I push off the counter.
I don’t dare to look at her again. I don’t look at Percy. I don’t look at Mila. I don’t look at Benson. I don’t look at anyone. I walk to the stairs, take them two at a time, and my shoulder grabs on the third one. Off to bed I go. I need to sleep off this shoulder pain.
My bedroom is at the back of the house. I picked it in my freshman year because it’s the furthest from the front street and the closest to quiet, and two years later, I still believe it was the right pick. The bass from downstairs is in the floor under myfeet rather than in my chest, and I can shut the door and have a thought.
I sit on the edge of the bed and take my hat off. I run my hands through my hair and place the hat on the nightstand. I grab my phone, but there’s nothing to look at. Devin sent me a meme three hours ago. I open it and laugh under my breath. My mom textedgood game tonight, love you,after the game, and I haven’t replied yet. The forwards group chat is popping off about the loss. I am not opening it.
I scroll past all of it.
Down.
Past Stanley. Past Benson. Past Devin. Past my mother.
I stop on a name I have not tapped in years.
Melly Sorcha.
I tap it.
The last text is hers.
Happy birthday, Blue. I hope you’re doing well.
May. Almost two years ago. This was probably before her boyfriend. Little freshman me didn’t respond, and it’s not surprising. It took me all this time to cool down.
I scroll.
Hey, congrats on the commitment to Camden. Devin told me. Proud of you.
Two years ago again. Spring of senior year. Two months after she had fallen asleep with her hand on my chest, and I had left at five in the morning. I left her on read.
I scroll up, surprised that these text messages didn’t automatically delete after a year. But then I remember I changed the setting so that I could periodically scroll through them.
Hi. I just wanted to say I’m sorry about your grandma. Devin told me. Thinking about you.
Senior year in high school again. My grandmother had a stroke, and Melly Sorcha somehow knew and sent me a text. I sat in my bedroom, crying and looking at it. I didn’t respond.
I scroll up. Further. Faster.
Saw you got the assist last night. Nice.
Saw the article in the local paper. They spelled your name wrong on purpose I think.
Saw the highlight. I don’t know hockey but that one was good right?
These were in high school. Spaced out across months. I didn’t respond to a single one.
I scroll down further into senior year of high school, my eyes already knowing what feeling they’re looking for. To the four days after the all-nighter.
Hey, are you up?
Are you home?
Blue.
That last one is at 2:14 a.m. on a Tuesday.
I scroll past.
