I scoot up behind him and I wrap my arm around his waist. I press my head against his back and shut my eyes and feel his chest move underneath my arm.

God. Poor Dash.

I can’t believe all that shit happened, and I didn’t have a clue. I could tell he was unhappy that year. That I do remember. I remember he was vague that night we sat out on the roof—the night before he left. He wouldn’t really say why he was going all the way to Rhode Island.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and more tears seep out. It makes me sad to know he’s dealt with this for all these years and I had no idea. I was just mad at him. Confused and mad.

And I was clueless.

His body is so big and hard against mine—he has always seemed so big and strong to me—it seems impossible to think of young Dash being manipulated like that. God, he said he wanted to die that year.

I rub my tear-streaked face against his back and wish I could have held him like this then. And then I remember—I did. I held him while he slept that one night on the roof. The night he told me he didn’t deserve to be happy, and I argued that he did.

I cry against his back, because I can’t believe this awful thing is woven into our love story. I would do anything to erase it, write it out like we might do in one of our films. But that’s not how life is.

I can’t write my mother back into this world, or rearrange the timeline so my dad meets Harlow sooner. I can’t skip back a few scenes so Dash knows that Lex is having trouble. I can want these things all day, and they won’t happen. My will won’t execute itself and create magic. I would know. I’ve tried before.

“If I could,” I whisper quietly, “I would have had you come back the next day and tell me this whole story. That’s what I would want.” I feel Dash’s breaths stall, and I squeeze him more tightly. “But you couldn’t. Sometimes we don’t get a choice. The right thing doesn’t happen. People die when they should still be alive, for no good reason. I know—” my voice cracks— “that this shit does not make sense. It doesn’t to me either. But it’s true, what we were saying earlier. We have to take it all. You can’t just cut the part where all that shit happened with Manda. You can’t make it disappear, and I can’t either. You have lived with that for years, Dash—and I can, too. Yes, it fucking sucks. But I can live with it. And, you know, you were a victim. You were innocent.”

I feel him shake his head and answer, “Yes—you were. I bet Lexie said the same thing, didn’t she?”

He takes a big long breath, then lets it out.

“Of course she did,” I say.

“She called her Rapey McManda.” I can hear the smile in his voice, and it makes me feel relieved.

“Of course she did.”

“Of course she did.”

* * *

As it happens, Lexie’s funeral isn’t until Saturday, and with our many deadlines, Dash and I can’t miss that much work. We drive back home the next morning and spend the week mostly just working. Dash is slammed with one issue after another: tech problems, artist problems, focus group problems. It’s so good for him, I’m almost thankful.

He doesn’t mention Manda again—or Amanda, as apparently she was with him—and I can’t say I’m sad about that. The one thing he does say is that Lex “hauled his ass to a shrink” last year, so at least I know he’s done a little talking about it.

I make work for myself so I can be at the office with him after hours. Not because I think he’s oh so fragile, but because I want to be near him. I don’t like the idea of him alone with Lex’s death so fresh. While we were driving back to Nashville, he said he could handle things. That he’d be okay. I never knew if he meant Manda or Lex, but really, I’m not sure it matters.

Life is full of shit we didn’t ask for, things we didn’t want and wish we could erase. That doesn’t mean you can. And just because you can’t, that doesn’t mean this world is bad.

Every night when we get back to my place, I help Dash get lost in my body. I act ridiculous and slutty and encourage him to use me just for sex.

“Who’s my whore?” he’ll growl, and I’ll purr: “I am.”

It’s fun, and funny.

“Who’s the little slut next door, with this fine ass?”

“Will you crawl in through my window? Come inside…”

In those moments, I can feel it: that we’re going to be fine.

We drive down to Georgia Friday morning. The Frasiers’ house is packed with all of Dash’s family. We hold hands so people get the drift without a lot of questions. We spend hours with them, talking about Lexie and watching home videos—many of which I’m in—and when night falls, Mr. and Mrs. Frasier have the help pack up the feast, and all the guests leave. Visitation will be midday Saturday, followed by a graveside service.

And that means the night is ours.

I’ve been watching Dash like a hawk, so I know he isn’t sleeping or eating. He didn’t eat more than a few bites of the food at his house today, so around nine, I tell him I need something greasy and we get into his car and drive to Sonic. It’s the greasiest; the worst, really. The one food I can think of guaranteed to push us right into an early grave with Lexie. But…I gambled right. He orders a cheeseburger.

When we get back to his house, I follow him into her room and he just walks around it slowly, blinking at her Sex and the City poster, picking up a Tangled toy she got in a drive through meal when we were in high school. He looks in the mirror over her dresser, the one that’s dotted with stickers from that movie Coraline. I look, too, at bigger Dash, and smaller me, over his shoulder.

He meets my eyes, his mouth twitching. “I think she would have liked this.”

“This view?” I wrap my arms around his neck and Dash kisses me lightly.

“Yeah.”

“I think so too.”

* * *

We end up on the roof, watching our cell phones for the time, so we can see the space station fly over.

Am is eating M&Ms, and I’m drinking grape cola. If I close my eyes and lie down on my back, I can almost tell myself that Lex is right inside, too sleepy or hung over to come out and join the star watch. Instead I have to tell myself that she’s up in the stars.

Am lies down beside me and she holds my hand. I think she can hear my thoughts. “Once when I was little, I told you that my dad had said my mom was in the stars. You told me maybe she was a star. We came out here—I think it was our first time sneaking out here—and you pointed out the brightest star I’d ever seen.”

“It was a planet.” I smile at the memory.

“Well, you told me it was a special star. I bet I was maybe ten?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I remember arguing in college, like a year or two ago, about that really bright star being a star and not a planet.”

I kiss Ammy’s chin. “I’m sorry.” Still, it’s funny, so I chuckle. “I forget you’re still in college. You’re still just a baby, Am.”

She takes my glasses. “So are you. Without your glasses, you’re helpless as a baby.”

“Why do you like to do that?” I sit up, reaching toward her slightly blurry face.

“Because it’s cute to see you struggle.”

“Sadist,” I tease.

She slips them back on my face. “Better?”

“Better.” I hug her to me, and Am sits in between my legs. I trace the hair over her temple. “I’m sorry that I missed your big eye surgery that summer.”

“Pshh, don’t worry about that.”

“Was it very difficult?”

She shrugs. “It sort of was. It was a new procedure then, I guess it kind of still is. Something they’re doing now in even younger kids who were born really premature like I was. I think it took them about six hours?”

“Damn. Six hours.”

“Six hours for no glasses and near perfect eye sight? Worth it. I can see better than you now, old man.”

I rest my face in that soft spot between her cheek and shoulder. Clouds drift overhead, blocking the stars for a long moment. “I don’t want her to be gone, Amelia. I don’t want to never talk to her again.”

I draw my knees up around her, so I’ve got her locked against me. “Where is she? Amelia, how’d you ever live with a dead mother?”

She laughs, dry. “I wasn’t asked. I didn’t want to. When I fell into your pool, my dad had just showed me the new house. I don’t remember why, but I just ran—into those trees.” She nods out at the grove in front of us, the one that hides her old house from our view. “I didn’t hear him behind me, and I remember thinking that I wished I could fly away with Mommy. Every time I used to hear of ‘heaven’ when I was a little kid, this part of me would think ‘maybe I’ll get run over by a car or get into a wreck like Mom, and then I’ll get to go with her.’ Dad said that was sinful—giving up on life. That we have to keep living since we don’t know why we’re here or what our purpose is. We don’t have enough data to justify escaping.” She smiles, and I know why: that does sound just like her father. “God, he must have been so desperate with this little girl who wanted to die.”

“You wanted to die?”

“I don’t know. Can a little kid want to die?” she says. “I think they maybe sort of can.”

I squeeze her closer. “That’s some sad shit, Am.”

“It is sad.”

“My parents don’t want an autopsy done,” I reveal softly. “Lexie had stuff on her, in her pocket. I think she just had a moment and—I guess it was too much. She’d had a pretty good year otherwise.”

Am and I stay outside talking until sunrise, like another night. It ends the same way, too, with my head in her lap. We stay until the chirping birds are too loud and the sun too bright.

We are the living, but we need to sleep.

I carry her to my bed.