Once I flip the light out, I kick off my pants and shirt and slide in between her body and the wall, doing my best not to shake her. She moans a few times, and I know she’s still feeling dizzy and sick, so I start to stroke her hair, trying to tame the wild mess she’s managed to create.
“I hope you find it, Joshy.” I pause, my breath held and my hand an inch away from her head, frozen in my almost touch.
“Find what?” I say, the knot in my throat impossible to swallow.
“The Boston shirt. It was always my favorite. I hope you find it.” And that’s the last word she utters before her breathing turns heavy and her throat gives way to the tiny vibrations of a snore.
Joshy. Not Josh, or I was thinking about Josh’s shirt, or sorry, was just thinking about Josh. But Joshy. An intimate pet name, full of all kinds of…shit, I don’t know what the f**k it’s full of—but that one word. That goddamned name! That name I can’t even hate because Josh is dead. And Rowe has no clue. And clearly Joshy is still alive and well in her subconscious.
For the next hour, I stare at her, watching her small movements while she sleeps. Every flit of her eyelid makes me jump, just waiting for her to tell me she needs to go back to him, or find him, or talk to him, or see him. And she can’t. Not because she let him go, but because he’s gone. And whether I like it or not, I’m competing for the girl I love…with a ghost.
Chapter 27
Rowe
“Come on, just one more party…before you leave me to go home with my boyfriend and yours.” Cass has been dropping little hints ever since the Halloween party about not going home with Ty over Thanksgiving, but Ty seems to be pretty good at ignoring them.
“Why don’t you just tell him you want to come with us? I’m sure he’d love you to be there,” I say, pulling out my oversized sweatshirt and leggings to change for an evening of finals studying. Cass pouts when I do, knowing she’s probably lost her battle to drag me to a party tonight.
“Because…” she says, letting her lips flap while she flops on her back on my bed behind me, her face still in full-sour mode.
“Because you’re afraid you like him more than he likes you?” I ask, wondering when I got so bold with my questions for others. These kinds of things seem funny coming from the girl who barely woke up from a two-year social slumber. Cass is staring at me, not saying anything, but her eyes flash with a brief moment of sadness before she rolls her head to the other side, and she starts picking at the corner of my corkboard.
“No. Yes. I don’t know,” she says, pulling her knees to her chest. “Come do Pilates with me.”
I lie back next to her and let out a similar lip-flapping breath. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t Pilates,” I say, holding my knees into my chest and rocking slightly like Cass is.
“I know, but I like to pretend it is. It’s really just wallowing, but it makes me feel better…you know, if I call it Pilates?” she says, pulling her face tightly to her kneecaps, masking the small tears I see forming.
“Yeah…it does,” I say, pulling my knees to my chin and turning to look at her with a soft smile. “Tell him you wanna go.”
She shakes her head no. And I don’t blame her. I was afraid once, too. Still am. We both rock slowly, keeping our eyes locked so we can talk silently, like I’m trying to pull her sadness out of her heart and cure it for her. I think Cass would be content to lie here like this next to me in our small safe cocoon for the rest of the night, but the soft knock on the door wakes us from our trance, and Cass sits up quickly, heading to the mirror to finish straightening her hair.
“Hey, study buddy,” Nate says, walking in with his heavy backpack loaded with probably every book he owns. “Can I crash your big night-out plans?” The grin on my face is probably making my response obvious.
“Gah! You two are cute, but when I want to be pissy—you kind of make it tough. I’m heading to Paige’s party. I’ll be home late,” Cass says, stuffing her phone, wallet and keys in the back pocket of her jeans.
“Ty’s wearing…an interesting T-shirt,” Nate says, biting his cheek and smirking knowingly at me. My latest bribe to him was that he had to wear this special shirt Nate and I ordered for him. It reads: “It’s past my bedtime, and I want my milky wilky and my widdle teddy weddy bear named Cookie. Wah!” When I sent the ransom text a few days ago, I told him he could find his next party shirt in his mailbox, where we left it.
“Oh great! I better get something out of this little grudge match you three have going on. You know, in this scenario, I’m the one who’s with the guy with the embarrassing shirt,” she says, and Nate and I both seem to get the same idea at the very same minute. And it only takes Cass a second or two longer to catch up with us. “Oooooooh no! You two are not pulling me into this! No getting creative ideas to make shirts for me!”