Afterward by Jennifer Mathieu

saying, I answer, “Well, there would be only one way for us to find out, I guess.” As soon as the words come out, I understand what it means. But the idea is ridiculous. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I know we couldn’t play together … I mean, like, you can’t have people over, right?”
    Ethan frowns. “What do you mean I can’t have people over?”
    My cheeks warm up. Are there any other people on planet Earth right now having a stranger conversation? “I just…,” I stammer. “I didn’t think your mom would like it. Maybe your dad wouldn’t either, I don’t know. He wasn’t here last time, but your mom … when I was here talking about The White Stripes, I mean … I don’t know.”
    â€œI can have people over,” Ethan says, and the way he says it reminds me of a little kid. His voice is soft, but the tone is the same one we all used on the playground when we were younger: You’re not the boss of me.
    â€œSorry, I didn’t know.” Jesus. Does he not remember telling me ten minutes ago that he wasn’t allowed to leave his yard? How the hell am I supposed to know if he can have people over?
    â€œIt’s okay,” Ethan answers, his tone shifting. “I mean, it’s fine. It’s … it’s fine.”
    â€œSo what you’re saying is you don’t have anyone else to play music with?” I ask, desperate to drag us over this weird patch so we can end this conversation and I can leave.
    Ethan shakes his head no. “Do you play with anyone?” he asks.
    â€œNo,” I say. Which, to be honest, kind of sucks. The whole point of playing electric guitar is to be playing in a band or something. It’s definitely not to play along with YouTube videos.
    Ethan kicks at some invisible gravel on the blacktop. His Sperrys are new and spotless. The shoes of a guy who never leaves his house. And then I hear his voice. Directed at his shoes but at me, too.
    â€œMaybe we could play sometime,” he says. “I mean, if you wanted to or whatever.”
    I nod, only he can’t see it since he’s looking at the ground. So I say, “Is there a place for me to plug in my practice amp?”
    â€œYeah,” Ethan says. “The garage has an outlet.”
    â€œThat’s cool,” I say.
    â€œCool,” Ethan says. Pause. “You could just come by some afternoon after you get done with school or whatever. Even if I didn’t know you were coming … I wouldn’t be, like, surprised or anything.”
    I can’t tell if he’s making a joke about my two unexpected visits, so I just say, “Okay. Sounds good.”
    There’s another long silence, and finally I say, “I guess I should be going.”
    â€œOkay,” he says.
    â€œWell, take care,” I say, climbing on my bike.
    â€œMaybe see you later,” he tells me, and as I turn around on my bike and start gliding down the street, my lungs finally taking in a deep breath, I replay Ethan’s last sentence to me over and over in my head. Maybe see you later. The way he said it—the way it sounded hopeful but mostly sad—it was enough for me to forgive him entirely for not being able to tell me anything new about Dylan.

 
    ETHAN—163 DAYS AFTERWARD
    There’s no reason for me to tell Dr. Greenberg about Caroline. She was gone by the time my mom came home from Dr. Sugar’s.
    But here I am, sitting next to Groovy and telling Dr. Greenberg about Caroline Anderson biking up to my house two days ago and turning around and leaving and then me calling her back. Explaining to him that we might play music together. Maybe. If she comes back at all.
    I didn’t think I would tell him about her, but I can’t stop thinking about Caroline. About how she showed up out of nowhere and about all the things she said. About how her visit was scary in