face and glancing at Cade out of the corner of my eye. “Where’s he going to live?”
Cade shrugged. “With some friends in Dania, I think. There’s a bunch of them living in some split-level off the highway. Roger was all pissed off about that, too, because apparently you can, like, smell the meth cooking all up and down the street.”
“Sounds very attractive.” I slipped my shoes off, put my bare feet up on the dash. “Did he say why he’s not going?”
“I dunno. He’s pretty screwed up, I guess.” Here my brother hesitated, glancing at me sort of nervously. We didn’t talk very much about Allie in my house. It felt like everyone was a little bit afraid of what I might do if they brought her up—go off like an improvised explosive, maybe, glass and shrapnel everywhere you looked. Three months in the ground and it was almost like she’d never existed in the first place, like maybe she’d only ever been my imaginary friend. “Because of everything that happened.”
“Right.” I swallowed the sudden thickness in my throat. “Well,” I said brightly, “State is filled with screwups. He’d have fit right in.”
*
One thing Sawyer definitely
wasn’t
doing was showing up for his shifts at the restaurant, which is why I was so surprised when I came in to work the dinner shift one Fridayin September and found him mixing a mojito at the bar. “Hey,” he said, grabbing a rag and wiping a spill from the glossy surface, barely looking up. “Your dad said to come find him when you got in.”
“Do you still
work
here?” I blurted, my backpack slipping from my shoulder. I was used to not seeing him by this point, used to the notion that we were never going to talk about anything: that I was going to spend the next twelve months in a sinkhole of guilt and confusion and sadness, and then I was going to leave. For a second I thought of that night in the parking lot, the taste of chocolate ice cream and the feeling of his fingers on my neck.
You kissed me
, I thought as I looked at him.
You kissed me and then Allie died.
For a second it felt like she was sitting at the bar in front of me, sharp chin cradled in one skinny hand—both of us watching Sawyer just like we used to, back when watching Sawyer never felt like something that hurt.
Now he tilted his head, lips barely quirking. “It’s nice to see you, too,” he told me, snapping me back to the present. Just like that, Allie was gone.
“That’s not what I meant.” I blushed. “It’s just … you know. Been a while.”
“I guess so.” He rattled the shaker a couple of times, poured its contents over ice and added a couple of mint leaves for garnish. Sawyer had been tending the bar at Antonia’s practically since puberty; he could have mixed drinks in his sleep. “You miss me?”
“No,” I said immediately. I glanced around, skittish—it was early yet, three or four people nursing drinks at the bar.
The Best of Ella Fitzgerald
pumped in through the speakers, afternoon music. “I don’t know.”
I picked up my bag again, ready to go find my father, but Sawyer wasn’t finished. “I saw you the other day,” he told me. “In your car, by the flea market.”
I blinked. “What were you doing at the flea market?”
“I wasn’t
at
the flea ma—I had band practice,” he said, as if perusing antiques and collectibles was any more ridiculous than the rest of the James Dean/James Franco crap he’d been doing. “Our drummer lives over near there.”
“How do you play piano with a broken hand?” I asked him, and Sawyer grinned wryly.
“It’s not broken anymore, princess.” He nodded for me to sit down on an empty stool and, once I did, slid some pretzels down in my direction. I glanced at the clock above the bar—I had a couple of minutes before I needed to punch in.
“Is that what you’ve been doing instead of coming to work?” I asked, cautious. “Playing with your band?”
“You mean as opposed to pursuing higher
Cade shrugged. “With some friends in Dania, I think. There’s a bunch of them living in some split-level off the highway. Roger was all pissed off about that, too, because apparently you can, like, smell the meth cooking all up and down the street.”
“Sounds very attractive.” I slipped my shoes off, put my bare feet up on the dash. “Did he say why he’s not going?”
“I dunno. He’s pretty screwed up, I guess.” Here my brother hesitated, glancing at me sort of nervously. We didn’t talk very much about Allie in my house. It felt like everyone was a little bit afraid of what I might do if they brought her up—go off like an improvised explosive, maybe, glass and shrapnel everywhere you looked. Three months in the ground and it was almost like she’d never existed in the first place, like maybe she’d only ever been my imaginary friend. “Because of everything that happened.”
“Right.” I swallowed the sudden thickness in my throat. “Well,” I said brightly, “State is filled with screwups. He’d have fit right in.”
*
One thing Sawyer definitely
wasn’t
doing was showing up for his shifts at the restaurant, which is why I was so surprised when I came in to work the dinner shift one Fridayin September and found him mixing a mojito at the bar. “Hey,” he said, grabbing a rag and wiping a spill from the glossy surface, barely looking up. “Your dad said to come find him when you got in.”
“Do you still
work
here?” I blurted, my backpack slipping from my shoulder. I was used to not seeing him by this point, used to the notion that we were never going to talk about anything: that I was going to spend the next twelve months in a sinkhole of guilt and confusion and sadness, and then I was going to leave. For a second I thought of that night in the parking lot, the taste of chocolate ice cream and the feeling of his fingers on my neck.
You kissed me
, I thought as I looked at him.
You kissed me and then Allie died.
For a second it felt like she was sitting at the bar in front of me, sharp chin cradled in one skinny hand—both of us watching Sawyer just like we used to, back when watching Sawyer never felt like something that hurt.
Now he tilted his head, lips barely quirking. “It’s nice to see you, too,” he told me, snapping me back to the present. Just like that, Allie was gone.
“That’s not what I meant.” I blushed. “It’s just … you know. Been a while.”
“I guess so.” He rattled the shaker a couple of times, poured its contents over ice and added a couple of mint leaves for garnish. Sawyer had been tending the bar at Antonia’s practically since puberty; he could have mixed drinks in his sleep. “You miss me?”
“No,” I said immediately. I glanced around, skittish—it was early yet, three or four people nursing drinks at the bar.
The Best of Ella Fitzgerald
pumped in through the speakers, afternoon music. “I don’t know.”
I picked up my bag again, ready to go find my father, but Sawyer wasn’t finished. “I saw you the other day,” he told me. “In your car, by the flea market.”
I blinked. “What were you doing at the flea market?”
“I wasn’t
at
the flea ma—I had band practice,” he said, as if perusing antiques and collectibles was any more ridiculous than the rest of the James Dean/James Franco crap he’d been doing. “Our drummer lives over near there.”
“How do you play piano with a broken hand?” I asked him, and Sawyer grinned wryly.
“It’s not broken anymore, princess.” He nodded for me to sit down on an empty stool and, once I did, slid some pretzels down in my direction. I glanced at the clock above the bar—I had a couple of minutes before I needed to punch in.
“Is that what you’ve been doing instead of coming to work?” I asked, cautious. “Playing with your band?”
“You mean as opposed to pursuing higher
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