Page 41 of Jagged Line Paradise

He licks his lips, a tight, agitated grin pulling back the corners of his lips. My eyes follow his mouth as it curves—an old habit—and I notice his lip piercing is gone. All that remains is the faintest hint of a dimple there, just beneath his bottom lip on the left side where the tiny hoop used to be. My eyes squint, scrutinizing the absence of that seemingly insignificant piece of jewelry.

Insignificant.

But somehow, the absence of that simple thing makes me feel mournful.

The Andrés I knew is well and truly gone.

I realize now that I must have had some sense of hope within me until now—a sense that the eighteen-year-old version of Andrés was still out there in the world. I guess I used to think of him as some kind of elusive being, a boy preserved in time so long as I avoided seeing him age and mature, so long as I avoided him entirely.

That imaginary being no longer exists. He’s here now, in the flesh, and I can see his age and maturity. He’s not the boy I knew. The Andrés I knew no longer exists, and it hurts to think about it.

“I have to go,” I tell the strange, dark man looming over me.

“Where?”

My brow creases. “I don’t have to tell you where I’m going. Mind your own business.” I turn and walk away, not toward my mom’s trailer, but toward the dirt path in the opposite direction, leading out to the main road.

It’s about a quarter mile to the main road from the end of the row of trailers and manufactured homes. It’s only another mile from there to the community center where I teach painting classes three times a week. I like walking there in the heat and sunshine—it keeps the creeping spiders in my mind at bay.

“Fuck,fine,” he mutters from behind me as I walk away. I figure he’s given up and is going back up the hill to film his stupid documentary.

And fine if he is. Good riddance.

The last thing I need is him chasing after me, pursuing me, insisting that he just has to talk to me.

But isn’t that allI’ve ever wanted from him after all this time? Haven’t I fantasized a million times about him comingback, tracking me down, telling me how sorry he isfor leaving, and promising to stay with me forever?

My heart sinks at the thought of him walking away from me again. The pulse of his presence doesn’t fade as I walk forward, and of course, I think I must be imagining the way I feel him at all. But I know that I’m not imagining it. I could always feel when he was near—it was like I was a light trapped inside the orbit of him as a black hole, stretched and warped to oblivion in his overwhelming consumption. I stop dead in my tracks when I hear him sigh and mutter something under his breath with an air of annoyance.

I whip around to look behind me, and as surely as I felt him there, I see him there, walking behind me. “Are you following me?”

“I’m not letting you wander around town alone.”

As if he suddenly cares about me being alone in this town. I march back toward him. “Okay, first of all, I’m not wandering. I’m walking to the community center to teach a painting class. Second, I’ve been walking all around this town for years without any help from you, thank you very much. Third, what gives you theaudacityto think that you have any right to be anywhere near me? I told you I don’t want to talk to you. Do you understand consent? Geez, no means no, dude.”

“Did you just call medude?” He flipping grins.

I throw up my hands, spin away, and start walking again. I take ten solid steps before I dare a glance over my shoulder. And he’s still there, still following me, just a few steps behind.

I stop, and so does he.

I walk, and so does he.

Great.

Now I have a stalker.

Just what I need.

In no time at all, he’s got me worked up and annoyed beyond belief, and I haven’t even reached the main road yet.

Anothermile of this? I can’t.

If he insists on following me, he can at least be less creepy about it. I spin to face him. “You’re beingsoobnoxious right now. You’re really not gonna leave me alone, are you?”

His head tilts to the side, only barely, and the look on his face suggests that he’s as perplexed as I am by the fact that he won’t leave me be. “No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think I am.”

Goosebumps form on my forearms on this hot, hot day in the Arizona desert. His insistence plays tricks on my emotions. He could nearly fool me into thinking that he follows me because he suddenly cares about me again. For a moment, I feel a light-headed sort of elation at the thought, and it might stick around if I let myself fall for the new, commanding, protective version of Andrés.

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