Dear Douchebag, Just thought you should know that I’ve decided to start dating myself. It’s going great so far—I treat myself with respect, never put myself down on national TV, and I don’t believe my money-grabbing, jersey-chasing ex over an upstanding, long-time friend. You might want to try dating yourself sometime. I think you’ll find it quite satisfying. Oh wait, you’re a codependent, cocky, self-centered wuss who hides behind muscles, speed, and an extraordinary dimple you don’t deserve. Looks like you’re screwed for life. Oh well. Best of luck in your future endeavors. Cheers, Anna
PS: Please sign the contract your dad made with Texas even if it does screw you over completely. It’ll get you 1,038 miles farther from me.
I fell back onto the couch, face on fire, a hot poker rammed through my chest. Had she googled the distance between Knoxville and Austin? A quick search told me yes, indeed she had.
My phone rang. It was Anna. I stared at her name, completely conflicted. Did I want more of that, orally?
On the third ring I hit the green check. “Hello?”
“Uh, sorry. Brooklyn sent those texts.” Her soft voice was the best thing I’d heard in seven hours. I exhaled in relief.
A girl cackled in the background.
“Brook, stop,” Anna warned.
It took a second to catch my breath. “Anna?—”
“No,” she said, her voice trembling. “I didn’t call for some kind of reconciliation. I just wanted you to know that I wouldn’t write something like Brooklyn just did. I was raised better than that.”
“I wasn’t!” Brooklyn called in the background.
I rubbed my temple. “Please, can we just talk about everything? About us?”
She sniffed, and it sounded like she was crying. “I told you in the hospital that you shouldn’t make any promises. You don’t know which end is up right now. So no, I don’t think that’s a good idea. And even if you did remember, I don’t think it’ll make a difference after today. Maybe. But I doubt it. Please don’t call or text me anymore. Bye, B-Blue.” It sounded like she choked my name out on a sob. Then the call ended.
My eyes burned and I knew if things ended like this, losing Anna would be the greatest regret of my life. What else could I do? Pay Stilts to drive me to Sweet Grass? I wasn’t cleared to drive yet and I wasn’t sure that crap-mobile sitting in the driveway that Stilts swore was my car would make the drive. No. I’d lost Anna once because of impatience and selfishness. I wouldn’t do it again. And driving up to win her back after she’d asked me not to contact her would probably look like both of those things. I could send her roses. But that seemed like the generic sucker move. And if Anna really didn’t care about money or status, she’d be offended if I tried to buy her off.
Then I remembered that her uncle, Silas, liked me. My thumbs pounded the keyboard in a thundering fury.
Hey man, I’m sure you saw what happened today. I messed up. Big time. I believed the wrong people. I was hoping you could talk to Anna for me. Just let her know how sorry I am. She’s asked me not to call or text anymore. Please.
I deleted the last word and retyped it three times. It sounded desperate. But Iwasdesperate and he should know it. I hit send.
I stared at my phone for thirteen minutes and nothing happened. Finally, when I couldn’t sit still anymore, I got up and paced. Stilts watched me from the kitchen with a raised brow as he cooked up some frozen stir-fry. Twenty-two minutes after I’d sent the text, I headed for my bedroom. I folded a laundry basket full of clothes that my mom had washed. I focused, trying to force my brain to remember anything—from which drawer my stupid clothes belonged in to exactly what happened when Anna and I broke up.
She’d said there was no point in talking until I remembered—and maybe not even then. But I couldn’t let myself believe that part.Maybewas my clarion call. I would hold onto that word with all I had. I tried with all my might to remember. Why wouldn’t my stupid brain let me?
Once the clothes were put away, I picked up the clear bag of belongings the hospital had sent home with me and dumped the contents onto my bed. I went through them one by one. My sweaty football pants smelled like a large rodent had crawled into the crotch and died. My jersey—which they’d cut down the middle—was barely better. Socks were far worse.
When I picked up my cleats, something shiny caught my eye.
I tilted my head, trying to see if there really was a piece of gold jewelry tucked inside. I shook my left shoe until it fell into my hand. Then I stared down at a necklace with the acronym A.N.D. centered on the chain.And? And what? What was that code for? I walked into the kitchen.
Stilts tipped his chin up. “Food’s ready,” he said around the bite in his mouth.
I held up the chain. “What is this?”
He chewed and then swallowed. “That’s the necklace Anna gave you when you moved away.”
A.N.D. Anna Dupree. My mouth parted. “What does the N stand for?”
He shrugged. “You told me once. Nancy? Natalie? Nadine? I don’t remember.”
For once my brain gave me the answer. Annaleise Nicole Dupree. “Nicole. It’s Nicole.” I scowled. “Why was it in my football cleat if we broke up four years ago?” None of this made any sense.
“They must’ve taken it off you in the hospital. It’s your lucky charm. You never take it off. They tape it to you during games.” He snorted. “It’s like you’re still in love with her or something.”
“I never take it off?”
