First Comes Love (7 page)

We stop walking when we stumble onto an empty lot, where a house is beginning construction. The ground has been leveled and a cement foundation was recently poured. We walk around the cement ground and design the house. We put the bathroom in the corner, the kitchen facing northwest. I map out the living room, where the fireplace will go and how the wing chairs will be situated. Gray informs me the room needs a sectional, or at a minimum, two recliners.

“You can’t watch sports in wing-backed chairs,” he argues. I inform him there will be no television in this house, which starts a heated debate, only resolved by a compromise. There will be a television in the basement. And surround-sound speakers. And a poker table.

We decide it needs a second story for bedrooms and a loft because lofts are perfect for building forts, a necessity in any sensible home design. I point out the dining room would work best coming off the back end of the house, where the view of the city is a galaxy of lights, hundreds of feet below.

We sit down at the edge of the foundation, both of us visualizing our finished house. I ask Gray if he could live anywhere, where it would be.

He leans back on his hands.

“I’d live in New Zealand,” he says, “on the North Island.” He tells me his dad collects travel photography books piled on the living room table and that’s where he discovered the spot. In the tip of New Zealand, the island breaks off into tiny clusters, and those make up the Bay of Islands. He’d live in the middle of them, in a white beach house with huge windows looking out at the sea. He’d sleep outside on the porch every night. He’d own kayaks and speedboats and go parasailing every day. He’d learn how to sail.

I watch his face change as he talks. It becomes more hopeful, as if he’s looking into the future for the first time and imagining it could be a paradise. It’s a new attitude for him.

I’m trying to concentrate on the city skyline below,
but my eyes keep getting pulled down to the rip in Dylan’s jeans, exposing her naked knee. I’m tempted to run my hand over her skin, and the ache to touch her becomes so powerful, my fingers start to burn.

“Can I ask you something?” I say. I hesitantly pick up my hand and run it through her hair. It falls soft between each of my fingers. My heart races from the touch. Dylan inhales a sharp breath and meets my eyes. Bits of light reflect inside them.

“Why are you here?” I ask. She stares at me with surprise. I drop my hand out of her hair so I can think clearly. “I’m not stupid,” I say. “I know I’m not a party to be around. I’m cynical and boring and I’m not even nice to you.”

“You’re not boring,” she insists. “And you can be nice. I think it’s accidental, but it does happen.”

“You know what I mean,” I say. We both have our sandals off and I run my toe along the top of her foot, down to her bony ankle. She doesn’t move it away. “I’ve spent half the time trying to blow you off. Which I feel really bad about, by the way. And I’m glad you came back. But why did you?”

She smiles.

“And don’t say it’s because I’m cute,” I add.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. You’re a challenge,” she says. I raise my eyebrows at this simple answer and tell her I’m sure she can find more upbeat, happy people in this city that are also a challenge.

“But they wouldn’t have your prolific theories,” she points out. Well, that is true.

“I like people that take time to figure out,” she says. “That’s one thing I’ll never be—mysterious. I put it all out there. So, I’m intrigued by people who make it hard to get to know them. People opposite me, I guess.”

She studies my confused expression. “You play video games, right?” she asks. I nod. What guy doesn’t?

“Okay, you know how in video games, the character you’re trying to beat has a life bar at the bottom of the screen that you need to break down? But you need to learn all their moves and defenses before you can? Well, you’re kind of like that.”

I look away as I visualize this random analogy. “So, you’re trying to deplete my life bar?”

She smirks as she applies some Chap Stick to her lips.

I’m jealous of Chap Stick. There’s a first.

“I’m trying to kick down all these walls you’ve built up to see what’s underneath. The more I knock them down, the more I like what I see,” she says. “And I think you’re cute,” she adds.

She looks out at the lights below and changes the subject.

“You know what I love most about the desert?” she asks. I shake my head. “It’s the only place where the earth is stripped naked. Totally exposed. It’s like you can’t help but be yourself when you’re surrounded by it. You can’t help but bare your thoughts.”

She looks back at me and waits. Her eyes are determined.

“Okay,” I say. I ask her what she wants to know.

“Why all the walls, Gray?” she asks. “What’s going on with you?” I turn my body away from her and stare out at the bowl of lights below our dangling feet. I could play dumb. I could lie. But I don’t want to. Not with her.

I look back at Dylan. I have to confess to someone. It’s cracking inside me.

“My family’s falling apart,” I finally say. Dylan’s eyes turn into their listening mode, where they focus on mine and invite me to come inside and stay awhile. I inhale a long breath. I’m not sure I’m prepared to open up this conversation. My hands clench into fists.

“What happened?” she asks.

“My mom’s depressed,” I say. “My dad’s never home. When he is, it’s like he’s sleepwalking. We haven’t spoken in months.” Dylan’s silent next to me. I look over at her with hard eyes. “I’m not asking you to feel sorry for me. It’s just what we’re going through.”

She nods and I take another deep breath. I tell her the truth. I tell her my sister died, my twin sister, about eight months ago, and my mind and heart twist with anger at hearing the words out loud. I thought the pain would get easier, but it always stings, like a snakebite, through my core, down to my bones. I still haven’t accepted her death. It’s easier to imagine she’s just away on a long trip. Traveling the world. That she’ll show up any day and surprise us.

“It hasn’t been good,” I say, and pull down the rim of my hat.

I tell Dylan she died in a car accident. She hit black ice on the way to Flagstaff in a snowstorm and spun out of control. It ripped my family apart, and now I’m the only thing holding us together. I’m the glue, and it’s a weak hold at best.

“You don’t want to be here,” Dylan says. She doesn’t ask. She knows. She can see it in my eyes.

“No. Everything here reminds me of her. It’s like I’m living in a graveyard.”

“What’s her name?”

“Amanda.”

“And you two were really close?” she asks.

“Yeah. She dated one of my best friends in high school for a while—Brandon, the guy you met on Mill Avenue. We hung out all the time.” Most guys would never admit being best friends with their sister, but I tell Dylan she was like a soul mate.

“I don’t remember the month after her death.” I smile to myself. “I think I went to the dark side for a while.”

“Did you miss any school?”

I shake my head and tell her school was the only thing that got me through it. But it’s like I was in a coma the whole time. Six months of my life was a blur. I didn’t play baseball—I couldn’t. My mind was too numb. I ignored all my friends; they just reminded me of her. Then they all graduated and moved on with their lives. The ones that stuck around called for a while, but they eventually stopped.

“And you feel like you need to stay in Phoenix to be close to your parents?”

I nod.

“Were you planning on going to school?”

I tell her I had a scholarship offer to play baseball in New Mexico, before Amanda died. I gave it up to stay home. There’s no way I could pack up my life and leave my parents alone.

“I bet your sister would have wanted you to play,” she says.

She’s right. Amanda would be furious with me. She’d kick my ass to New Mexico. I can imagine her in heaven, complaining about how I’m wasting my life away, and trying to persuade angels to fly down and smack me in the head with their halos until I come to my senses.

“And your mom isn’t coping very well?”

I shake my head and tell her she still cries every day. I can hear her at night. But she doesn’t want to talk about it. We don’t even say Amanda’s name in the house. It just hangs in the air like smoke that hasn’t settled yet.

Dylan asks me all kinds of questions about my sister. What was she like, did she play sports, what her hobbies were. It feels good to talk about Amanda, to lift up the shade of memories. It lets some light in.

We sit in our imaginary dining room for hours, and it’s starting to feel like home. I finally stand up and pull Dylan up next to me. We walk in silence back to her car. As we drive home, all my thoughts filter back to Amanda and the night the police called about the accident. I think about the drive, the longest drive of my life, up to the hospital in Flagstaff where my sister was dying in an intensive care unit. And I always wonder what was going through her head. I wonder if she was scared or in pain or even capable of thought. I wonder what you think about right before you end.

We never got to say goodbye. And a piece of me died with her that day.

Dylan turns down the radio and glances at me.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” she says in a voice that’s always energized. I wait for it.

“I have an idea,” she says.

“Of course you do,” I say.

“Let’s celebrate your sister tomorrow. Take me to all her favorite places. Where she hung out, where she went shopping, where she went out to eat. Let’s honor her for the day. I want to see photos, I want to hear stories. What do you think?”

I stare back at her. “Why?”

“Because you loved her. And you need to spread her legacy.”

I look out the window and consider this. I spent the last eight months avoiding the streets I drove down with my sister. Avoiding the people and places that made all the memories come back in nauseating waves.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. Starting tomorrow morning. Where should we go for breakfast?”

I smile at the memory.

“Tommy’s. It’s in Mesa,” I say. “It’s a dive, but the food is unbelievable. Best biscuits and gravy in the city.”

“I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“Eight in the morning?”

She ignores my concern with sleeping in. “We have a lot of ground to cover. Start making a list.”

When she drops me off, I get out of the car and my head feels lighter. For the first time in years, I feel like there’s life after death.

***

I’m trying to sleep,
but too many thoughts are spilling over my mind. I want to catch them and coax them to sleep so I can sleep, but they’re determined to make me think. And I’m thinking about one girl in particular.

What the hell is happening between me and Dylan? Everything is backwards with this girl. Call me close-minded, but usually dates don’t involve celebrating the life of a dead relative. It doesn’t exactly set the mood for romance. Then again, is this even a date?

I’m not a licensed relationship expert, but in my experience when you’re interested in someone things progress in predictable (and usually painful) phases: You check her out and catch her checking you out. You picture her naked, while she likes to refer to the mutual sexual attraction as “chemistry.” Now it’s time for the personality profiling. You make small talk between classes or after school or at work. You attempt to show subtle interest without being too obvious—it’s all about maintaining mysterious indifference. If you come on too strong you’re labeled as desperate, or a stalker. Overeagerness is up there with serial killer status as a way to fend off possible love interest. It’s a careful balance, like a tightrope you need to cross over those first few weeks.

You play it safe. Send witty text messages. Make sure you’ve downloaded your best pictures online: you rock climbing (your adventurous, athletic side), playing Scrabble with Grandma (your easygoing, sensitive side), a group shot of you and your friends (Mr. Popular). There’s only one conclusion to draw from this digital slideshow: You’re a Catch. Once that definitive answer is reached, eventually, you hang out in person and let your oddball shine through. And this is usually when things go bad, or like Amanda and I used to say, when the cheese gets old and moldy.

What I don’t think is normal is anything that defines my relationship with Dylan. I still don’t even have her phone number. Tonight I spent half the time thinking about kissing her. Wondering how she’d react. Wondering when I should try.

I can’t even figure out if she wants me to kiss her. She holds my hand and calls me cute, but girls hold each other’s hands and call each other cute (kind of a turn-on, actually), so what am I? What if she just sees me as a brother type? God, no, please. What if she ropes me into her random plans because she wants a buddy? A sidekick? She doesn’t really flirt with me. She touches me, but she doesn’t stare into my eyes like girls do when they want you to kiss them, with that dreamy, lovesick gaze.

I played the leaning game tonight. It’s this stupid theory I’ve heard, that if she leans her legs or shoulders or head toward you, it’s body language saying she likes you. But this girl doesn’t sit still long enough to confirm anything other than she’s hyper.

I’m at a critical point here where I could miss my opportunity and fall into the dreaded and irreversible Friend Zone, the ultimate dead end. Every guy’s greatest fear and deepest remorse.

But how am I supposed to set the mood when Dylan could win an award for the most awkward dating ideas of all time?

I pull into his driveway at
and before I turn off the engine the front door opens and Gray walks out in his usual T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. I stick my head out of the car window and frown.

“You’re missing something,” I inform him. He assumes I’m referring to the fact that he’s hatless today. He shrugs and runs his hand through his hair, which, no matter how hard he attempts to control it, resembles something close to shag carpeting. It’s one of his best features. I kill the engine and spring out of the car. He blinks heavily and informs me I have way too much energy this early in the morning.