Page 131 of Look, Don't Touch

My mouth falls open. Indignation demands I throw something about sex in her face to bring her down to my level. I hold on to my ugly words. Because she’s right. My knee-jerk reaction tells me all I need to know.

“I have been.” I haven’t spoken to Arlo in the longest week of my life. I haven’t faced my fears head-on. I’ve been making excuses about finding my center when I know where it is, and I know I can’t have it.

“Now that you’ve admitted it, you can try to change it.”

I nod, then turn and leave.

A cab stops for me on the corner. I slide in and close the door.

“Woodlawn Cemetery, please.”

He nods and takes off like a bat out of hell. I stare out the window, thinking about what Astor said.

Sometimes the rudest, most hurtful thing is the truth. And, in turn, what we need to hear more than platitudes and reassurances.

I lean my head back and close my eyes until the car jerks to a final halt.

“Forty-four fifty-two,” the driver barks.

It would have been cheaper to use the driving service. Only because my aunt refuses to let me pay for it. Yet something about the act of paying makes coming all the way out here more meaningful. So for the past five days, I’ve paid the price of admission, looking for some answers in the rolling green grass and rows of headstones.

Nothing has come yet.

I pay the driver and head for Matt’s grave with my head down, hunched against the almost December chill. I have to get through Thanksgiving first…without Nat. Astor invited me to her dad’s, but that means interacting with the approximately two hundred other people who’ll also be in attendance.

Don’t know if I’m up for that.

Maybe Plink and I will order in and watch trash TV, while I hope Arlo is celebrating with his friends.

My heart fucking cracks. I’m in a full sob by the time I reach Matt’s too fresh grave. The headstone won’t come in for months, and I hate it. But…

A bouquet of fresh flowers lies over the seeded dirt that won’t sprout until spring. The buds are vibrant and full of life against the backdrop of dirt. They’re such a dichotomy. Of course, in a week, the flowers won’t look quite so out of place.

I choke on my tears. My head jerks up, and I look left and right.

The place is deserted, save for one car in the distance. It’s a black Town Car, not unlike a few hundred thousand black Town Cars in the city. Still, my feet are moving toward it at an exceptional pace, considering the boots I’m wearing and the uneven maze I have to navigate.

I’m still fifty yards out or so when the driver’s door opens. A burly man I’ve seen a couple of times before steps out and stands next to his open door. When I’m a handful of yards away, the driver, who reminded me about my painting in the trunk the last time I saw him, hitches a thumb over his shoulder.

“Over top of the hill.” That’s all he says, then he slips back inside the warmth of the car.

My footsteps hurry to a near sprint until I crest the long, gradual slope. The beat of my heart reminds me that I haven’t been exercising regularly enough. Or maybe it has nothing to do with that and everything to do with…

“Arlo.”

I don’t say his name loudly at all. Still, he turns away from three matching headstones with three bouquets of flowers identical to the ones on Matt’s grave.

His knees hit the grass. The look of anguish on his stubble-covered face is more than I can bear.

I run faster than I’ve ever run before. I run like a murderer is hot on my heels when, in fact, I am one, and I’m running toward one. The cold wind whips my hair from my face and threatens to freeze my tears to my cheeks.

My arms go wide, and I dive into him.

Somehow, he holds us upright. His warmth wraps around me, and his lips pepper my temple and hair with kisses.

This isn’t how this is supposed to go.

I’m supposed to be explaining to him why we can’t be together. I’m supposed to point out all my issues and shortcomings. I’m supposed to make a clean cut for both of us.

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