I nearly lose it, though, when the ancient radio mounted under the cabinet next to the kitchen sink plays “Even If It Breaks Your Heart” by the Eli Young Band. I force myself to keep it together, even when “Leave the Pieces” by The Wreckers plays, but that one is hard, because I want to be as strong as the lyrics in that song, but don’t feel like I am.

So now I’m lying in the narrow bedroom off the kitchen that’s always been mine when I visit my grandparents, staring at the fifty-year-old painting of a cabin on a snowy hillside with tall pine trees in the background. That painting has always been how I get to sleep in this room. The moon shines through the window over the bed, streaming silver light onto the painting on the wall, and I imagine myself in that scene, a little log cabin with a fire cheerfully blazing, snow falling peacefully outside in thick fat flakes.

It’s not working tonight, though.

I miss Mom.

I miss Ben.

I miss Nashville and my life and my friends and how things were before I got that call.

Most of all, I wish I could take back the things I said to Mom the last time we called.

I grab my phone off the little bedside table and stare at Ben’s entry in my phone book. I want to call him, want to hear his voice. But even wanting that scares me, because I don’t do that. I don’t do emotional connections to guys.

I learned not to do that a long time ago, the hard way. I learned it when Dad left Mom when I was eight. I learned it at fourteen when the high school junior I just knew was in love with me took my virginity, then told everyone at school. I learned it again with the next “boyfriend”, who ditched me the very second I finally let him have sex with me; literally, he finished, zipped up, left, and I never saw him again.

And I kept learning it with every guy I thought I liked, every boyfriend I stubbornly hoped would actually fall in love with me. But none of them ever did. They all acted like they liked me, like I meant something, and once I’d put out a few times and they got what they wanted, they took off and left me wondering what I’d done wrong. It wasn’t until Marcus that I realized how stupid I’d been.

I put thoughts of Marcus out of my head. And I certainly don’t call Ben.

I text him instead: Thanks for your help today.

His response comes quickly: no prob.

I don’t know what else to say. I have to think for a long time. I type several things, then erase them. Finally, I send the simple truth. I’m sorry. Under different circumstances maybe we could have taken it somewhere. But it is what it is.

Under different circumstances. You know how many times I’ve heard that?

I already said I was sorry.

Don’t be sorry. You headed back to school soon?

Tomorrow AM.

Well…I don’t know what else to say but have a safe flight, then.

That sounds so distant, so unlike Ben, that it actually hurts. My fingers type without consulting my brain: You’re making me second guess myself, Benji.

I’ll come get you right now, wherever you are.

I choke when I read that. I nearly tell him yes, I nearly give him Grandma and Grandpa’s address, but I don’t. Because if I was confused before, him coming to get me in the middle of the night would only confuse me more. And as nice as he’s being right now, I know it won’t last.

No. Sorry. Just no.

You know, I’ve always known women were confusing, but Echo, I really don’t understand you.

Me either. That’s part of the problem.

Goodbye, Echo.

That sounds so permanent.

I don’t know if I can ever go back to Nashville.

And I can’t stay here. There’s nothing left for me in San Antonio. Nothing but memories. It was Mom’s home, it’s not mine. And now she’s gone, and I just can’t stay.

I get that. But that’s not why you’re pushing me away.

No, it’s not.

But you won’t tell me why.

I did.

No, you gave me excuses.

Damn it, Ben. I don’t know what else you want me to tell you.

Exactly my point. There was a pause of several seconds, and then he sent a follow up text: Go to sleep, Echo. Go back to Nashville tomorrow and just keep breathing. You’ll be okay, someday. One day at a time.

I can’t figure out what else to say after that, so I don’t text anything back. In the morning, Grandpa drives me to the airport and sees me off at security. He promises to ship me the boxes of Mom’s things. I manage to keep it together all the way to Nashville, all the way to the apartment I share with three other girls.

Thank god for those girls, because they live for three things: partying, boys, and music.

I’ll need huge doses of all three to move on.

Addendum: I’ll need huge doses of partying and music to move on. I’m done with boys for a long, long time.

Which has nothing to do with the strange, empty hole I feel inside me…a hole that is frighteningly Ben-shaped.

Even admitting to myself that I feel Ben’s absence like a chasm within me has me trying to fill that hole with whiskey.

Lots and lots of whiskey.

ELEVEN: Going Home

Ben

I managed to waste a week. I don’t even know what I did for that week, to be honest. A whole bunch of not much. A whole bunch of feeling sorry for myself, hating life, hating women, hating football, hating my life. Just…hating in general. Drinking. Avoiding my phone, refusing steadfastly to look at the last texts I’d exchanged with Echo. Also steadfastly refusing to call Mom and Dad.

It was inevitable, though. I had nothing left here. Nothing left anywhere.

It’s almost funny how big a bitch hindsight is; once Echo was gone, I realized with lightning-bolt suddenness and vivid clarity that I’d fallen in love with her. I mean, sure, I knew nothing about her. But it wasn’t just a physical attraction. It wasn’t just the sex. It was just…her. I want to know everything about her, I want to know what happened to her father, I want to know why her mother was alone for so long. I want to know why Echo is so shut down, so unable to talk about herself. She didn’t make a big deal of it until right at the end but, looking back, I realize that she always deftly avoided talking about herself. I want to talk to her from dawn till dusk and find out everything about her, and I want to hold her and shelter her secrets and…I want her to be happy.

I know that feeling, loving someone enough to want their happiness to be my priority. It’s why I left Nashville, after all. Kylie deserved happiness, and she’d found it with Oz. I couldn’t give her anything, couldn’t stomach seeing her happy with him, couldn’t stomach seeing her at all, so I left. It was as much for her as for myself, I now know. I needed the space and time, as well. I needed experiences that didn’t include Mom and Dad and Kylie and football.




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