Page 7 of Sweet Oblivion

She replied quickly, stating that I was “cute.”

I curled my lip at that.

You look like a boy I met, years ago, while on vacation. He disappeared before I could tell him my name, but I remember his: Nash Porter. Are you that same person, Superstar?

That was a loaded question. I wasn’t the kid I’d been on that trip. My family had been cohesive then, and I’d been happy. I’d enjoyed playing the little girl’s protector because everyone always babied me.

The song in my head faded, but I barely noticed. I was too busy typing…and enjoying myself. Huh. Who would have thought? I hit send, and within moments, she’d responded.

I thought so. What happened to the shell? she asked.

I smirked as I surveyed the expansive space of my room—the beanbags in front of the gaming console, the pale wood that made up my nightstand, the shell atop it, and the intricate yet simple geometric pattern of my headboard. My bed was made, sheets and thin summer duvet tightly tucked against the mattress thanks to our new housekeeper. Dad had fired the previous staff of house help a few months after Lev died—I think when he realized Steve was on Pop Syad’s payroll, not his. For some reason, Steve’s presence really pissed Dad off. When Dad lost his shit and started yelling at Mom, she left the house in tears and flew off early for her next commercial.

Still got it, I typed.

Good. It was perfect, she replied after a moment. I never found another one like it.

Do you remember anything else from that trip? I asked.

Not really. Just you, Mr. Superstar. And your mom. She was very beautiful.

My mouth smashed flat, and I accidentally took another photo when I squeezed my phone too tight. Worse, I somehow managed to attach it to the message and send it.

No, no, that couldn’t happen—she couldn’t see that. I looked like a moron.

Whatever. She was just some random girl. I didn’t need to impress her. I didn’t need to impress anyone.

What’s wrong? Why the world-weary face?

My breath trickled out of my lungs as tension seeped from my shoulders. Good. She wasn’t going to be a dick about my mistake. Huh. She really was nice.

And her assessment was one I agreed with, even liked. I’d traveled the world, and I was weary. Damn tired of my parents’ inability to pull their heads out of their asses about Lev’s death and remember they had a living, breathing kid still at home who’d totally lick up even scraps of their time and attention.

I pressed send before I realized I’d been typing my thoughts.

I stared at the email, aghast. I hadn’t meant to send her that much truth.

Holy shit.

“Hit Me With Your Best Shot” sprang to life into my head. I tried and failed to enjoy it because anxiety wormed through my guts, leaving me feeling perforated.

I’d sent this chick I didn’t know my entire life story, all the details I’d never, ever tell anyone here. The kids would use it against me, hurt me. Berate me. Rip me apart.

I dropped my phone and sank my fingers into my hair.

What was happening to me? I’d been so sure I’d lost the ability to hear music, and yet the moment I saw Aya’s picture, it had begun to come back. Now, even as I freaked out about this girl who probably wasn’t as nice as she pretended to be, songs ran rampant through my mind.

My heart pounded so hard, I worried it would burst through my lungs. Hearing music was good—no, great! I couldn’t wait to tell my dad about its return, but…the email. I was an idiot, and I had to get it back. I had to stop her from reading it—a new message popped up.

Aya must still be standing atop the mountain, gathering the courage to head back down. Well, that’s if what she’d told me about her life thus far was true. How would I know? And why should I believe her, just because she said it was so?

I pondered her weird story and how I’d do with climbing up and down rocks to get to class or to talk to someone on the other side of the world.

If they can’t get past their loss, then they’re losing again, her message said. They’re losing you!

You seem like a really great guy, Nash. The little boy I met was very sweet, and I can tell he’s still in you. I’m so glad, because I was worried you were one of those cynical mean kids.

My mum and I started traveling when my parents divorced. It was ugly—the divorce, not the travel. I miss what my family was like when everyone got along, but I barely remember that time. My dad hates talking to my mum, so he avoids me, too. Now he has a new family, and he seems happier than I remember him. Happier now that I’m not around.

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