“It’s getting harder to tell when you’re joking,” she admits.
I keep my poker face on just to keep her guessing. “Are you done being mad at me for shaving my head?”
“Depends.” She taps her gravestone, right where it saysVirginia Elizabeth Cortland. “Are you going to take this catharsis thing seriously?”
I draw my knees up. “What exactly am I supposed to do?”
She squints. “I think you’re supposed to acknowledge that I’m dead and therefore not really sitting in front of you.”
“Easy. I know that.”
“And then I think you’re supposed to stop talking to me. Especially all day, every day. I think you’re supposed to stop wondering what I’d say when something funny happens or when you’re trying to make a decision. And definitely stop asking me for advice about what you’re supposed to do.”
“But—”
“You’re supposed to stop imagining me when you’re furious or happy just because I’m the person you want to share it with. You’re supposed to clean out my bedroom, give some of the stuff to Mom and Dad and Rip and Ken, and donate the rest. Stop wearing my clothes. Stop writing songs about me. And I’m picking up strong hints from Dr. X that she wants you to consider rehab.”
“Jesus. I don’t need rehab.”
“You drink a lot more than you used to.”
“Here’s the thing.” I lie back on the grass and fold my hands behind my head. “If I do any of that, I’m officially alone. And I don’t mean temporarily.” I glance at Ginny. “I mean fundamentally, existentially alone.” I can feel the icy pull of the aloneness even now. The sensation is what I imagine it would feel like to get expelled into space: a cold emptiness so eternal it’s obliterating. “Human beings aren’t meant to live like that.”
“You aren’t alone. You have Mom and Dad and Ripper and Kenny and Bowie.”
I root up a dandelion and twist it in my fingers. “Not at the moment.”
“Yeah, you know, for a girl who’s scared of being alone, you’re awfully good at alienating people.” Off my look, Ginny holds up her hands. “Fine, I understand the human brain isn’t always logical. What about Theo?”
I close my eyes and picture him, his broad shoulders hunched over the recording equipment in the studio, full lipspursed in concentration. A hand running distractedly through his hair. “Theo is temporary.”
“I think you could keep him,” she counters.
“How?” I shift my focus to the birdsong. There’s a strange, distant clicking sound, too, vaguely familiar.
“I meanreallykeep him. In a way that matters.”
“He’s a Suit, Gin. I’m his stepping stone to a promotion.”
The strange clicking sound continues.
“You know better than that,” she says softly.
The bird stops singing but the clicking sound grows louder. I crack an eye.
“I’m not blaming you for not experiencing catharsis yet,” Ginny says. “If it was the other way around and you died and left me, I’d become a belligerent drunk too. I’d probably shave my whole head, not just half, and spiral and quit the band and try to set my life on fire. That’s how much I love you.”
“I don’t—”
Click-click-click.
It hits me where I’ve heard that noise before. I launch to my knees and spin, heart pounding.
There he is—the photographer is crouched behind a tree, camera to his face, the lens glinting in the sun. He sees me spot him and jerks back.
“What the fuck, man?” I scramble to my feet. I have mud on the knees of my jeans but I ignore it. “What are you doing?”
“He drove all the way to Bonita Vista?” Ginny asks. “That’s like two hours from LA.”
