She cocked her head and considered me, making me shift self-consciously in my harem pants and Beatles T-shirt. She gave me a patronizing pat. “Just leave him alone, honey. He doesn’t want to see you. He said so.”

“You’re lying. He cares about me.” And we’d just had sex.

She smiled sadly. “I’m not, and I think you know it. Do yourself a favor and forget about him.” She cut her eyes at Matt Dawson, her sometime boyfriend, and blinked rapidly as if she were upset. “Men are users. All of them.”

I slumped against the closest wall. Was it true? And why would he talk to Emma and not me?

At lunch, Spider and one of his randoms had the scoop. Because Emma liked him apparently.

“She shot herself with a gun sometime over the weekend,” Spider told me, taking a bite of his pasta.

I blanched, pushing my food away.

He munched. “He’ll be okay.”

Anger and grief slammed into me. “He lost his mother. I know exactly how he feels, and he’s not okay. He won’t call me!” My hands clenched.

I left there and ran to the library, using my phone to google his father. Sure enough it was all over the internet.

Mary-Carmen Hudson, wife of millionaire Archie Hudson, the Dallas Mavericks part-owner, was found Friday evening at her home, the victim of an apparent suicide with a .38 caliber gun. She was 47.

According to a statement released by the Sheriff's office, she was still breathing by the time paramedics reached her home in Highland Park, but later expired at Dallas General Hospital early Sunday.

Mary-Carmen, a native Brazilian, met and married Archie Hudson while they both attended Baylor University. She worked in marketing for several years and was heavily involved in several charitable organizations in the Dallas area. She served a term on the board of directors for Briarcrest Academy for four years.

Hudson is preceded in death by a daughter, Cara Marie.

Tentative funeral arrangements are for a memorial service in Rio de Janeiro. Her body will later be cremated and distributed over the Gulf of Mexico.

I went through the day like a zombie, praying he’d get in touch with me. God, I just wanted to hold him. I just wanted to be there for him.

But the question was…did he still want me?

TUESDAY ARRIVED AND still no Cuba.

Wednesday came and went.

And then Thursday and Friday.

By the next school week, I was listless, drifting through the hours, constantly checking my phone and Facebook statuses, but Cuba rarely used his account anyway, but I prayed to see him post anything.

By the time Friday morning came, it had been two weeks since I’d seen him.

I was a complete and utter wreck.

I drove up to the school and in the distance saw his car. Elation and dread both collided within me, causing a kaleidoscope of emotions. He hadn’t called. He’d hadn’t emailed. I didn’t know what to expect.

I hurried in the door, my book bag banging against my hip as I walk-ran down the halls toward his locker. I came to a stop, nearly tripping when I saw he wasn’t there. I checked his homeroom class. Nada. Finally, I rounded the corner and found him propped up against the wall outside the library, a gaggle of girls surrounding him while the guys hung back like guys do when they’re not sure what to say.

Emma was on his right, her arm crooked in his, as she gazed at his face. She and Matt had recently broken-up, and I swear I could see right then that she wanted my man.

I couldn’t breathe he was so beautiful and sad at the same time.

“Cuba,” I whispered, but no one heard me except for the underclassman who bumped into me. Students milled around me, but I didn’t notice, my eyes taking him all in, the dark circles under his eyes and the jeans that didn’t quite fit. A vast emptiness flitted across his face, and oh, I recognized it. I did.

He’d lost hope.

And in that moment, my already big love for him grew. It changed and shifted into something as deep as the ocean and bigger than the universe. My soul ached for his; my body yearned for his touch. I didn’t want to exist without him in my world.

And this was no high school crush or first love like ordinary teenagers experience.

Because I was not ordinary and neither was he. We were both survivors who’d managed to find each other amid the chaos.

I wanted to be his bird of hope. I wanted to be the reason he chose to carry on.

He nodded at something Emma said, his body shifting in my direction. Butterflies took flight in my stomach and my nerves were stretched raw. See me, see me, I wanted to yell.

He started in my direction, and as if he read my thoughts, he gazed up at me. His face whitened as he stalked down the hall still followed by his entourage. The closer he got, the colder his eyes grew.

He paused in front of me and time stood still. I waited for him to say something, anything, but he didn’t. Instead, he gave me a short nod, like Hey, babe, nice to see ya.

And then he kept walking, his eyes sliding right over me like he didn’t even know me. I screamed inside my head for him to back up and greet the girl he loved.

But he didn’t. He didn’t.

His journey continued past me, and like a fool, I turned and watched.

“He’s a tosser,” Spider bit out next to me as I struggled with my thickened throat.

Later I went to lunch, but Cuba never showed. Needing to see him, I walked the halls until I found him outside on the lawn passing a football with some players.

I came out with a mission to find out the truth.

When he took a water break, I went over to him, pretending like he hadn’t dissed me already.