Page 7

“Wait . . . you’re going where?” Damian’s voice roars down the line, and I pull the phone away from my ear. All things considered, he’s taking the news about as well as expected.

Swallowing a groan, I shove my old Pooh Bear to the side and fall into a stack of pillows. “Cleveland, for starters.”

He snorts. “Why the hell would you go to the Mistake on the Lake on purpose?”

Ignoring his tired joke, I switch the call to speaker and gaze down at the old photo of him grinning up at me from the phone display. His olive complexion is even darker in person, especially now that it’s warm enough to be outside all day. I reach for the discarded bear and hug it to my chest. “I’m going with Jeanie and my grandma to spread my mom’s ashes. It’s a long story.”

“Oh. Right.” He clears the attitude from his throat and lowers his voice. “How long will you be gone?”

“Not sure yet.” I pick at a loose thread on Pooh’s butt. Mom probably sewed the same seam over a hundred times since I was a toddler. “A week . . . maybe longer?”

“For Chrissakes, Zoey! You’re supposed to be registering for classes and coming to look at apartments with me this weekend.” And just like that, the attitude’s back.

“I didn’t plan this, you know?” Everything—Mom’s death, Grandma’s bombshell, the road trip—weighs down on me until I damn near boil over like a pot of potatoes.

Damian lets out a defeated sigh. “I’m sorry about your mom, Zo. I, uh, would’ve been at the funeral but . . . you know I’m not good with emotional shit.”

“Yeah, I know.”

His aversion to “emotional shit” is one of the many reasons for rethinking my decision to join him at Penn State. The plan was always to go to college together. I enrolled—went to orientation and everything—but then right after graduation, Mom took a turn for the worse, and I couldn’t leave. Now that she’s gone, I’m not sure I want the same things I did two years ago.

My eyes and nose prickle as I fight back tears.

“Don’t cry, baby,” he pleads.

“I’m not a baby . . . and I’m not crying!” My voice cracks, taking a bite out of my anger.

Damian releases a ragged breath. “Don’t worry about school right now, okay? Do your thing and come back.”

“Thanks,” I say, the word bitter on my tongue.

How dare he act as if I need his permission to spread my mother’s ashes. He doesn’t need to know I hate the idea. Or how many times I tried convincing my sister to spread Mom’s ashes damn near anywhere else. How I’m only going because she gave me no choice.

“Will I see you before you leave?” he asks.

“Maybe.”

Shouldn’t he be more concerned about your emotional state than whether or not he gets laid before you go? The voice in my head sounds a whole lot like Jeanie’s, and I quickly block it out before it says something I can’t ignore.

“I don’t know. I’ll ask Jeanie and call you in the morning.” Or maybe I won’t, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.

“Whatever. Have a nice trip.” Damian hangs up, still fuming over a decision even I don’t understand, and I’m more than over his childish dramatics.

The streetlights outside my window flicker on. One after the other, they come to life, glowing orbs stretching out in both directions as far as the eye can see, like fireflies lining up for dinner. I shove the window sash as high as it goes and climb onto the porch overhang—the secret spot I go when I need to be alone with my thoughts.

With my back to the weathered blue siding, I sit on the scratchy gray shingles and pull my knees to my chest, trying and failing to picture my grandmother—even a much younger version of the woman I know—kissing an actual rock god. I tug a loose thread on my sleep shorts, unraveling the hem halfway around my leg before realizing what I’ve done.

Shit. I break off the string, letting it float through the breeze.

Do ashes float when you spread them?

A tear rolls down my cheek, and I wipe it before it hits my chin. This is not how my life was supposed to go. I should be halfway through college by now. Maybe changing majors because I can’t decide between math and science. Spending spring and summer breaks barhopping at the beach with friends. Making plans for the future. Not burying my mom. Definitely not spreading her ashes in far-off places.

“What the hell were you thinking, Mom?” I close my eyes, and she’s waiting for me behind my lids.

“Promise me, Zoey.” Her reedy voice rings through my memory. “Promise me you’ll spread my ashes in each city he played.”

Her pale, cracked lips barely moved as she whispered—the sound little more than vapor to my ears. Her request made no sense. It didn’t the first time, and it doesn’t now. But her unwavering determination chipped at my defenses . . . wearing me down.