Fourteen
I don’t know which is worse—knowing that I might actually hate Wuthering Heights, or the fact that I am solely responsible for bringing it into my life. I toss the book onto the kitchen island and place my forehead on the cool marble. I’m pretty sure Heathcliff just murdered a dog, and I’m equally sure I might not make it through the rest of this book.
“Oh, Wuthering Heights,” Momma says, walking in with a cloud of Guerlain and an armful of purple hydrangeas.
“I see you’re familiar with my nemesis,” I murmur, cheek squished into the stone.
She purses lips painted a dusty rose. “You don’t like it? It was one of my favorites when I was your age.” She places the flowers in the sink and pulls her shears out of the junk drawer. “I thought Heathcliff was so moody and romantic.”
I snap upright. “Romantic? He just murdered a puppy, and word on the street is that he might have dug Catherine’s body up, but I haven’t got to that point yet.” I hear the echo of my earlier conversation with Ash, and I blush at the memory of his face as I was waxing on about soul mates and the power of their love. This love doesn’t feel like it’s conquering all, it feels toxic. Like a tree that looks healthy and beautiful until you peel back the bark to reveal the rot underneath.
She pauses, snipping the ends off the stalks. “Does he murder a puppy? I don’t know if I remember all that, I just remember him being tortured by his love for Catherine. Poor lamb.” She shrugs, the flowers going one by one into a heavy crystal vase that belonged to my great-grandmother.
Her words sit uncomfortably with me. Maybe I would be looking at Wuthering Heights differently if I hadn’t been ingesting other examples of romance at an increasingly alarming rate. Heathcliff’s dark tempers weren’t sexy, they were self-indulgent and toxic. Catherine’s actions weren’t based in love; she was a petulant child who might have died simply to spite everyone else. You want romance? I can name you a dozen other couples that would put these two to shame, and I would enjoy doing it. It’s like I’ve become addicted. I can’t stop myself. I want all the stories, all the tropes, and every happy ending I can get my hands on.
I don’t even want to bother Ash for more recommendations beyond the one a week he’s giving me, so Sloane and I have become fast friends. I just finished a story with passionate, but slightly murderous, fairies, followed by a sweet but slow-burn contemporary between a sports journalist and a minor-league baseball player. I even squeezed in a novella involving a Mafia don with a heart of gold that was a little too tortured for me, but at least he didn’t harm any animals.
“We’re going to have to agree to disagree on this one,” I finally tell Momma as she turns the vase, looking for gaps.
“There’s two-thirds of my girls!” Stu’s personality enters the room almost before he does, and he’s all blinding smiles, kisses for Momma, and a wink in my direction. “Did you like that, Lo? I added that fraction in just for you.”
I roll my eyes, but he gets a smile out of me anyway. He spins Momma in his arms, and in seconds they’re moving across the kitchen floor, bodies in sync and never missing a beat. I watch them dance and wait for that old pang. The one telling me that one of these things is not like the other. A square peg looking at nothing but round holes.
But that feeling never rises to the surface. All I can hear is Ash asking me why I never bothered to learn. Telling me that dancing is not genetically passed down and looking at me as if I’d purposefully set myself apart from something I’d decided wasn’t for me.
And the most annoying thing is that he might be right. I could decide that I didn’t want to learn to dance, and that would be fine, but I’m capable of doing hard things. Unexpected things.
I might even be good at them.
Or not, and that would be okay too.
I resist the urge to put my forehead back on the island, and instead say, “Do you think you could teach me that sometime?”
They slow, looking back at me with twin expressions of surprise. Stu recovers first. “Get over here, girl. Let’s see what you got!”
I shake my head, face already burning from this small step. “Not right now. I just might want to learn at some point.”
Momma smiles, gold hoops shining as he spins her one last time for good measure. “Of course, honey, all you have to do is ask.”
The door to the living room creaks open, and Blue marches in. My other nemesis stares at me from her arms.
“What is that doing in here?”
“Don’t be mean to Snow White.”
I pause and count to ten under my breath while the fat old duck molts onto the floor. “We eat in here, Blue. Get her out of here.”
“She’s perfectly clean.”
“She’s a duck. She’s not house-trained.”
“She has never pooped in my room.”
“A statistical anomaly she will soon correct.”
She scowls, and I hate the distance that has been growing between us with every year. The way she doesn’t want to spend time with her boring older sister anymore when there are parties, cheerleading practice, and makeup tutorials instead. She gets up two hours early every day to do her hair before school and finds reasons to go by Josh’s table during lunch. How can I compete with the popular crowd? I never looked the part quite as well as she does, but I can’t deny a tiny, vain part of me didn’t enjoy it. After more than one tearful night over slumber parties or birthdays or movie nights I didn’t get invited to, it was nice to have every door open for once.
“Ladies,” Stu says, gently stepping in. “Bluebell, baby, let’s get Her Majesty back to her little hutch. She’s probably ready to turn in for the night.”
“Fine,” Blue says, tossing blond hair over her shoulder and stalking out.
“You know, I kept waiting for her to stop naming all her pets Snow White, but she never did,” Stu says.
“The lizard was a choice,” I agree.
“Rest in peace, lizard Snow White. His poor untimely end,” Momma says reverently.
“Cat Snow White who helped him shuffle off this mortal coil didn’t help,” Stu adds.
My phone explodes in a flurry of jangles. Incoming video call from Odette and Poppy. “And on that note,” I say, heading to my room and leaving sounds of whispered laughter and two-stepping behind me.
“Long time no see.” I answer the call and flop onto my bed. The floral duvet is soft as butter, the pale blue almost faded to white.
“Have you seen what’s happening on Gabber?” Odette’s grin fills the entire screen.
I sit up. “Not since yesterday.”
“Pull it up!”
I sprint to my desktop, fingers flying. There on my home screen are thousands and thousands of posts about Never Mind the Monsters. People from school asking, “Isn’t this Ash Hayes’s band?” Local clubs and radio stations with shout-outs asking the band to reach out. And at the center of the storm is a repost from one of my little monsters: a snippet of their song “Divine Interference” along with the picture I took of Ash in that graveyard. Shirt off, the hint of that leather harness over lean muscles, his hair wild around his shoulders and the dim light almost washing it all away. @GuitarTodayMagazine reposted it with the comment, “They’re growing some talent down in Georgia these days.”
I pull up the band’s website. I’m not done yet, but at least I have the new framework in place, their contact info for bookings, and a few of the new photos. All in a clean, modern black-and-white design. I pull up the engagement numbers, and freeze.
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
“What’s happening?” Poppy asks.
“I think we’ve officially gone viral,” I say, my chest tight with a kaleidoscope of feelings. I never imagined this response. I’d felt like I was a burden, and like Ash wasn’t getting nearly enough out of this. Especially after the run-in with Josh. But this? This makes us partners. Or at least puts us on equal footing.
Odette whoops through the phone, her grin eating up most of my screen. “I gotta call Hazel, she’s going to die.”
“Are we on a daily calling schedule now?”
She winks. “Maybe. Wish me luck.” She kisses the camera before winking into darkness.
I smile at Poppy, still riding high. “Do you want to come over? We can continue the cake-mug experiments.”
She shakes her head. “Sorry, but I’m deep in The Reunion. I barely had time for this phone call, but Odette said it was important.”
“Is that the book Sloane helped you pick out?”
“Garrett and Rebecca just had their first night together, but her ex called the next morning and Garrett left thinking she’s not over him.”
“Oh wow, you’re really moving through it—”
“Got to go, bye.”
The screen goes dark, and I lean back from the whiplash of it all. I’ve never heard Poppy express any interest in romance, or dating, or anything other than puzzles and robotics. I set aside two more books Ash had lent me to pass along to her.
I scroll through my feed, liking and resharing some of the more clever comments, but I feel restless. Like we just pulled off something huge. I have no idea if it’s going to make a difference or lead to any gigs or sales of their single, but we got the band out of Ash’s tastefully decorated basement and into the public eye.
I pull out my phone and stare at his number—which I’m sure he shared only for logistical reasons. For example, if he had plans to meet me and literally anything better came up, he could text me, Hey, can’t make it, work on your own pathetic love letter by yourself. But he hasn’t, and nothing has seemed like a good enough excuse.
Until now.
I type and delete about five times, before finally settling on a very casual Looks like you’re famous now.
I see the dots almost instantly, and I’m smiling until: Sorry, who’s this?
I toss down my phone, heat flooding my face.
He must not have saved my number. I guess we’re not really friends, and I just forced an admission out of him during a dance-floor hostage situation. I should delete his number too. I’ll wait and tell him in person the next time I see him that the online strategy is working well—
My phone rings. I stare at it in betrayal. What if I don’t answer it? No, then it’ll go to my voicemail. What if I just answer and then immediately hang up? No, what if he does need to call me at some point and realizes I was the phantom weirdo who refused to talk to him? I take a deep breath and answer.
“Hey, sorry—”
“Meadows, I was joking.”
My mouth snaps shut.
“I could hear you overthinking from here. Sorry, the joke didn’t land.”
I clear my throat, desperate to move on. “I just wanted to tell you about the online response to the streaming song and photos.”
“You mean the reason our band email is full of requests to play parties and car dealership openings, and some very awkward sugar mama offers?”
His voice is deep and rich, filling my little bedroom. His amusement trickles down the phone.
“What?”
“They were very generous, Marlowe. One woman is willing to set me up in a nice apartment and take care of me, so at least I don’t have to worry about school anymore.”
“Ash!” I say, shocked, but also not shocked. I mean, I saw that photo. I took it.
He laughs. “Relax. Hearing your outraged response is infinitely more enjoyable than becoming Martha from Statesville’s mistress. Mastress?”
His teasing shocks another laugh out of me. “We’re definitely going with mistress.”
“I can’t promise Mateo won’t take some of them up on their offers, though.”
“Well, he’s still deeply in debt to his little brother, he needs help pulling himself out of this financial hole.”
“It’s true, twelve rides to the mall don’t just grow on trees.”
I smile, walking back to my bed and flopping down. I was worried the conversation would be stilted, that I would panic and try to fill every spare second with mushroom facts, but here we are. This is actually… nice.
My door slams shut. I don’t even look up, the words coming out automatically. “Hey, Meemaw.”
“Is your grandmother there?”
“Well, in a matter of speaking.”
He pauses. “What does that mean?”
“She died about ten years ago, but still likes to visit.”
“Are you telling me that your grandmother is haunting you?”
“Only a little bit, and to be fair, it was her room a lot longer than it’s been mine.”
“Do you need me to find a priest? I’m sure we can order an exorcism online.”
“Ashton Rasputin Hayes, we take care of our elders in this family. We do not just ship them off to another dimension. If she wants to slam my door and kill every plant I bring into this room, that’s her prerogative.”
“I stand corrected,” he says. Is he smiling? It sounds like he’s smiling.
“Why didn’t you just text me?” I ask, clearing my throat.
“When?” He sounds off-kilter for once.
“Five minutes ago? Why did you call instead?”
“Why wouldn’t I call? I like talking on the phone.”
“You like talking on the phone?” I shudder.
“Yeah, what’s wrong with that?”
“Don’t worry, I know some very good therapists, we’ll get you sorted in no time.”
He chuckles. The sound crawls inside my brain and carves out a little home there. I label it “Ash finding me amusing” and promise myself I’ll replay it later.
“I’m almost through Wuthering Heights and things are not going well.” I flop on my belly, my pillow muffling the words.
“Well, it’s not a comedy, Meadows.”
“No kidding. Why didn’t you tell me to shut up when I was going on and on about love conquering all?”
“Because I imagined we’d be having this conversation at some point. What did it? The dog?”
“The dog,” I confirm. “Our thesis can be a thorough analysis of how Heathcliff sucks.”
“What about…” His voice is hesitant in my ear. “What about the destructive effects of toxic love? Or maybe the impact Heathcliff’s toxic masculinity had on the lives of those around him?”
“Toxic masculinity?” I wince as Josh and the football team shove themselves into the forefront of my brain. This new Josh continues to haunt me, better than Meemaw has ever been able to. “Those seem like two different papers.”
“Not if we combine them to focus on the Heathcliff character specifically.”
“I like it,” I say, sitting up. “I’ll try to power through the rest of the book, and we can work on an outline.”
“Okay,” he says, and I sit up, ready to begin the dance of two almost strangers getting off a call neither one of them expected to be on.
“Want to watch a movie?” Not a single syllable is hurried.
“A movie?” I look at my bedside clock. “I don’t think anything is playing anymore.”
“At home, on the phone together,” he says, gentle enough that I flush. I have got to find an opportunity to do some math in front of him soon.
I pick up my laptop and sit against my headboard. “We just watch it together and talk?”
“Well, that depends on how interesting the movie is,” he says, as if he’s just suggested the most natural thing in the world. “What do you think? Rom-com? Documentary? Deep dive into the predatory world of mom leggings?”
I pull up Netflix, sinking down into the pillows, and scroll through the choices. We could do a rom-com, and it could count as his fieldwork this week. He might want to free up his plans this weekend. On the other hand, the idea of watching two people fall in love, in the darkness, with Ash’s thoughts and breath in my ear, is something that might take my anxiety level from its current low simmer to Instant Pot kitchen bomb.
In the end, my people-pleasing tendencies rise to the top, like always.
“You did say we needed to watch a rom-com soon, so now you’re off the hook for the fieldwork this week.”
His silence wraps around me. “I guess we could count it if you want. I did have something else planned, but whatever you prefer.”
“No,” I say, a little too quickly. “I think we should do whatever you’ve already planned.” I take a deep breath. “Since you’ve already gone to the trouble of coming up with it.”
I don’t care if Josh thinks I should stay away from Ash, or how breathless or ridiculous I look to Meemaw’s ghost. I can’t even explain it to myself, but I want to see whatever he wants to show me.
What do you want, Marlowe?
“Okay then,” he says, pleased. “In that case, let’s stick to microdosing romance, and watch something different tonight.”
“Let’s do a documentary,” I say. “I don’t know how much talking I should or shouldn’t be doing while watching a movie on the phone with someone. At least this way I won’t miss anything.”
He laughs, and my honesty feels less like an apology. “Okay, let’s see what we got. I’ll admit the leggings don’t sound very interesting to me. Here’s one about animals in the ocean, a few serial-killer options, and… wait… oh, this is the one.”
“Which one?”
“Oh, you’re going to love this.”
“Ash, tell me.” I scroll through, trying to find one that stands out.
“How do you feel about mushrooms?”
My heart swells inside my chest and I swallow down the words that want to bubble out of me. He knows exactly how I feel about them, and that I’m going to talk the entire time, and that this is a gift just for me.
I clear my throat. “They’re okay, I guess.”
He laughs. “Come on, Meadows, let’s learn about mushrooms. Click on Fungi of the Forest.”
I want to make it weird. I want to tell him that if he only wants to be casual friends, or people who are helping each other out only for the mutual benefit of separate goals, this is not the way to do it. That he’s being too nice to me. That my head and my heart are going to assign importance to him that he might not be ready or willing to accept.
But I don’t say anything, because a lion’s mane cascades down the screen and my words are caught in my throat.
I try to let the narrator do her job, but little snippets leak out of me. A fun fact here, a personal anecdote there, and he laughs twice more before I realize it’s not because the puffball’s pollination process is so personally enjoyable to him.
It’s shaping up to be one of the better evenings I’ve had in a long time when my Gabber tab dings. I click over and pull up my direct messages. I sit up straight when I see Josh’s profile. The pillows, the mushrooms, Ash’s voice in the dark are instantly forgotten, and I’m opening it like this message will hold the secrets to the universe.
All it says is: You never responded to me. That’s not like you. Why are you still spending time with him?
The air whooshes out of me and down the line.
“Meadows? Is the bleeding tooth too much for you?”
“Josh,” I say, pushing the word out.
“What about him?”
The question is sharp, and I flinch even as my fingers are flying over the keys.
Ash and I are friends.I hesitate for only a moment before adding: Did you lie about Spencer’s uniform?
“He messaged me,” I say, eyeing the dots as Josh continues typing. My brain spins, juggling both conversations.
“About what?” Easygoing Ash, friend to the mushrooms, is gone, and the sullen, reluctant Ash of before has come to the phone.
I clear my throat. “He wants to know why we’re hanging out.”
Ash swears softly. “What did you tell him?”
“That we’re friends,” I say, eyeing the little bubble indicating Josh has more to say. I don’t have to wait long.
I knew he would bring that up. I swear I didn’t have anything to do with that, Lo. I can’t testify to something I didn’t see.
“Is that it?”
I hear the question underneath. The one that’s asking if I’m going to let Josh slide. On the bullying. On the ugly comments in the hallway. On the way he broke my heart and now he’s back, rattling the pieces around.
“He says he didn’t see anything that night,” I say softly. It’s not an excuse, but it’s an important data point. I need to see the full picture to understand.
He laughs, but it’s brittle and wrong. “You honestly believe that he didn’t know about it beforehand?”
I sigh, because I don’t know anything for certain.
“Well, let me hang up so you can get back to him.”
I frown; the movie has another forty minutes to go. “We don’t have to do that—”
“No, it’s best you devote all your attention to him. Night, Meadows.”
He’s gone before I can even process my next thought, but then Josh’s message pops up and my brain blanks.
You know me. We were together for two years. You’re really going to believe a stranger over me?
You should stay away from him. I care about you, Lo. I just want you to be safe.
He still cares about me? I mean something to him, despite weeks of him ghosting me and a new Mr. Hyde side of him that I was unaware of. But he’s also the Josh from your second letter. The one who cherishes his grandparents and always brought you flowers.
I sit there, torn between wanting to message him back and wishing for a sign that will tell me what to do.
“Am I still in love with Josh?” I ask my inbox, half agonized, half desperate, and fully confused.
The door flings open and crashes into the wall. My framed National Honor Society certificate flies off and into my dirty laundry basket.
I sigh. “Thanks, Meemaw.”