“I know what I heard was real,” she said. “It has to be. Because if it’s not, then I’m a liar. And I’mnota liar. I’m not a bad person.”
“Of course you’re not. I never said you were.”
“In your version of the story I am,” she said. “According to you, I told everyone a lie about Sarah.”
“Technically, you did,” I said. “I know you didn’t mean to, but, Ashley, I was with her. I was the one holding her hand when she died. It didn’t happen. Not the way you remember. I’m sorry.”
I’d never wanted her to feel guilty, even though I did. It had been a mistake. A big one, yes, but a mistake made by a traumatized seventeen-year-old girl. “I should’ve talked to you as soon as I read your letter. I’m sorry. Let’s just … let’s talk about this. I—”
But she turned her chair and moved back toward the curb without a good-bye. Or even, as maybe would have been more appropriate, a “go to hell.”
I let her go without calling after her. I knew it wouldn’t have done any good. But I stood there, in the same spot, until long after I saw her van leave the parking lot.
By the time I was able to move again, I really wasn’t in the mood to shop for a dress. I only tried on a couple and took the first one that fit, barely even taking note of what it looked like. I ended up waiting for Miles at the pizza place a good while before we were supposed to meet, and when he showed up, having stopped by the bookstore after getting his tux fitted, he was disappointed to find that I hadn’t followed through with our plans to wear the brightest colors we could find.
“It’s black,” he said, peeking into my bag. “Your dress.”
“Oh … yeah. Sorry. I forgot.”
“It’s cool,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll look great.”
“What color tie or vest or whatever did you get?”
The right corner of his mouth quirked upward. “It’ll be a surprise,” he said. After a second, though, his half smile faded away. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I chewed my bottom lip. “I’m fine.”
He just tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at me. He wasn’t buying it. I don’t think I’d expected him to.
“It’s just …” I dipped a breadstick into the small container of marinara sauce we were sharing. I’d ordered us food while I was waiting for him to get to the pizza place. “I ran into Ashley. In the parking lot.”
“Oh.”
I didn’t have to say anything else. He knew exactly what seeing her would have meant. And based on my demeanor in that moment, he could probably have guessed how the conversation had gone. I appreciated that he didn’t push for details. Instead, he just gave me some cash for his half of the dinner bill and offered to carry the bag with my prom dress out to the truck for me.
We drove back to Virgil County in silence, but at some point along the way, his hand had moved to cover mine as it rested on the stick shift. And I didn’t pull away.
Aiden Stroud was eighteen, captain of the football team, senior class president, a shoo-in for prom king, and a friend of the boy who killed him.
No one likes to talk about that last bit. It muddies the waters, makes people uncomfortable. How could the good boy, the victim we insist on raising to a pedestal of perfection, have been friends with the troubled young man who killed nine people? I don’t have the answer to that, but by all accounts, they’d been friends since preschool. Maybe not inseparable, the way Sarah and I were, but close enough that, if you dig back far enough into the archives of social media, you find photos from a party a few months before, where Aiden, dressed in a football jersey, has his arm slung around the shoulders of his eventual killer.
I’ve seen that photo dozens of times during my internet spirals. I’ve stared at it for hours, wondering what happened. Had something changed, had they fought? Had he even known Aiden would be in that classroom? According to Denny, Aiden had only come in the room at the end of class to bring Brenna a book she’d left in his locker. He wasn’t supposed to be there.
I have to stop myself from wondering, because it never gets me anywhere.
But this isn’t about him. Or, it’s not supposed to be. It’s about Aiden. But I don’t think it’s possible to really talk about who Aiden was, outside of his bland, generic obituary in the local paper, without mentioning that connection.
I knew Aiden the way everyone did. As one of the most popular, outgoing guys in school. To me, he was mostly just Brenna DuVal’s jock boyfriend. But he was in Ashley’s grade, so I wanted her perspective. Obviously things are complicated between us, so I had Miles text her and ask about him.
MILES:You knew Aiden, right?
ASHLEY:Aiden Stroud? Yeah. Of course. Why?
MILES:Lee’s thing.
ASHLEY:Oh.
MILES:So anything you wanna say about him?
