’s. Since we already havesomethings established—the kissing, the fact that this is actually a date, the location—I’m excited and not nervous about tonight. Selecting an outfit is terrible and nearly worthy of an emergency phone call to Katy, but then I remember that Zach has seen me with a face full ofketchupand this is still happening, so I pick out a navy blue dress with a halter top and sailor-like stripes at the bottom and top. I pair it with my favorite cork wedge sandals and keep my hair down.
Zach picks me up at six, and he’s wearing an oxford shirt, brown tailored pants, and sneakers. His hair is slicked back and looks almost unrecognizable, except for a tiny portion at the front that rebels and sticks up just a little bit.
