Page 12 of Find My Way Down to You

On my left, the door of a gelato shop swings open. A boy emerges. He’s backlit by the shop’s amber light. For a second, I think it’s London. Tall and wiry.

But when the boy steps onto the sidewalk, streetlamps illuminating him, I realize it’s not London. This boy is dressed in all black, head to toe, instead of in a navy hoodie with loose board shorts and slides with socks. His tar-black hair falls gracelessly over his brow instead of in beachy waves swept off his face. He’s pasty white, unlike London, whose skin always drank in the sun.

It’s not him. Itneverwill be again.

I was just imagining it. Just like everyone thinks I imagined Cary in the alley. How could he have gotten there that fast? And what was he doing? Did he try to help Hal or just watch him die?

“You okay, man?”

I flinch at the not-London boy’s question.

“Y-yeah,” I stammer. “I’m good.”

His plain brown eyes roam over me. “Do I know you?” He looks a year or two older than me. Did he go to my high school? Does he know what happened?

“No,” I whisper.

Before he can say anything else, I jog away.

On the bus, I pop in my earbuds. My head leans against the cool window as my phone loads up Netflix. I do my best to lose myself in a paranormal comedy series.

Did my grief make me see Cary in the alley, the same way I see London everywhere too?

“Fuck,” I mutter.

An elderly woman in front of me jerks around to squint, annoyed.

I half apologize with a thin smile.

Max and I share a third-floor apartment. It used to be her sister Vivienne’s. Since most of its students are local, SB State doesn’t have any on-campus living restrictions for freshmen. Max’s parents had no issues with her moving into the two-bedroom that’s not far from campus. I can’t say the same for mine.

High school wasn’t the only echo chamber I was desperate to escape after graduation. It was my house too.

Memories were embedded into the rooms and halls. A tomb of moments spent with London that ate at me daily.

But I couldn’t tell my parents that. They were fine.

They didn’t remember the lemon-bright mug in our cupboard London used to slurp coffee from. That the designer sunglasses on the living room bookcase were his. Or his favorite hoodie still hanging in my closet. His lip balm on my bathroom sink. The subtle scent of honey and chocolate that lingers in my room.

They didn’t sleep in the bed where we kissed and talked and planned.

Their world was changed but continued to spin. Mine was shattered, broken pieces cutting into me every day.

The minute Max asked me to move in with her, I collected what I needed. Left the rest in a house that didn’t quite feel like mine anymore.

Inside our apartment, I reheat the leftover pizza. Diana’s nowhere in sight. Still, I leave an open tin of wet cat food for her.

When I walk into my bedroom, I leave the lights off. A secondhand mattress sits on the floor. No frame or headboard. I found it online. Max complained endlessly while helping me carry it up three flights of stairs.

Silvery beams pour through my half-cracked blinds. The walls are bare. No Polaroids of trips to the beach. No notebooks filled with my lyrics, mostly about him, cover the floor. No extra pair of sandals next to my sneakers. The room smells more of dust and emptiness than anything else.

There’s not a single trace of August from Before.

I’m halfway through my second slice of pizza when a familiar head nudges my door open. Diana slinks inside. In the slices of moonlight, her black fur shimmers. She’s an American shorthair, a rescue. Max decided we needed her a week after moving in.

Under Diana’s big, expressive gold eyes is a patch of white fur. It’s shaped like a crescent moon tipped on its back.

We have to name her Diana, Max demanded that first day.