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And then when I found out she was popular, not an outcast, and a cardboard cut-out, not at all original, I became angry. She led me to believe those things, and my muse was a lie.
Until yesterday in the parking lot when I bit and she bit back.
That’s my Ryen.
And I want to see more.
I take out my keys and glance around me, checking the windows of the main house. I didn’t see my dad’s car in the driveway, but it could be in the garage, too. Since he deals in antiques and art, owning a few shops along the coast, his schedule is flexible. He can be gone all day or home at any time.
I unlock the guest house door and step inside, closing it behind me. It’s not even noon, so it’s still light out, but I blacked out most of the windows when I moved in here after Annie’s death. I take out my small flashlight and switch it on. I don’t want to turn on the big light in case my dad sees.
Most of my clothes and belongings are still here, and since Dane wants to grill me every time I mooch off his washer and dryer, I decided to come back here and pick up some more stuff to avoid his third degree this time.
I left school after the scarf thing with Ryen, leaving my truck in the parking lot and taking the ferry to Thunder Bay. I didn’t want my dad or anyone else we know to spot my car.
He doesn’t know where I am, and I’d like to keep it that way. It isn’t like he’s called, either.
Digging a duffel bag out of the closet, I empty drawers and stuff the clothes in the bag, bringing a folded T-shirt to my nose. The scent brings needles to my throat.
Annie’s fabric softener. She was good about doing the laundry, since my dad was busy and I always did it wrong. I complained about the flowery scents she used for my clothes, but now I close my eyes, feeling only home. I made sure to keep using it after she was gone. Nothing would change. We would never change anything she did.
Annie. I blink, feeling my eyes water. I finish gathering the clothes I need and pack an extra pair of shoes as well as the pictures of Annie and me that I have taped to the wall above my desk.
I pass by my guitar, resting on the stand, and a pile of our band’s posters that never got used. Three months ago I had three things I loved. My music, my sister, and…
Everything empties from my lungs, and I turn away from the guitar, unable to look at the fucking thing. It doesn’t matter what I had. Annie’s gone now. My words are gone, and Ryen’s… I don’t know what she is.
And that’s when it occurs to me. I got a letter from her last week. She’s probably sent me another one by now, since she writes like I breathe air. Not that I ever minded, though. They were the best things to come home to.
I leave the guest house, carrying the duffel bag and locking up behind me. I notice that everything seems darker, and I look up and see thunder clouds hovering low. Shit. Did I leave the windows down in my truck? I better get back to school. Falcon’s Well might not get hit with the rain, but it’s possible.
I hurry to the back door of the main house and unlock it, dashing inside. The kitchen is dark, so my dad must be out. Heading over to the counter, I find the pile of mail, all of it mine, and immediately scan for a smoky black envelope with a skull seal.
But I don’t find one. There’s nothing there but college brochures and credit card applications. Has she stopped writing me then?
Relax, dude. You came home last week and checked, and there was a letter there. It’s only been six days.
But I’m curious to see if she writes about Masen. What will she say about him?
Ryen rarely ever mentions another guy in her letters. After the one she told me about when she was sixteen—the one she lowered her standards for—she seems to have kept guys at a distance. In fact, it’s almost like she’s lost interest, because she told me that foreplay is overrated in a letter once.
I told her I might consider that a challenge. After all, seven years of writing letters is epic foreplay, and she’s addicted.
Six days. My last letter from her was six days ago. Her last letter from me was over three months ago. I made her promise never to stop writing me, and she never has. She remains constant, even despite the lack of faith she must have by now that I’ll ever write her again.
My shoulders slump a little, thinking about how she’s always been there for me. Her bullshit pisses me off, but to Misha, she’s been a friend. And a very good one.
Annie would be disappointed in me if I treated badly the only person left who loved everything about me.
Goddammit. Fuck.
I let out a hard sigh and walk into the hallway, rounding the bannister and jogging up the stairs. Approaching my sister’s room, I slowly twist the door k
nob and enter, her smell and the remnants of her carpet freshener suddenly wafting over me.
My heart aches, seeing everything the way she left it. Tidy and ready for her to come home from her jog that night. A bed she would never sleep in again, make-up she would never touch again, assignments that lay unfinished on her desk…
An ache lodges in my throat, and I feel like I want to scream. Annie, what were you thinking? But then I’m angry with myself, too. And my dad. How did we not see it? Why didn’t we take care of her better?
