Now I’m not sure what we have. What kind of family we are. I used to imagine us in the future—getting married, having kids—and then play it backward until it reached us now. But I haven’t done that in a while.

Justin is uncomfortable all through dinner. And I know I am the comfortable part—I know that I am the person at the table who brings him the most happiness, who he feels closest to. When dinner’s over and I’ve helped his mother do the dishes, I find him back in his room, playing a video game. He pauses it when I come in, then pats the space next to him, beckoning me over.

“Sorry to put you through all that,” he says, kissing me.

“Dinner was good,” I tell him, even though it wasn’t really.

I know we’re not going to go beyond kissing with his parents in the house. It’s like every move we make is amplified straight to their ears.

He passes me a controller and we play awhile. If we were different kids, we’d be doing our homework together. Instead, we avoid our homework together. I realize how irresponsible this is. I don’t think it occurs to Justin at all.

I’m glad we’re back to normal. I don’t know if I’ve missed this, but it feels right for right now. It’s like A has never existed. A is a story I told myself.

Justin is better at this game than I am, which is true of most of the games we play. I keep dying, and he keeps passing me new lives.

At nine, I finally beg off, tell him I have to get my bio work done so I don’t fail out. I’m bringing it up partly because it’s true and partly because I want him to remember to do his work, too. He’s much more at risk of failing out than I am.

“Okay—I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. His eyes don’t leave the screen.

I make sure to say goodbye to his parents on my way out. His mom says again that it was good to see me. His father walks me to the door.

When I step outside, I don’t feel I’ve lost anything by leaving. Like when I leave my own house, there’s always a part of me that stays behind, waiting for me to get back. That’s what makes it my home—that feeling that a part of me is always waiting for me there.

As I walk to my car, I don’t turn back to see if Justin’s at the window, watching me go. I know he isn’t.

The part of him that waits for me isn’t that strong. Not when he knows he has me.

When I get back to my room, I’m not worried about our fight anymore. This morning seems like ancient history.

It’s A I’m worried about. It’s A who I think is waiting for me. I haven’t sent word all day, and it’s feeling, now that I acknowledge it, like an abandonment. Which is wrong—it’s A who abandons me in the jump from place to place, body to body.

But I know I’m guilty here, too.

I check my email and am almost relieved to find that there isn’t anything new. This excuses some of my silence, if A is being silent, too. Although if A is being silent, it may very well be because I told A to stop.

I get ready for bed, then sleep for eight hours. When I wake up, the first obligation I feel is to end the silence. So I write:

A,

I’m sorry I didn’t get to write to you yesterday. I meant to, but then all these other things happened (none of them important, just time-consuming). Even though it was hard to see you, it was good to see you. I mean it. But taking a break and thinking things out makes sense.

How was your day? What did you do?

R

I know this is in two different places at once—I meant to write to you, but let’s keep taking a break. But it’s an accurate reflection of where I am. Or where I think I am.

Even though I know it’s impossible, and I know it won’t help, I still want to know where A is.

Does this mean I’m waiting for A?

I don’t know.

At the very least, I’m waiting to see what happens next.

Chapter Eighteen

I get a rushed email from A as I’m driving to school. I read it in my car, before I go inside. A tells me he (she?) spent yesterday in the body of an immigrant girl who had to clean toilets to make a living, and the day before A wasn’t feeling well, so he stayed home at this other girl’s house and watched TV. Today A’s another girl who has this big track meet, so she has to stay where she is. Even though I told him not to come here, I’m disappointed.

I want to contradict myself. I want to overrule my hesitations. I want A to be here.

But I can’t steal that girl from her track meet. And when I picture A as some runner girl, I slow myself down. What if she’s another Ashley? Or even just normal-looking. What would we do then?

I think about writing back to A, but if I’m not telling him (her?) to drop everything to see me, I don’t have much else to say. I am not going to tell A about Justin—not about the fight, not about the making up. And what else do I have in my life that’s worth talking about?

I turn off my phone and head into school.

•••
I go through the motions. I try not to talk in class, but talk when I have to. I say hello to friends, but not much more. I give Justin what he wants—enough distance to be himself, but enough closeness to know I haven’t gone far. I eat lunch without tasting it.

I find myself thinking of Kelsea, about her notebook containing all those ways to die. Not because I want to kill myself. I am nowhere near wanting to kill myself. But I can understand feeling so detached from your own life. To feel that your connection to everyone else is so thin that all it would take is one decisive snip to be separated completely. If I don’t cling, I drift. I feel that no one is holding me. In my life, I am the only one who holds.

Except for A. But A is not here.

Rebecca and Preston try to reach me. They see the thin thread and tie messages to it, sliding them my way. Preston invites me to another round of buyless shopping. Rebecca tries to bribe me into a coffee excursion after school. Both of them remind me that Daren Johnston is having a party tomorrow night. I’m sure I’ll end up going.

Plans. I realize I’m not making plans because I want to see where A is living tomorrow, if A will be free. It’s the weekend. I can drive far if I have to.

No. I see Justin and I think, Stop it. He asks me if I want to go to a movie. He even lets me choose.

Once upon a time, this would have made me happy.

I can’t be bothered to tell my mother I’m not coming home for dinner. This will make it two nights in a row, and she’s going to give me hell for it. So I figure I might as well do what I’m going to do and get the hell after, instead of getting the hell before and not being able to go.