Content Warnings: grief, drinking, implied intercourse
I open the drawer where I have stashed the note. I am unsure whether to call, but I just don't know when else I will take this opportunity again. The note reads, "Had to go. When you want to pay me back, just call." I turn over the worn paper in my hands and sit on my bed. I look up to the ceiling, unsure if the sign I need will be there.
The slip of paper falls from my hands onto the floor, and the message lands face up. The sign I needed now lies at my feet, and I anxiously pick it back up and dig my phone from my back pocket. I want so badly for her to answer this time, so that I can know that it wasn't just one drunk night. That maybe this feeling I've been holding onto, one that was reignited by her presence last weekend, is one more sign guiding me to where I need to be. I type the number into my phone and lean back as the dial tone sounds.
The dial tone sounds. Once... Twice... Thrice... Click. I stare down at my phone in confusion and disappointment. I walk back to my kitchen counter and find the slip of paper she left on the bed we shared: "Had to go. When you want to pay me back, just call." Her phone number is below. I check the number against the one I dialed in, but am puzzled when I confirm it is the same.
I take a deep breath and dial the number again. "Maybe she hung up because she doesn't have my number saved", I reason. I begin to pace my kitchen as the dial tone sounds once more. This time it sounds for longer and the click never comes... I am met with her voicemail. I don't know what else I can do, so I leave her a message, "Hey, it's Allen, when you get this, call me back, I just want to repay you. Bye!"
She could be busy with work or something... It is Monday... I look at the clock; it is 6:15pm. I don't know why, but a chill runs down my spine. Something feels off, but I don't know what. I want to dial her one more time, but instead I grab the paper. When she has time, she will see the message and call back; I just need to be patient. I put the paper in my nightstand and double-check to make sure my notification noises are high enough that I will hear if she calls back tonight.
The dial tone ends, and I hear a timid voice, "Who's this?" It's unfamiliar, and I sit up. I look at the caller ID, but it is still Sarah's.
"Hi, this is Allen. I was calling Sarah. Do I have the wrong number?" I barely get the words out before the lady is crying. She sounds older, and her sobs hurt me. "Hello? Ma'am? What's wrong?"
She can barely get her words out. I hear Sarah's name murmured in between the cries, and I can hear the phone being taken by someone else, but the question is out of my mouth: "What happened to Sarah?"
"Who are you? How do-did you know her?" The new voice is gruff, but it softens on the second question. I don't like the correction he just made, and it tells me nothing.
I sigh, repressing the anxious feeling, "I'm a friend of hers; we were supposed to grab a drink together." Friend hardly feels like the word to use here, but I don't know what else to call myself. I am hardly her partner or lover, barely a one-night stand; we were so drunk.
"I see..." The voice seems to contemplate very deliberately, and then the cries of the woman become more distant. He speaks the next words in a whisper. "Sarah's no longer with us, lad."
My heart stops, I try to think of a number of things this could mean, and apply any other significance than the words he utters next, "She's dead."
I fall back on my bed, the wind knocked out of me as I take in the news. No... This has to be some kind of prank or joke. It's not a funny one. But the longer the silence stretches out over the phone, the harder it is to break the painful grip the words have on my chest. I want to ask what happened, but I’m not sure I even have the right to know. I swallow, knowing the next question is just as bad, but I need to know.
"When, sir, did it happen?" My voice is shaking, and I put the phone on speaker, too weak to continue to hold it due to the weight of his next answer.
"The police found her body Monday night," tears run down my face uncontrollably, "The neighbors heard screaming and banging coming from her apartment at around 6pm. At some point, the neighbors heard gunshots and which prompted them to call the police. By the time they arrived, she was beyond saving." The elder man on the other end of this call is articulate, but he is barely holding on. I can hear his sniffling as he tries to regain his composure. I realize this is probably her father.
My voice is desperate, "Mr. Farber, was he caught?" I already know who to suspect, and I feel guilty and helpless that I resigned her to her fate, but also that I was too late. If only I had called sooner...
"Yes, one of the gunshots caught him in the calf, and he couldn't get out fast enough. The police caught him at the scene." His name is never mentioned, but there’s conviction enough in his voice that I know we are referring to the same monster.
"Good,"I don't feel the relief I feel I ought to from the revelation. If anything, I feel angry that he's alive still, and empty knowing that she is gone for good because of him.
I feel from a distance, we agree, as he weakly mutters, "Yeah, good."
It would be rude to cut the call off here. "Hey, if you or Mrs. Farber need anything, let me know. I'll do what I can." I close my eyes, waiting for an answer, but the deafening silence unnerves me, so I quickly say, "I'm sorry," and end the call there. They don't know me, probably don't want to... But I can't believe that she is just gone. I don't move from my bed for a long time.
I've forgotten what else I was going to do today; the enormity of this makes everything feel so much more pointless. For a moment, I let myself wallow in this feeling, and the thought of joining her is so tempting. I look to the sheets beneath me, and I can almost see her again, lying next to me. This phantom form of the girl I loved gently shakes her head at me and caresses my face.
The tears fall anew, and I am lost, wondering how I could possibly save myself because I didn't save her. There's no repayment, and I will always feel the weight of the debt that will weigh as my eternal burden, for knowing and not preventing. For loving and not relenting.
Somewhere in this daze, I have gotten up, and I find myself in the kitchen. Already, there's the bottle of scotch on the counter and a glass. Knowing what I must do, I take the glass to the freezer and drop a large piece into it. I set it on the counter and try to keep my hands steady as I pour the amber liquid.
The amber liquid swishes in her glass as she stares at the mounted TV at the bar. Her phone has buzzed five times in a row, and despite how distracting the noise is, she doesn't pick it up to check even once. "Avoiding something?" I ask.
It's bold, and I immediately feel bad for suggesting anything about the strange woman before me. She seems familiar somehow, though I can only just see her profile.
She smiles ruefully, glancing down at the phone, "Yeah, something like that..." She takes a slow sip from the glass and closes her eyes as she swallows. I look down at my beer, and suddenly it feels like it's not enough to bear the weight of whatever she is dealing with.
I flag down the bartender, "I want one of what she's got." She looks at me, confused. Then something dawns on her.
"I've seen you somewhere. I feel like I know you." Her voice is excited, the tone a 180° from the somber looks she was casting at the buzzing.
Seeing her face in full view, now, I know why she seemed so familiar. It’s a face that has lived rent-free in my mind, cruelly ever since that summer. One I memorized and tried to forget, and tried desperately to remember, to search for the signs of why she'd betrayed me all that time ago. I'm now grateful for the drink the bartender set in front of me. It's been eight years. "Well, we're a long way from UNCG."
This jogs her memory, and I take a sip of the liquor. I must be really bad at hiding my expression because she says, "You don't have to drink that, just enjoy your beer." I watch her sip, and her face screws up, conveying fractionally that she, too, doesn't enjoy the taste or the burn of the drink before her.
"What even is this?" I ask, taking another sip. The burn is better, and I can almost tolerate it this time, almost.
"It's a scotch, Black Label," she sips once more. Her ability to hide her disgust doesn't improve, and I laugh.
"And why are we drinking it?" She looks at me and at her glass, and she too begins to laugh.
She shakes her head, "You know what? I don't even really know."
"Sarah, come on!" And now we are both laughing, like we did back then.
Her face is in her hands now, and I don't know if she is crying or laughing, "My friends always said something about whiskey problems... I looked at the wall and just assumed all the brown ones were whiskey and picked one that sounded familiar."
The explanation is silly, but her voice is heartbreaking, "What are the whiskey problems? You don't have to tell me, obviously, but if we are having problems that require it, I want to make sure the scotch is up to proof. I'll switch you over to help you out if it sounds like it may actually solve them." I don't want to make light of whatever her problems are, but my stomach twists at the thought of her crying over her scotch alone tonight. The least I can do is suffer the scotch with her.
She looks me over and instead of explaining, she simply says, "I'm sorry." I don't know what she's apologizing for the scotch, her problems, leaving me back then, or some other thing she thinks she did to me.
I sip the scotch to distract myself, and I barely react to the burn this time, "I think it's growing on me."
This breaks whatever spell she's in, and she laughs again. This time, the tears fall freely, and I wonder, what happened to drive this beautiful woman to a bar in Asheboro. "Allen, you are still very much the same... It's refreshing, even if the scotch isn't."
"I never said it was refreshing," I laugh at the old joke, "Do you want the rest of my beer?"
"Yes, please." Her smile is as beautiful as ever, and I slide the half-full glass her way. She tips it back, and I watch as she swallows gulp after gulp until the glass is gone. I am mesmerized by the movement of her throat bobbing, and I only snap out of it when I hear the glass hit the counter.
"Better?" I ask, incredulous.
"Much," she answers. She looks back at her phone, still face-down, and it buzzes in response as if sensing that she had looked at it.
I nod my head to it, "Who's trying to reach you?"
"No clue," she lifts her head to the TV. I know she is lying, and when she looks at me, she sighs. "It's my ex."
I don't know what I expected, "Oh." I don't dare ask the next question on my mind and just drink the scotch, hoping it will ease the tension.
She seems unbothered and wary at once. I don't know which side of this contradiction I currently stand for her, "He wasn't good, and I left for my own sake."
"I see," she now reaches for the scotch, and I want to stop her. Maybe so that alcohol will not loosen up her lips, and make me know this part of her life. Maybe because I know it's not right to use alcohol to cover up the kind of pain that is so clear in her eyes. She drinks the scotch, and this time, she doesn't react, but I suspect it is less help from the beer and more from the distraction of her memories.
She pushes the glass back. "He didn't take my leaving very well, and he took it out on my last apartment. He hasn't been leaving me alone, so I am moving into a new apartment closer to my parents. I'm just here for a night or so to pack up what I can salvage."
"Is it safe? To go back in there?" I don't know why I've asked, but it sounds like the answer is 'No'.
She shrugs, "I have a police escort to help me gather things, and they make sure that he is not there. They've expedited a court-ordered restraining order, and my lawyers are building a lawsuit for the property damage." The calmness in her voice as she says this stops the air in my lungs. I am relieved only by knowing that she's protected by the police and moving away from the situation. But then her phone buzzes again.
"If he has a restraining order, why is he still contacting you?" I know he's not supposed to do that.
This time, I expect the sadness in her eyes, but there's an exhaustion to them, too. "He's not very good at listening..." The comment sounds like a joke that she is trying to make, but there's a level to this that I don't understand. Her lips curl up, and she shakes her head, grabbing the scotch again.
I don't know what comes over me,"Can I?" I gesture to her phone, curious as to what he's sending her. She takes a sip of the scotch and pushes the phone my way.
"Have at it." My shock at the openness gives way to horror as I read the few messages that are visible from the lock screen. They are ugly, demeaning, hateful things, demanding and violent in promise.
I turn the phone over quickly, "This isn't okay. He shouldn't be sending you things like this, let alone at all. Those messages are evidence; you need to send that to your lawyers."
"I will on Monday. Right now, I am drained and just trying to get through the weekend. It's been a lot, you know, even before we broke up." My hand grabs hers, and I can't even look at her face.
"Sounds like it." I look down at her glass, and I notice it's now empty. I quickly down the rest of mine and wave at the bartender, "Jack and Coke, please, two of them." She looks up at me, "Whiskey problems, right?"
I am gratified by the musical laughter that escapes her. She gathers the empty glasses and pushes them aside. "Allen, you don't have to do this."
The glasses are in front of us, and I hold mine defensively, "I know, I just want to, Sarah."
Her face softens on her own name, and she grabs the second glass, "Why the Coke?"
"It may be whiskey problems; they never said it had to be only whiskey." This drink goes down easier, and she seems more relaxed. "It's good to see you again, you know?"
Hurt furrows her brows, and she nods, "Yeah, you too..."
"I wish it were under better circumstances." I muse into my glass.
She turns to me, "Oh yeah? Like what?" It's a challenge, but her tone of voice holds an edge of hope.
So I carry on, "Oh, I don't know, like a band camp, or getting lost in the woods, or not whiskey problems in a not bar." I've said too much with my list; I should have forgotten the first time by now. I mean, she remembered, back then, but I didn't confirm it.
The hope turns dark, and she bites her lip; for a moment, I think I've upset her, as she sets down her glass. Then she pushes mine out of my hands and leans forward, her hands weaving themselves around and behind my neck. "Under better circumstances, I've always wanted to do this." Her lips meet mine, and it is the epitome of our embraces. She seems to be holding something back, though, and the kiss ends just as suddenly as it begins.
I watch, stunned, as she finishes her Jack and Coke. She then waves the bartender back, ordering a second one, and because I don't want to be left behind, I down it, desperate to chase the buzz and the high of her presence. The second set of cocktails is placed before us, and the bartender leans across the bar. "Hey, it's late, this is your last one, and I'm cutting you off." We both nod, and I remember we need to pay.
I fumble inside my jacket for my wallet, searching for my card, and I remember, with horror, that it is locked because some strange purchases showed up on my account. I'm still waiting for the new one. I try to pull out cash, and all I have is seven dollars. I feel like shooting myself in the foot. I only planned on having one beer tonight, then I was going to ride the bus home. Sarah sees me struggling and notices the seven dollars in my hand. My face feels hot, and I can't tell what out of everything tonight is guiding it. She slides her credit card across the bar to the bartender.
"I've got it," she pulls out a ten and adds it to my seven, and places it in his tip bucket. "He deserves it." I think about how $17 feels like a lot, but then I try to do the math of how many drinks we've had. I lose track at four and can't focus because her eyes are on mine. Her gaze never leaves me as she looks over the rim of her glass at me. I would follow that gaze to the end of the world. The buzz of her phone takes us out of the trance.
Somehow, she has already finished this drink too, and now she softly murmurs, "I should get back to my hotel."
I nod solemnly, "I am going to have a long walk home."
She looks at me, puzzled, "Why?"
"I was going to ride the bus, but I think they aren't running this late." I rub my eyes and take another long sip from the drink.
She checks her phone, "When does it stop running?"
"Around 1 am." I shrug, it'll be 15 minutes, but not unbearable.
"Yeah, it is definitely past that. I don't want you to have to walk that far, though." She looks at me with pity, and I try to straighten up, show her I am fine. My hand, however, misses the bar edge, and I fall forward in my seat, almost into her chest.
I am very close to her now, and the sound of her laughter seems to envelop me. "Come on, my hotel is close."
Some internal voice tries to tell me how unchivalrous this is and that I need to get distance from her. She touches my cheek softly, and, now, I wonder, who between us is actually comforted. There's something strange about the way she looks at me, but my head is fuzzy. She stands, and like I have many times before, I follow. She doesn't have to look behind her to know I am here.
I watch her stumble in her heels, and this sobers me a bit. The action comes with no forethought, and I have picked her up. At first, she screams in terror, but it dissolves into a fit of giggles; she simply points in the next direction as we walk back to her hotel. There's something poetic in the way it feels to carry her across the threshold of her hotel room and lay her down on the bed. I stare down at her, admiring how beautiful she is, and she grabs my belt, tugging me onto the bed at her side.
I kick off my shoes and lie facing her, not wanting to miss a moment of this night. Her eyes seem far off, and the sadness is still present in the curve of her shoulders, the bend of her eyebrows. "What can I do to erase this?"
"What?" She asks, she's out of her reverie, and with me once more.
My thumb traces her lips, "How can I erase the sadness?"
She sucks in a breath, seeming to take me in for the first time tonight, and I feel lost. Then her eyes glaze over again, and she says, "Under better circumstances, I'd say you could love me."
The words from earlier tonight haunt me, and I am earnest when I hold her, "I do, Sarah. I did love you, and I never stopped."
The tears slide down her cheeks again, and she reaches up to kiss me once more. I fold into the rhythm developing between us. I am so elated to share tonight with her, but a nagging feeling keeps telling me this is a dream. As the night drags on, she doesn't say my name, and for some reason, this stands out. Even as she says, "I missed you", "I'm sorry", and "I love you". The words feel like they are meant for another, and as I drift off, I think, maybe, just like last time, they are.
The glass is empty save for the ice that slides lazily around in the glass. I can't bring myself to pour another glass. I remember that I was supposed to be cleaning today. I don't know where to start, and I don't know if it matters. I go to my closet and open it, staring at the clothes hanging benignly. It takes two seconds to locate the button up from that night, and I don't know why, but I am putting it on. The smell of her perfume is somehow on the collar still after a wash, and I marvel at this revelation.
I feel once more as if her arms are wrapped around me. I swear, I can hear her breath in my ear, soft, relaxed. I look down and see her phantom form hugging me. This version of her I remember best. She's younger than that night, and it's almost like she really loves me. My heart breaks, reliving what became of that shared time, and the phantom's eyes meet mine. Her mouth forms the words, "I'm sorry." The tears fall once more on my face, and I wonder if I will ever be able to stop crying because of this woman.
The ghost is gone, and I try to get something done. I start by sweeping the floors and wiping down the counters. The distraction stops the sadness, for the moment, and makes the feelings easier to bear. I make it through half of the day without thinking about her, just focusing on the next task and the next. I get hungry though, and eventually I have to get out food. I have stuff for sandwiches, and I make one absentmindedly. I sit down to eat and, looking at the sandwich, melancholy settles in again, and I curse her ability to plague even the simplest things with her memory. I swallow the pain and take the first bite.
The first bite feels so good, my stomach is ravenous. I look over to the other side of the bleachers, and three feet away is a girl who looks to be my age with her brown hair in a bun. She is by herself, but seems just as eager for her sandwich. Half hers is already gone; she must have been earlier in line.
"Hey," I gather up my lunch, "I'm Allen. Can I eat with you?" She looks up at me and shrugs with a small smile. I sit down and continue eating, trying not to force conversation.
"I'm Sarah," she says when the sandwich has been properly deposited in her stomach.
I nod, "You here with others from your school?"
She shakes her head and looks out onto the field, "Nah, you?"
"Nada." She smiles curiously at me.
She shifts on the metal bench. "So what grade are you heading into?"
"Tenth, you?" I have my head down and am drinking the Caprisun they gave us.
She is opening the bag of chips, "Same, actually."
"Oh, cool! Yo, what section?" I look up and try to guess just by looking at her, woodwinds.
"Flute." I fist-pump internally. "You?" she asks.
I half consider lying, but she's going to see me all week at this camp, so that would be really stupid, "Trumpet."
She gives me a look, "Go figure."
I feel offended, "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing, you're bold, that's all." She smiles teasingly.
"I sat down to eat with you because you were alone. I was being nice," I say flatly.
Her smile falters, "I didn't say it wasn't. And bold's not a bad thing, you know."
I shrug and try to let the compliment roll off me. She begins talking about her high school competition piece last year, and I listen, mildly intrigued. She asks me about mine, but I'm having a hard time remembering because it was months ago. After expressing her discontent at my lack of passion for the music my school produces, she launches into a lament that her parents chose to go to Florida for a vacation, specifically when she was in the sleep-away band camp.
"So are they going to be here at the end performance?" I ask.
She tilts her head from side to side, "It's debatable, they like me being involved, but they aren't really marching band parents if you get me."
I know exactly what she means, "Well, I hope they show up, regardless."
"Thanks," she balls up her trash and aims at the trash can four bleachers down. She has just released the wad when the director of the camp blows their whistle and announces that lunch is over. I stand, and pick up the ball of trash as I pass it and deposit it in the trash as I head to my next section. Sarah seems nice enough. There is something about her, something familiar.
I pass the afternoon doing drills and routines, and am exhausted by the time the camp day ends. I join everyone for dinner in the dining commons, and, again, I see her sitting at a table by herself. I slide into the seat across from Sarah. "This seat taken?"
"Yes." She says very seriously, and I begin to panic and am scrambling to get out of the seat, when I see her laughing. "Now it is, by you."
I fall into the seat relieved and irritated, "That was mean, you know."
"I never said I wasn't." She has a hamburger in front of her, and I look around the large hall.
"Hey, where'd you get that?" She points simply to a side area of the dining hall that has a giant sign on it and a picture of a hamburger on a screen. Students are leaving there with hamburgers and hot dogs, "Thanks for the tip."
I jump up and wait in the line until I have secured one and head back to our table. She has already finished with hers, and I wonder how she could possibly always eat so fast. I admire her healthy appetite and dig into my burger.
Out of nowhere, she interrupts, "Why do I feel like I've seen you before?"
"I don't know." I continue eating.
She shakes her head, "What was your name again?"
"Jeez, you already forgot, you're breaking my heart, Sarah," I say mockingly, putting emphasis on her name.
She groans, "That's not what I mean, I'm bad with names!"
"Allen," I proffer, finishing my food.
"Allen," she muses, "I think his name started with an 'A', or maybe it was an 'E'. You look very similar."
I look up at her, confused, "What do you mean?"
She blushes, "Well, it's just you remind me of this boy I met in the summer of like second or third grade, I think."
"Really?" I notice that no one else has sat down at our table, and it feels weird suddenly being in a bubble alone with her. Not wrong, though.
"I mean, I think so, he was a bit chubbier though." She shrugs.
Now I'm curious, and I can't say why, "So, what was his name?"
Her face turns crimson, "I'm bad with names, okay? I don't remember... I just remember what happened that night."
My brain is going in weird directions, "In third grade?"
Her face is pale in seconds, and the blood shift is so funny I chuckle, "No, not that gutter brain! I was nine, for God's sake! Ew! That's just sick, don't laugh at that."
I shake my head, "Sorry, I'm laughing at the face you made. I'm sorry I implied it. So, what happened that night?" My tone is more sincere, and I actually want to know.
"I had gone camping with my parents; I went to the bathroom, but got lost on the way back. I was really scared; it was dark, and the animals were making all these noises. Getting to the point, though, this boy shows up and, even though he came from his camp, he couldn't find his way back after finding me," she says, the memory lighting her eyes.
I remember this, "And then what?"
"He stayed with me so that even if we were lost, we were lost together. He was shorter than me at the time, it felt so funny that he thought he would help me, but he kind of did. I eventually heard my parents searching, and we found the trail again and walked back to our respective tents." She puts her napkin on her plate and crosses her arms.
I remember this night well. She thought I was chubby? "So, what about me reminds you of this boy?"
Her face is red again, and it goads my smile, "You have some similar features..."
"And?" I feel like if I keep this up, she may say something really interesting, and I don't want the chance to pass me by.
She looks down, away, anywhere, but my face. This should be good. "He was cute," she utters. She looks up, and my smirk causes her to splutter, "It was just a childish crush, he was sweet, and I was scared, okay? You're nothing like him." She scowls at me, but I am only thinking about how she thinks I am cute.
"So I'm cute?" I try to hide my laugh; she is mortified.
She grabs her plate and stands up suddenly, trying to escape my teasing, but I don't want to let her go. "That's not an answer. I'm just going to assume you think I'm cute." She storms off and puts her plate in the dish carousel and is out the dining hall door in a flash. I am riding the high of watching her face redden as she inadvertently confessed to me.
I think about it that night as I fall asleep, and dream of the night we met, when I held her in my jacket. The next morning, I see her in the dining hall, and she turns around, but I catch up to her. "Hey, Sarah," I draw out her name.
"What do you want, Allen?" She seems genuinely mad at me, and it hurts.
"Hey, I'm just teasing, you're pretty, I can't help it." She looks at me wide-eyed, and I watch the slow-motion picture of her face, turning that glorious color.
"You're definitely a trumpet. Flirt," she mutters, walking away from me.
I follow after her once more, grabbing random food from the breakfast bar as we pass. "Come on, that's not fair to me."
"I never-"
I cut her off, finishing the sentence for her, "You never said you were fair."
She glances over her shoulder, and her anger has dissipated. "I don't know what to do with you."
"Ignore me, most people do." I joke.
She snorts, "I don't think I can."
And just because it's so easy, I tease, "Why? Because I'm cute?"
And she smacks me hard on the shoulder. "You're incorrigible." Yet, the smile hasn't left her face.
"What does that mean?" I ask.
"It means, don't change." She sits down at our table and adjusts her fork.
I sit opposite her at our table. How quickly it became ours... "Well, that's good, I had no plans to."
We eat in companionable silence, and when she is finished eating, she doesn't clear away; she stays. I look up and realize she's just staring at me, "What?"
"I think I'm a liar," she says.
My eyebrows lower, "Why do you say that?"
"You're not cute," she shrugs.
I jump at this, "So, you admit you did say it!"
"No!" She laughs, "I implied it, and I am a liar."
"I see," I settle my gaze back down to my scrambled eggs, unsure if I now have the appetite to eat the last few forkfuls.
"You're kind of handsome." I spit out the orange juice in my mouth at this; it is on my shirt, my pants, the table - and she, the devil that she is, delights in my mess.
"You're encouragable," I mutter, wiping up the mess.
"The word is 'incorrigible'," she teases.
I throw the napkin down, "That's what I said, what's the difference?"
"Well," she says, smiling at me, "'encouragable' is easily motivated, 'incorrigible' is hard to change."
I stare down at my plate, trying to work out the difference between the words; they sound the same to me. I resolve, "Well, maybe you're both."
Her laugh comes out as a sigh,"I suppose you might be right. It's kind of fun to tease you."
"That's funny, I was just thinking the same thing." I've forgotten about my breakfast now as I look at her. I have known her for all of a day, and yet I can't get enough of hearing her laughter, seeing her face blush, and sitting across from her.
The mood intensifies, and I think she feels the same. The dawning of where we are falls on her hard and fast, and she grabs her plate and mine, intending to escape. But I grab them both out of her hands and take them to the carousel myself; this time, she follows me. It is already time for us to get to our camp areas, and we have to separate. I resolve to find her at lunch and make her laugh again.
The day is saved by that lunch with her, I am sore all over, and ended up throwing up my breakfast midway through the second rotation. I wasn't alone, all of us making mental notes not to eat as much at breakfast tomorrow. She tells me about the girls who threw up at her rotation, too, and I am wondering what is wrong with this camp that they run us so ragged we upchuck our breakfast. Sarah proudly announces she wasn't one of the pukers today. I remember, then, how small her breakfast was; no wonder she was done before me.
We separate and rejoin at dinner, and there's a movie in the dormitory commons tonight. We both think the movie is a dull one, but we go regardless. In the darkness of the room, I slide closer to her. I am leaning back on my hands with my legs stretched out before me. She is sitting criss-cross at my side, and my left hand is behind her. I am so close she could lean on me if she wants to. I try to focus on the movie, some spy film. But, halfway through, she seems to get tired, and it happens. Her head rests on my left shoulder, and now it is the only thing I can think about.
I want her to be comfortable, and in the same breath, I can't move. I don't want to jostle her or scare her away. It is so close to how she was that night. I look down at her, and her breathing is slow. She fell asleep again, against my shoulder. I gesture to one of the admins asking for a blanket, they hand me one, "Do you want us to wake her?" They whisper, and hurriedly I shake my head, 'no'.
They nod and leave us alone, and using my right hand, I drape the blanket over her sleeping form, trying desperately not to disturb her. I almost stroke her hair, but think better of it.
The camp passes like this: we eat breakfast, we find each other at lunch, we have dinner together, and we stay together until curfew, then we separate to sleep, and find each other the next morning. The camp is almost over, we have exchanged phone numbers, and I am dreading the idea of not seeing her everyday. She leans toward me at lunch, "Have you seen the fireflies?"
"Yeah," I've seen fireflies before. I don't know what's so special about them, but the look on her face tells me there's something more. "What about them?"
"Do you want to catch some with me tonight?" There's a wicked glint in her eyes, and I am tempted.
I shake my head, "We have curfew, Sarah."
She looks disgusted, "Ugh, screw curfew. Are you in or not, Allen?"
It sounds magical coming from her lips. I simply nod, and she begins doing a little happy dance on the bleacher. She finishes the Caprisun and tosses it at the trash can. This time, she makes it in, and the happy dance grows in volume. I laugh, and she tries to get me to happy dance with her, it's silly and stupid, so I do.
After everyone's gone to bed, I sneak the door open and slip into the hallway. I am tiptoeing cautiously, not wanting to get caught. I spot her in the commons as agreed, and she grabs my hand and races to the stairwell. She has planned this well because she pulls a rock out of her pajamas and places it between the door and the frame so we don't get locked out. I can see some fireflies out here, but she surprises me by tugging my hand and pulling me toward the football field. I follow along, dazed by the wonderment I hold for just her.
Sarah, pleased, stops at the 40-yard line and falls down onto the turf. "You're going to get turf in your hair, they'll know!" I freak out. I try to pull her up, but with surprising strength, she grips me by the elbow and yanks me down next to her. She has miscalculated, and I end up on top of her, just an inch separating our noses; I am holding myself up as best I can, but I am overwhelmed by the look in her eyes.
A firefly passes between us, and I blink, breaking the spell. I adjust myself off of her and resolve to sit at her side. She's disappointed, but it hasn't ruined her overall mood. She sits up watching the fireflies float around us. I see the turf "turds" in her hair and begin pulling them out while she stares at the scene around us.
When I have removed the last one, I run my fingers through her hair, "I could do this all night." She hums happily. "I wish camp didn't have to end."
She turns her gaze at me, and it is sad and scared, "Allen, will I see you again after this?"
I don't know, the genuine answer and the one I want to give are at odds with each other, and it breaks my heart. Instead of answering, I shift into a criss-cross position and grab her wrist, pulling her into my lap. She sits leaning into my shoulder, and I wrap my arms around her. I bury my head in her hair, not wanting for this moment to end. She stands up suddenly, and I am about to follow, but she sits down across from me and holds my face in her hands. Smiling, I do the same.
We just stare at each other like this, I find myself committing the shape of her nose, the rhythm of her breathing, the fold of her eyebrows, the length of her lashes, the curve of her lips, her pink cheeks, and the depth of her cavernous brown eyes to memory. Letting myself fall for her a thousand times, if youth can gift me anything to carry for life, I want it to be this feeling of admiration and joy. I want it to extend into the infinity of existence and be imprinted into the fabric of life long after we have both died. I have not studied myths, and the afterlife is elusive, but I want every chance encounter before and after today to hold the same mysticism that I feel in this moment as I fall for this girl.
She looks at me with so much trust and hope. She is warm and lovely, and yet she looks like she has something to say. I almost ask her what is wrong, when she breaks the contact, and the moment is over. She begins to dance to a song in her head, and she hums it out as she dances among the fireflies. Here and there she catches one in her hands, and after gazing at it lovingly for a moment, she releases it back it the sky. I don't know the song she hums, but I try to memorize that too.
We head back and go to bed without being caught. The next day we have breakfast, but we have to separate soon for the showcase for our parents. We cast glances at each other in passing, but not a word is said. The performance goes well, and we reunite with our parents. Before I greet mine, I decide to introduce her to them and seek her out. I find her, her hair in the familiar twist. I rush towards her, then stop in my tracks.
She is being held by a boy with blonde hair. He could be her brother, but he looks my age. Then he kisses her on the lips, and her hands are on his neck, welcoming it. I feel sick. Sicker than I was when I had to run that second day of camp. I want to run away from the image, pretend I saw nothing, but I can't move. She finally turns around and sees me. Her face falls, and she looks crestfallen. I want to scream at her, something, but I just stare. "I need to say goodbye to a friend, Brandon."
He releases her, and she walks over to me. Already, she is crying. I can't imagine a possible explanation that would make up for this. "Boyfriend?" I ask, my voice cracking.
She chokes out, "Ex," but the word she used for me, 'friend', rattles in my head. It's an awful marching beat that wrecks me after the weeks of perfect joy. "I didn't know, Allen."
I shake my head, hurt. She kissed him back; that's enough of a sign. I don't cry, I just step back.
"Allen, please." She grabs my hands and tries to look at my face, but I look away.
"He's waiting for you, Sarah." I try to sound cold, detatched.
She is sobbing now, "Allen, I like you."
"You know the question you asked me last night? I think you know your answer now." She lets go of my hands and wipes her face.
She tries to keep control of her voice, "So, this was it?"
"Yeah," I answer weakly. I watch her pull out the paper with my number on it, she rips it up, and shoves it in my hand. I can't process her anger at me; she's the one who just kissed her "ex" in front of me.
"I loved you," she spits in my direction, and then she straightens up and walks back to the "ex". I can't process where this all went wrong, how it could be my fault? What did I miss? I collect the pieces of my heart and walk back to my parents, stuffing the paper into my pocket next to the one with her phone number on it.
I've finished eating the sandwich... I clean up the dishes from my lunch. I suddenly feel there is somewhere I need to be. I haven't been there in almost 10 years, but it feels right. I put the bottle of scotch into a bag with a second sandwich and put on my jacket. I don't remember locking my apartment door, but my despondent mood leaves me feeling lackadaisical about anything of actual importance, like calling my mother or taking a glass for the scotch.
I am on the bus for what feels like two hours, and the sun is going down. At the farthest point, I call an Uber. The driver looks at me suspiciously, and I leave him a good tip, because he "deserves it". Beside me, I see the ghost of a little brown-haired girl, and as I stare at her, a series of bruises form on her arms and face. I reach for her, and suddenly a bullet hole opens on her chest, and blood begins to spill down. She doesn't look scared; instead, she smiles. I am horrified and almost ask the driver to pull over, but through the windows I see the familiar woods of the old camping grounds. The ghost once more is gone.
I thank the driver and exit the vehicle. He drives away quickly as if attempting to escape me, but I feel like I am trying to escape. I look around, and everything feels so familiar and strange. The welcome posts are still standing, and while they were a bright yellow in the memory, they are now worn down and grayish, the paint chipped and faded. Beyond it is the parking lot, which is overgrown and empty. No one wants to camp at this time of year... I find the path, still well-kept, likely thanks to some rangers. There are now small metal rods holding onto a neon orange string; they line both sides of the path. Probably the installation after enough people got lost. I follow the path and find the bathroom shack.
It has been renovated, and the door seems to have a heavier lock now. I don't bother going in to check, even if I am mildly curious, I'm not here for a bathroom. I stand just in front of the door and turn away closing my eyes listening for the crying.
The crying is scary. I grab my jacket and open the tent flap uncertainly. Mommy and daddy said Joseph was lying and that it was just a scary story. The cries are really soft. Maybe it is a ghost like in Joseph's story, and they need help. I hear the sound to my left and try to follow the voice. Huh, it's a girl's voice...
I think I am closer now because the crying feels louder. Maybe if I call out, she can help me find her. What if she is a witch, though? No, she sounds too young to be a witch. I cup my hands around my mouth, "Hello?"
The crying is muffled, then the girl's voice calls, "Hello?"
I am very close now, but it is dark, and I can see the trees only because of the moonlight. "Where are you?" I look down, hoping there might be a hint at my feet of a trail she followed, and I panic; the trail is gone.
"I'm over here!" She calls, it is somewhere to my right, and I walk further. Finally, I see her. She is in a pink dress with some kind of decoration on it.
I walk over very carefully, making sure I don't trip, and stop by her side. She is tall, and her hair is in pigtails. It's brown like wet mud. "Why are you crying and out here?"
She wipes her nose on her sleeve, "I went to the potty, but I couldn't figure out which way to get back, and then I lost the path. I want my mommy and daddy." Her voice sounds whiny. I pat her on the head to make her feel better.
"I bet your mommy and daddy miss you too." I look at the crunchy ground, and back where I came from, some of the trees look familiar. "We can try to find your tent if you want?"
Her face is really wet from her crying, and it's kind of gross. "Really?" She takes the bottom of her dress and wipes at her face. I look away, because that's what mommy told me to do.
"Yeah," I look back at her, and now she is standing. Her face, no longer snotty, is kind of cute. "Come on."
I try to retrace my steps like mommy taught me to do, but we don't see the path, and I start to wonder if I am lost, too. The girl follows behind me, and she is looking at the ground. "So, what's your name?"
She looks up, "I'm Sarah. What's your name?"
"I'm Allen." I hop over a log. I didn't have to do that to find her... I think I am also lost. I look at her again, and she still seems scared. I don't want her scared so I just keep walking. "I'm eight years old. How old are you?"
She yawns, "I'm nine."
"Oh, cool, I turn nine next week," I say. There's a low branch, and I remember Joseph climbing the trees earlier today. I copy what he did and try to reach for the next branch.
"What are you doing?" She tilts her head up at me.
"Oh, I wanted to climb this tree; my big brother showed me how today. He said you can see far when you're tall, and I want to get taller, maybe I can see the trail." I reach for the next branch.
Her eyes widen, "You don't know where we are going?"
"I did, but I don't know, it's dark and I am too short to see far. Joseph would be better at this than me." I am up in the next branch, and I try to look around, but everything looks the same. Maybe Joseph was lying about this, too. I'm going to punch him later.
She sits down at the base of the tree. I climb down and sit next to her. Her body is shaking, "Are you cold?"
"Yeah," she says sadly. She hugs herself and curls her legs in.
"That's a really pretty dress. Why do you sleep in it?" I am staring at her sleeves. I touch the fabric, and it's very thin.
She rubs her arms, "You're supposed to sleep in it, it's a night gown."
"Oh, I get it." I don't get it. I look around, but the leaves on the ground don't look too warm. I look down at the jacket I put on before leaving the tent. I don't want to take it off, but she looks colder than I am. I take my jacket off and give it to her, "Here."
"I don't think that will fit me," she says, looking down at me. She is slightly taller than me, but not by much.
I put the jacket on her shoulders, "You don't have to put your arms in it." She seems to stop shaking, and that makes me happy. An owl hoots, and she jumps, "Don't be scared, it's just an owl. It doesn't eat people."
She smiles shyly, "I know that, it's just dark and there's a lot of animals out here."
"Yeah, but my daddy says a lot of them don't eat people, only bears." Saying the word 'bears,' she curls up further and looks like she's going to cry again. "But my daddy says there are no bears here." I'm lying, but she seems to relax.
"I want to go home," she says, her voice is high-pitched again.
I shrug, "Me too."
"Aren't you cold?" she asks.
I think about it for a moment, "Not really." The way she leans against me keeps my side warm, and it's not very cold.
She shifts and leans against me more. I shove her pigtail out of my face. "You're brave, Allen."
"Eh, not really. I'm scared of things too, mostly my big brother." I look up, and the moon is really pretty.
She sees the moon too, and I hear her go, "Oooh."
"Do you have any siblings?" I ask.
She shakes her head, "I've asked my mommy and daddy for a little sister, but they said I'm already a lot to handle, whatever that means."
"I don't know," I say. "If you want, you can borrow my big brother. He's cool sometimes, but also really annoying."
"How come?" she asks.
I pick at the grass near me, "He steals my food sometimes."
"That's not very nice," she says.
"No, it's not, but I bet he wouldn't do that to you because you're a girl. He's always nice to girls." I rip the grass apart and watch the pieces fall.
She is silent, and her breathing slows down. She murmurs sleepily, "You're nice to girls too. I hope I marry someone like you someday." I look down and see a flower. I think it would look pretty in her hair, so softly put the flower on her ear and look up at the leaves in the tree. I feel my eyes getting heavy and try to stay awake in case of bears.
I open my eyes to a shouting sound in the distance. It is getting closer, and I think I know what they are saying, "Sarah, where are you? Sarah!" The people sound really sad and scared. Who's Sarah? Then I remember the girl. She is now lying with her head on my knees, wearing my jacket like a blanket.
My back hurts as I move away from the tree. I shake her shoulders, "Hey, Sarah. Sarah!" Her eyes open groggily, and as she fully opens them, she squints at me.
"Who are you?" she asks, then her eyes grow wide with fear, "Where's my mommy and daddy?"
"You got lost, remember? They're looking for you; they're close. I can hear them, come on, get up." I wriggle out from under her as she shifts to stand up. The flower falls out of her hair, and I pick it up. When she is facing me, I put the flower back. "Come on," I grab her hand and move towards the voices. Soon, I see the trail, and I begin to run. She is running with me now.
"Mommy? Daddy?" she squeaks. We are on the trail, and we see them to our right. They turn around, looking very relieved and happy.
"Sarah!" They cry, "We thought we lost you!" She runs up to them crying, and they hug. They cry a lot.
I look around and find the trail that leads to my tent. "Bye, Sarah!" I call and walk back to my tent.
"Who is that little boy?" her mom asks.
"Wait, what's your name?" she shouts at me as I walk away.
I turn around, and the picture of them together is nice. "Allen. Bye!" I reach my tent before mommy and daddy have woken up. They sleep a lot.
Joseph is awake, though, "Where have you been?" he whispers.
"I went to the bathroom," I say, crawling back into my sleeping bag.
When I wake up again, mommy asks where my jacket went. I remember that Sarah still has it... Oh well. She needed it. I hope she goes to my new school this year, then she can give it back to me, and we can play together.
I am sitting beneath a tree that looks shorter than the one from that first night. I pull out the sandwich and the scotch and stare at the moon. I don't know if it is some cruel trick of fate or if I am misremembering, but the moon is full like it was that night. The wind seems to cut through my jacket, but the phantom Sarah leans stiffly beside me, so I lay the jacket over her.
I stare before me at the picnic of memories and once more at her lifeless frame. A gory picture of her last moments, straight from my imagination, but she seems to be real, wearing my jacket. Unmoving, I watch her breathe, and the jacket moves with it, even in her spectral transparency. In wonder, I lean into this girl I love. Faintly, I hear a wheezing breath come from her. Trepidatiously, I caress the air where I see her cheek and the bruise left by his hand. I suck in a breath and, staring at her unseeing eyes, I ask her, "What am I supposed to do?"
ns216.73.217.128da2
and then Add to home screen.