6:15 PM Saturday, your house

I’m sitting at your kitchen table, telling your mom about how we went to the ball field and we got the guy’s name. I already texted her his name so she could tell the cops. “He’s got creepy eyes.”

She gives me this funny look and drops a plate in front of me with hot lasagna. “Eat,” she says.

I take a big bite. It’s amazing. If it weren’t for your mom, I’d be seriously malnourished this year. I guess Winona dropped off a huge casserole dish of it when she heard about you being missing, and soon as I got here, your mom told me she “needs” me to eat it, no way they can get through it all. I’m happy to comply.

“I told the detective,” your mom says. “He’s a nice man. Name’s McFerson. Irish.” She tells me he still has an accent even though he’s lived here for sixteen years. He’s forty-four and played soccer professionally. Funny that she got all these details about him.

“Did he search Chris’s room?” I ask her.

“He looked around a bit. Didn’t see anything. I looked too. I thought Chris could’ve written me a note. Maybe he was heading on a trip and didn’t want to tell me directly.” Her mouth flickers up, briefly, like she’s remembering something sweet you did. Then, she shakes her head. “There was nothing out of the ordinary.”

“If he was planning on taking off, he would’ve let you know.”

She nods. “Last time, he left a note.”

From upstairs, a violin wails. I look up.

“How’s Raffa?” I ask.

She clicks her tongue. “Not good. She won’t eat.”

“Do you think she knows something?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Can I go look in his room?”

“You go ahead, but let Raffa come out in her own time. And don’t tell her about those boys. It’ll only upset her. She’s worried enough.”

I head upstairs. Your door is closed. So is Raffa’s. The violin is playing faster now—sounds like she’s sawing that thing—it’s beautiful, violent.

I open the door to your room. It’s pristine. Like always. Your bed is made, the bedspread tucked in, military-style. The sheer blue curtains are open and the large window makes your room about ten times brighter than mine. I scan the track and baseball trophies on your bookshelf—nothing out of place. Coming to my house must make you crazy.

Your school calendar has the correct month up, unlike mine. You’ve scribbled reminders under the dates: the baseball tournament today, finals next week, graduation on Saturday with pink happy face exclamation points that I drew for you. Above your tiny white desk, the corkboard is still filled with pictures of us, thankfully. If they were gone, I might have puked all over your floor. My favorite is the picture of us in the middle, when I took you camping at Bear Lake, by the fire with our marshmallows on sticks, cheeks mushed up against each other. Nobody prints photos out anymore. Just you. Every time you give one of your photos to someone, they act like you molded something out of clay with your bare hands.

Your keys and your old brown wallet are on the left side of your desk. I pick up your wallet and open it, out of curiosity, then glance at the door, because it won’t look good if your mom comes in. Not that she’d think I’m stealing your money, but still.

You have twenty-eight dollars. One twenty, one five, three ones. Your driver’s license is in the front, beside your debit card, and you have a receipt tucked behind the money for gas and a bag of pistachios. It’s dated yesterday, at 4:55 P.M. After I saw you at the mall.

My heart beats faster. This receipt is the first bit of good news we’ve had.

You always buy pistachios when we’re going on a trip somewhere, like to Seattle or Portland. But your truck is here. Man, this is confusing.

Every time we drive somewhere, you pop the pistachios in your mouth and spit the shells in the soda bottle, and you get this faraway look in your eyes. Sometimes I ask you what you’re thinking and you say, “Not much.” But I know you’re thinking something.

I slip the receipt back inside and place the wallet next to the keys with your metal World Series keychain. Your backpack is leaning against your desk, all ready for school on Monday. I pick it up and unzip it. I look inside and try to leaf through your stuff, but I can’t see anything, so I shake it out above your bed. The contents tumble down, and fall off your bed, crashing onto the wood floor.

The noise booms through the house. Oops.

The violin screeches to an abrupt end. Raffa’s door bursts open. There is the sound of slippers on the wood floor, and Raffa flies into your room.

She’s still wearing her pajama shorts and pink tank top. Her hair is messy, not braided yet, her eyelids puffy, nostrils raw-red.

“Oh!” she says, her face dropping. “I thought Chris was back.”

“Sorry.” I open my arms and she hesitates for a minute before her body buckles into mine.

She sniffs into my shoulder. “He was only going for a run.”

“He’s going to show up,” I murmur. Her hair tickles my nose, but I don’t scratch it, don’t dare let her go. “We’ll find him. He probably got lost in the woods. You know his sense of direction. You’ll see, tomorrow he’ll be making you popcorn with cayenne and watching the Nets game with you.”

She steps back. “Why’d you dump out his stuff?”

“I want to see if he left something, some clue, like maybe he went somewhere and didn’t tell anyone. I found a receipt. He bought pistachios. You know how he always likes them for long drives?”

Her eyes brighten. “Yeah?”

“Did he say he was going anywhere?” I ask.

She shakes her head, but then she bites her lip and looks away, like she’s holding something back. I figured she’d tell me if she knew anything, but now I’m not so sure. “Raffa?”

“No, there was nothing!” she insists.

I gaze at her. “Want to help me look through his stuff?”

She nods, and silently sits beside me, her bare knee touching mine. She lifts up a pen covered in strawberries. “This is mine.”

“That’s weird.” Why would you have her strawberry pen?

She reaches for a ball of paper and unfolds it. I hold my breath thinking it could be a crumpled note, but it’s just a math problem.

I flip through your calculus workbook, since you have calculus on Fridays, last block. At first, all I find are doodles next to the math problems, airplane designs, and random shapes. But then, ten pages in, I find a note in the side margin. The date says October 18—it was the first Friday we started going out. “Jessie. Sunshine. Sunflowers.” And I remember.

“Catch!” you yelled. I was walking around your truck in the school parking lot and I looked up, afraid. That word has always sent a wave of terror through me because the next thing I know, a ball is about to hit me in the head.

But that time, a graceful paper airplane sailed over the truck toward me. I grabbed it in my usual spastic way, like I had ants crawling all over my body, and of course, crumpled the airplane. You laughed and said, “Open it.”

In your neat handwriting, you wrote that I reminded you of sunshine and sunflowers, which is sweet, but also kind of funny because sunflowers are so stinky that stink bugs love them.

I didn’t keep that love letter, or any other letter, and I’m sorry. It wasn’t that they didn’t mean anything, but I’m not sentimental like that. I read them and threw them out, just like I throw everything out. I don’t want to be like my mom.

I leaf through the book, find more sweet notes and then, I find something that’s the opposite of sweetness. You wrote: Does love have to end in heartbreak? It’s like a sharp knife held straight out. I run into it and get stabbed in the gut.

It’s the only thing you wrote on that page—in the corner above the problems. And no answer to that question. This was right before my best Valentine’s Day ever. Wasn’t it your best too? I close my eyes. Everything was going great with us until late March. After you were scouted.

“What?” Raffa says.

“Nothing.” I keep turning the pages, hoping she doesn’t look at it later.

Near the end of the workbook, last Friday, at the top of the page, you wrote, Marvin Gaye. Weird.

You introduced me to his music. I can’t believe I never knew about Marvin Gaye before you. Some things seem so obvious to me now, like when you know, you hear his music everywhere, or samples of it, and it’s hard to believe that not everyone knows his music, but I didn’t. You played his music for me in your truck in that first week. We sat outside my house, listening. You told me it was a shame he died so young, how his dad shot him after an argument, how in the months leading up to his death, he thought someone was trying to kill him, so it’s kind of ironic it ended up being his own father who killed him. You said he was so paranoid, he wore three overcoats in the rare times when he left his house, and a few days before he died, his sister told police he was getting so freaked out, he even tried to kill himself by jumping in front of a car. It’s crazy how much you know about every musician, even ones you don’t listen to—guess it’s cause your dad is a music promoter. In the truck that day, you played his music for me and we listened quietly. Finally, I told you that his emotion was so raw, that was what made it special. You smiled at me then and said, “You get it. Not everyone does.” I gave you a long kiss then, Marvin Gaye singing his heart out in the background.

Why would you write his name in this math book? I flip absent-mindedly to the back. Something falls out. Something paper. A paper airplane.

It makes a whoosh as it falls and then a tap as the pointy end hits the wood floor. I stare down at it, like it’s not paper, but a real, living thing, a monster, on the floor, near my bare foot. Why would you write an airplane letter and not give it to me? What if it’s something bad?

Your sister says, “Look!” like it’s good news.

I reach for it, and my fingers pinch the paper, but Raffa rips it away and opens it with excitement, like it’s a Christmas present. The paper clamors out a warning.

“Raffa, give it here.” I reach for it again.

She scoots away on her butt. “Stop.”

I hold my breath.

She reads it, her eyes widening, and then she sniffs it. “He used the strawberry pen,” she says. “It’s for you. Just dumb stuff.” She thrusts the note back. “I’m sorry—I thought it was for me. He always writes me air notes.”

I love that she calls them air notes, like music. You never told me you write her too. That’s so beautiful. Even after eight months together, I keep finding out about kind things you do, things you don’t tell me about, but that I learn from others.

I take it from her and devour it, like I’m starving, like every piece of information is my favorite burger with mushrooms and Swiss cheese.

Your Lover Boy, Chris. Always with the period. Like, end of story. I’m yours, you’re mine.

I read it again, slower this time, savoring it. Be like Marvin? You mean, “Let’s Get It On.” Ha-ha. Nice.

You waved at me yesterday and gave me the cutest grin. I knew exactly what your look meant, that I hadn’t said, “No waving.” So I waved back, and then, I walked away. Steph said I was an idiot, which is fair enough. I am an idiot, clearly.

What I wanted to do was grab you, rip your shirt off, and run my hands all over you. When you get back, we are getting it on, baby.

I sigh. “I wish I knew where he was.”

“I keep looking at his Instagram,” Raffa says.

I didn’t think of that because I almost never use it.

“The last picture up there is the two of you on our sofa.”

Oh man. You said my hair looked soft. You took a selfie of us.

“Did you break up with him?” Raffa asks.

“I didn’t,” I say. “Oh my god, I would never. We’re on a break, that’s all. It’s different. We just needed some time to think. He wants to get married before college, which is crazy. We’re too young. And I might want to apply for this environmental work-study program at UW in a year. Did he tell you that?”

She shakes her head.

“It’s cool,” I tell her. “You spend the summers in the field, and the rest of the year, you study environmental sciences.”

You want me to apply somewhere in Raleigh, but they don’t have a good program for what I want to study. We both have dreams. Stuff we need to do. I need a plan, a way to get out of here, just like you. The phone rings. Your mom answers in the kitchen. “Oh, hello, Officer….Yes, sir….Of course, sir….” There are too many sirs. That’s not good. I press my hands into your splintery hardwood floor, dizzy with fear, and listen to the sound of her sensible heels running up the stairs.