Since You've Been Gone (38 page)

“See?” Frank asked, moving his pillow so that it was right in the center of the seam, and between our two sleeping bags. “More than enough room. Much better than a sweatshirt.”

I lay down slowly, mostly sticking to my edge of the pillow—though it did actually seem to be an extra wide one, and it wasn’t like Frank and I were forced to lie right next to each other.

I was aware of how
quiet
it was in the tent—just the sound of Frank’s breathing and the occasional crinkle of one of our sleeping bags and, from the roof far above, the sound of the rain that must have started up again. I felt my eyes start to get heavy, and could hear that Frank’s breathing was growing slow
and even. And though I couldn’t see details—he was just a nearby shape in the dark—I knew I could have reached out and touched his face without extending my arm. “Good night,” I whispered into the darkness.

“Night, Em,” Frank said, his voice slow and peaceful, like he could drop off at any moment and not be sure if this conversation had just been part of his dream.

I curled up on my side, facing him, and felt myself relax into the pillow we were sharing. And before I dropped off to sleep myself, I registered that our breath was now rising and falling together.

Before I was even fully awake, I could sense that something was different. I opened my eyes and realized after a second that I wasn’t in my bed at home. I realized another second later that I was lying in a tent with Frank, and that his arm was around my shoulders.

I felt myself freeze as I tried to assess the sleeping arrangement we had moved into sometime during the night. I was lying on my side, and so was Frank, both of us facing the same way. We were still in our respective sleeping bags, but we had moved nearer during the night, and we were now lying close together, fitted next to each other like two spoons. Our heads were close on the pillow, and Frank’s arm was over my shoulders and resting by my elbow.

I didn’t move
for what felt like at least a minute or two, reminding myself to keep breathing in and out. When I’d gotten the hang of respiring again, I turned, a millimeter at a time, pausing every time it seemed like there was a hitch in Frank’s breath, until I was lying on my other side, and we were facing each other. The light was cool—it must have been early still—but I could see Frank perfectly. He had a crease running down the side of his face and his normally neat hair was sticking up.

And as I lay there next to him, his arm still around me, as we shared a pillow, I realized that I liked him.

Of course, I liked him as a friend. But this was different. This was more than that. This was wanting to reach over and touch his cheek, lightly, so as not to wake him. This was what had been bouncing around somewhere in my mind ever since the night of his birthday when I’d looked at him just a little too long in the moonlight. It was what I’d felt when we’d danced at the wedding. It was why I’d felt so awkward, going to pick up Lissa. It was why I wanted to stay exactly where I was, but why I also knew I needed to go.

I closed my eyes again for just a minute, even though I knew I wasn’t going to be able to get back to sleep, or stop these revelations from crashing down on me. It was like hitting the snooze button on your alarm—your sleep in that window is never very good, since you know it’s borrowed time, and that it will be over all too soon.

I let myself look at him a moment longer, knowing I’d never be
this close to him again, then feeling sick when I wondered if he and Lissa had ever shared this tent, too. And, really, what was I doing there? I needed to leave.

I eased myself out from under Frank’s arm and then out of my sleeping bag. I didn’t want to wake him, didn’t want to have an awkward conversation. I just left my sleeping bag where it was rather than deal with how disruptive it would be to try and get it out of the tent. I unzipped the flap as slowly as possible, checking in with Frank to make sure this wasn’t waking him, then crawled out of it and zipped it back up. I tiptoed across the floor, shook out my sweatshirt, and then pulled it on. It was chilly outside the tent, in an unheated house with no rugs, and I rubbed my hands together and turned back to the tent as I looked around for my purse.

I stopped short when I realized Collins was awake, sitting at the edge of his tent flap, looking out across the room. For just a moment, it was like I could picture him in the woods somewhere, in that same position, looking out to a sunrise and not just a blank wall. He glanced over at me, and I felt even colder as I saw his expression. I knew then that he’d seen me come out of Frank’s tent. Probably he assumed the worst, even though nothing had happened.

I took a breath, to try and whisper-explain myself, but Collins just looked away from me, moved back into his tent, and zipped himself in without a word.

Hey, you okay?

We’re not running AGAIN? Finally ready to admit my superiority?

Breakfast? Meet you at the diner?

Em, what’s going on?

Are you still coming tonight?

In the three days that had passed since the indoor camping, I’d been avoiding Frank. I was still trying to get my head around the fact that I liked him as more than a friend.  And I had a feeling that if we were on a long run together, some or all of this would come pouring out, probably in an incredibly embarrassing way. So for the moment, I was being a coward, texting him vague replies about being sick and having twisted my ankle and being busy with Paradise. The last text I’d gotten from him, though, I couldn’t ignore. I’d committed to the gala, I’d spent a lot of money on a dress, I needed to cross it off the list, and I was going to go. He needed me for support and as his friend; I knew I had to be there for him.

Still coming. Text me the address?

But getting ready for it didn’t feel like the fun, exciting time that I’d been imagining. I couldn’t help but think back to the last time Sloane and I had gotten ready for an event. We’d always tried to get ready together, even if only one of us was going out. It was just more fun to have someone there, helping with
makeup, strategizing about the night, weighing in with wardrobe decisions. The last time we’d done this had been for junior prom, in her room, since her parents were out of town. She had worn an amazing vintage dress from Twice, a long beaded caftan, and she had done her makeup sixties-style, all cat eye and false lashes, but had kept her hair modern and flowing down her back.

“Finishing touch,” she’d said when we were coiffed and made up and ready to go. She’d lifted the throw rug in her bedroom and pressed down on the loose floorboard. I’d seen her do this before; it was where she kept her precious things, the things she didn’t want to get lost or go missing, two things that seemed to happen with regularity around her house. She reached down into the space and pulled up a tiny bottle of perfume and dabbed it on her wrists and throat. “Milly would use up the whole bottle otherwise,” she said, offering it to me as I shook my head. “And this stuff’s expensive. It was a gift from my aunt.” She put it back under the floorboard, and smoothed down the rug. Then she smiled at me and said what she always did before we went out. “Let’s go have the best night ever.”

I was thinking about this as I spritzed on some perfume myself. I capped the bottle and looked at my reflection in the mirror. The backless dress was just as striking as it had been all those times I’d tried it on at the store, but I wasn’t sure I liked it now. I wanted Frank to notice me in it, but at the same time, that felt like the last thing I should want.

“Okay,” I said, as I looked in the mirror, pulling my shoulders back and making myself say it since Sloane wasn’t here to. “Go have the best night ever.”

I headed down the stairs carefully, holding up the hem of my dress, calling good-bye to my parents. I’d told them about the gala, and my mother had offered to loan me her beaded clutch I’d already taken for the wedding. I’d thanked her, deciding she didn’t need to know I’d already used it once this summer.

I was heading to my car when I realized I still hadn’t gotten the address. I pulled out my phone, and saw I had a text from Frank that I must have missed when I was in the shower.

21 Randolph Farms Lane, see you soon!

I just stared at it for a moment, even checking my text log, but there was no other texts from him saying that he was kidding, or that he’d gotten the address wrong. But there was nothing else. Which meant, I realized as I pulled open the driver’s side door, that I was going to a party tonight at Sloane’s house.

APRIL

Three months earlier

“Another one?” Sloane raised an eyebrow at me.

Despite the fact that my eyes were starting to burn, I nodded immediately. “Let’s do it.” We were five hours into a marathon of
Psychic Vet Tech,
a show that neither of us
had paid attention to when it had first come on this year, but that we’d started binge-watching that night, thinking it would be fun to mock it, only to find ourselves getting drawn in very quickly. I was sleeping over at Sloane’s, which was always much more fun than sleeping over at my house. When we slept over at mine, my mother was always around, wanting to know if we needed anything, checking up on us. When I slept over at Sloane’s, most of the time, her parents weren’t even there, and tonight was no exception. Milly and Anderson were out for the night—or maybe the weekend, Sloane hadn’t been sure—and Sloane had taken over as hostess, getting us both Diet Cokes with lemon slices in wine glasses, and cooking dinner for us in the kitchen.

“It’s my specialty,” she said, tasting something from one of the pots on the stove, frowning, and then adding more pepper. “And I mean that literally. It’s the one and only thing I can make. It’s my penne arrabbiata. But we didn’t have any penne. So it’s spaghetti arrabbiata.”

“How did you learn to make this?” I asked, leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping my Diet Coke. I knew I could have probably offered to help, but there was something about the whole situation that felt so glamorous—so
adult
—that I just wanted to take it in.

Sloane frowned down at the piece of paper she was working from and pulled the pencil out of her hair, which fell down around her shoulders. She pushed it impatiently
out of her face and scribbled something on the paper, then twisted her hair up again and stuck the pencil through it. “The arrabbiata?” she asked. “My aunt taught me. And I know I took a picture of her recipe, but I didn’t write it down. And now I can’t find what camera it was on, so I’m just trying to remember . . .” She stirred something that was bubbling on the back burner. “So this might be terrible,” she said, not sounding too bothered by this. “Just warning you.”