“You walked? It’s three miles.”
“So?”
He picks at a loose thread on his jeans. Picks and picks until it breaks free in a long, unraveling strand. He flicks it off his finger and onto the sidewalk. I watch him for a few more seconds, wondering why he’s not staying for dinner. He usually eats with us a couple times a week, same as Charlie. They’re an extension of Owen and me, our neighboring stars. But I’m not sure Charlie will ever step foot in my house again. It fills me up slowly, the idea that nothing will ever be the same.
“Are you and Owen fighting?” I ask.
Alex doesn’t move, but the skin around his eyes tightens. “Of course not. I mean, I’m such a good friend, right?”
He pushes himself to his feet and starts to walk away.
“Hey, wait,” I say, standing too. I glance back at my house, the warmth-filled windows, the dinner my parents are probably putting on the table, four place settings all in the right spots. The perfect little family. “You want a ride?”
The porch light hits just shy of his face, and his hands are stuffed into his pockets. Alex has never been easy to read, but I can almost feel something in him bending toward me, just like I am to him.
“Yeah, okay,” he says.
I dig my keys out of my bag and soon we’re closed inside the car I share with Owen, tires squealing as I pull out of the driveway too fast. My house fades out of my rearview and it’s like a tether snapping free. I put the windows down and hold out my free hand, letting the cool night air drizzle through my fingers and hair. Alex does the same, resting his head against the seat, his arm hanging out the window.
Near downtown, Alex’s street comes up on the right and I flick on the blinker, slowing the car to make the turn. Slower . . . slower . . .
Over the console, our gazes lock. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even blink, but the tiniest smile ghosts over his mouth, softening all those tight features he wore at my house. It’s enough to make me accelerate right past his street.
We drive around for a while, content just to listen to music and feel ourselves moving over the earth. When I pull into the parking lot of Orange Street Cemetery, Alex laughs.
“I do have other places I like to go, you know,” he says.
“Really?” I slip my keys from the ignition. “I thought it was all tombstones, all the time, with you.”
He snaps his fingers dramatically. “Dammit, I forgot my violin again.”
I laugh, happy to see the Alex from Glow Galaxy, the Owen-free Alex I’m starting to suspect is the real Alex. Light from the full moon spears through the windows and the silvery beams make his eyes dance.
“Well, it’s not about the tombstones for me,” I say. “It’s about the stories.”
He follows me out of the car, and we walk up the small hill that crests before dipping down into a sort of valley, tombstones almost glowing in the dark. The river shines beyond them, its surface sparkling under the moon.
“Wow,” Alex breathes.
“Yeah. It’s beautiful.”
“In a really creepy sort of way.”
“It’s more gloomy than creepy. Gloomy can be beautiful.”
“You’ve been hanging around Charlie too long.”
I try to laugh at that, but it gets stuck in my throat. Instead, I slide my fingers between his and start down the hill. He doesn’t pull away, just folds his hand around mine, nearly swallowing it.
When we reach the bottom, I unlace our fingers. The feeling of a hand in mine is so familiar, but so different with Alex. It’s intense and scary, and a flare of guilt sparks somewhere in my chest. I step away from him, catching my breath as I read the nearest epitaph.
We wander among the graves for a while, and pretty soon Alex catches on that I’m looking for girls with more than just daughter or mother or wife on their stone.
“Here’s Beautiful friend,” he says, squatting in front of an ancient-looking marker.
I join him, kneeling in the silvery grass. “Naomi Lark, 1899–1920. God, there are so many young women in here.”
He nods, swiping his fingers so gently over the engraved words on the stone, it pulls a knot into my throat.
