Page 54 of Only in Your Dreams

“And to think,” I say, clutching the sleeve of a silky white blouse. Connor’s favorite, and the current object of my disdain. “I thought we were all friends.”

The blouse slips off its hanger in response. It lands on the closet floor.

“Well, screw you too, then.”

I’ve truly gone insane in this seven-day insomnia.

I pause, reaching for the offending blouse. As it was last week, the back of my closet is lined with bent-out-of-shape cardboard boxes all markedParker’s Stuff, collected from my brother’s childhood bedroom before our parents sold the house a few years ago. But there, at the very top of a corner stack, is a single box with my name scrawled on the side in black marker. I hadn’t noticed it when I moved in.

I heave out the box, causing more silky-bloused casualties in the process, and the clear tape barely offers resistance when I rip the top flaps apart.

It’s a pile of old clothes and other random knickknacks from my childhood bedroom. A variety of miniature footballs, both foam and badly deflated leather—a staple for a homegrown resident of a football town like Oakwood Bay. A length of rope my old sitter insisted I use to practice my bowline knot before she allowed me behind the wheel of her sailboat at the age of twelve. Sinking to the floor, I dig out a folded piece of cardboard from the very bottom of the box, smoothing it out in my lap.

Ten years from now, my life looks like…

My stomach sinks. It’s my senior year vision board, depicting the life eighteen-year-old me declared would be hers. It’s not particularly ambitious—not that it needed to be, at eighteen—but the images are splashed with warm yellows, happy blues and greens that scream of optimism for this open-ended future.

Ten years ago, I didn’t have much of a plan beyond knowing I was headed to the city to study mathematics. That didn’t scare me. Parker and I grew up with adventurous, fly-by-the-seat-of-their-pants parents, so it didn’t feel odd to any of us that I’d look to the change of scenery for inspiration. I was excited to explore a new city, meet new people out from the forever safety net that was my twin brother. My free-spirited parents encouraged it.

But even between the image of a city skyline, a stock photo of a young, happy family, and some goofy-looking dachshunds contained in this vision board, eighteen-year-old me would be in for a brutal awakening if she saw us now.

I left Oakwood Bay optimistic about the future. I returned to my hometown aimless, emotionally damaged, to be judged by this decrepit piece of cardboard and internet search results that tell me just how foolish I’ve been for the past six years.

I eye the corner of the old vision board, where a missing photo must have torn off in my parents’ move. I can’t remember what used to be there, but I bet I never made that happen, either.

I rub at my temples. If only I could manage a decent night’s sleep. Maybe then I’d be able to cobble together some sort of life plan…

My phone chimes from its spot in the middle of my unmade bed. I set aside the vision board, blocking my old dreams from view.

SUMMER:Adding the better-looking Woods twin to the group chat… You’re welcome, everyone.

PARKER:What the hell, Summer??

I snort, and it’s as close to a laugh as I’ve given in my week of wallowing and self-psychoanalysis. If there’s one thing about moving back home, it’s feeling like I’ve got people in my corner again, between Parker and Summer. She’s been messaging me non-stop since our return from camp, asking how I’m doing at least four times a day.

Never relenting until I finally got it out of her that the first time she checked on me was to satisfy her own concern. And every time thereafter had been to satisfy Zac’s.

I almost asked her to give me his number for the sake of asking him to take a breath. But that would require finding a way to cut through the awkward we left between us after that tumble in the mud, and I can barely muster the will to shower these days.

I blow an errant strand of hair off my face just as my phone dings again. A text from one of the anonymous numbers at the top of the group chat.

“Who…” I click open the message.

Hey.

The snorting thing happens again. This time, it’s followed by an odd gurgling from deep in my chest, bubbling up my throat, and the sound of my own laugh hitting the dead silence of my bedroom is a shock to my system.

I stand, shrugging out of Parker’s too-big sweater.

MELODY:Hey with a period, Porter? What are you, a serial killer?

ZAC:It’s a fair assumption, given the text. How did you know it was me?

MELODY:It was either you or Brooks in that group chat, and he didn’t strike me as a hey with a period kind of guy. Aren’t you at work?

ZAC:I am.

ZAC:How are you?

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