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He flashes me one of his million-dollar smiles, smoothes his blonde hair back into place as he stands, then grabs the briefcase from the table.
“Oh, one more thing,” he says. “I ran into Mrs. Kirkland in the lobby. She was very upset; she said you asked her if she wanted to see your breasts and flipped her off...?”
I shrug, furrowing my brow. “Does that sound like something I would do?”
“No, it doesn’t,” he says.
“That's really strange,” I say.
“I’ve always thought she had a crush on me; she’s probably just upset that I’m off the market now.”
“I’m sure hearts are breaking all across the bay, baby,” I reply. “San Francisco will collectively weep for the loss.”
He laughs. “I’m going to miss the shit out of you.”
“I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Call me,” he says, “the minute you get there.”
“I don’t know how great reception will be up there, but I will.”
“Bye,” he says.
“Bye, James.”
He pulls the door closed, and my heart thuds against my ribcage. My hands shake as I pull my suitcase from the closet and start packing a bag.
It's crazy. I know that it's crazy. But I also know that one way or another, I have to make this stop. And god, I miss him. When she’s out, I miss him so much I can smell him.
I guess I’m really doing this.
I’m going back to Lost Hollow.
nine
Winter 2002
The drive up is slow and agonizing, exacerbated by the snow that started the moment I crossed the state line and the memories the girl in my head keeps insisting on shoving down my throat.
‘You don’t love him,’ she says. ‘He doesn’t even know you. You know what love feels like—does it feel like that with James?’
‘I do love him,’ I assure myself. ‘Not all love looks the same; it doesn’t make it less valid. I’m sure I’ll see him again, and I’ll know that it’s over. I just need closure, Dead Girl. That’s all.’
‘Dead Girl?’ she taunts. ‘Is that what you’re calling me these days? That’s pretty rich, considering the only time you ever feel alive is when you let me out.’
Great. Now I’m arguing with the voice in my head, and I’ve offended it with its own nickname. James really doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into.
‘Sorry, Dead Girl.’
‘I prefer Mellie. Or Princess.’
“Shut up!” I say aloud. “Shut up, or I’ll turn this car around. Is that what you want?”
The voice in my head doesn’t answer. I look at the lunatic in the rearview mirror and shake my head. “Get your shit together, Amelia.”
I turn up my music for the rest of the drive and focus on not sliding down the side of these mountains instead.
It’s late when I pull into the driveway. I call James before I get out of the vehicle and tell him that I made it safely and that I’ll talk to him tomorrow. Reception is shoddy, as anticipated, and in a way, it’s a relief. I have a hard enough time reconciling this part of my life with the other; it’s kind of comforting to find that the rest of the world does, too.
