I want to tell him how important he is. How just as Alexia is like my sister, Dash is like my brother. How I love him like a brother. How I want him to be happy. The party for Hollis is just one of a million reasons I love Dash.
Once, when I was in middle school, deeply embarrassed over my thick glasses and obsessed with both Rainbow Brite and pencil erasers, he ordered me a huge box of vintage Rainbow Brite erasers, then bribed the ladies in the office for my locker combo, broke in after school, and left them for me to find the next morning.
For my whole life—at least the years I remember—Dash has walked up onto the diving board with me when I was scared to jump by myself, ripped off chunks of the aloe plant for my sunburn, paddled beside me when I was learning to water ski, told me what books to read, and even, one time, when I’d had my tonsils out in fifth grade, climbed into my window at night to give me painted rocks he made.
I love the way he makes ridiculous pancakes, with whipped cream and chocolate syrup and bananas. He always smells like gum—either sweet mint or actual bubble gum flavored gum. He uses pink princess toothpaste because he loves the taste and still takes good care of his colossally old, decrepit turtle he rescued from the road when he was nine and I was six. Shakespeare is for real his favorite author—Macbeth his favorite story—and even though he’s smarter than almost anyone, and a seriously incredible artist, he doesn’t see himself that way.
I move my arm off Dash’s back, because being near him is making me so sweaty I’m afraid he’ll feel it.
Dash stretches out on his back again, seeming to take up the entire roof. “I think we missed the space station.” He gives me a smile, one that makes me feel…wanted. Like he wants my company. It’s a feeling I don’t have that often.
I smile back, then scoot over nearer to him. I think of lying on my back, too, but I think the position will make my nightshirt cling to my chest, and I’m suddenly self-conscious.
I watch as Dash shuts his eyes and lets out a long breath.
“Are you sleepy?”
“Kind of. Not enough to sleep.” The words sound heavy.
With my heart coiled in a ball inside my throat, I touch his soft hair. “You’re going to like it up there, I think. Up in Rhode Island. We’ll miss you here, but I think you’re going to be happy there. You’ll see. Just write me letters, okay? Or emails. I want to know how you’re doing. It’s going to be amazing, though. Everyone else at your school is an artist, too, right?”
He nods, and I can feel him turn his forehead slightly toward my stroking hand. The fingers are shaking, but since I don’t think he can see, I keep on sifting through his hair, my heart beating staccato, my body lit up like a forest fire.
“And real winter. Won’t that be awesome? To see the snow. You can drink hot chocolate when it’s cold and not feel like a fraud because it’s really only fifty-five degrees.” I smile down at him. “You’ll need at least one scarf, maybe even two, because this isn’t vacation, it’s real life. I think you should buy a Keurig and drink coffee while you study. When you get your dog, you should get one with lots of hair, so he or she won’t be too cold. Although if they were, I think they make doggie shoes and scarves!”
He laughs.
“I’m serious. Your dog is going to need some winterwear. I can tell. And Kermit the Turtle…well, I guess he’ll be right at home as a cold-blooded creature. Is he riding in the front seat of your truck during the drive?”
“He is.”
“That’s great. I’m sure he likes ole Mozart more than I do.”
“Yeah,” Dash says. It’s almost murmured. His eyes are still shut, his lips turned up a little at the corners, so I keep my hand moving in his hair.
“Think about fall, too. All those pretty red leaves. I like all fall leaves, but the red ones are the best. They don’t make that color anywhere else. Well, I mean, I guess in paint they do, but it’s not a normal color red. There’s something special about it, maybe a pink kind of undertone. Anyway, all those leaves are going to be yours. There’s a harbor there too, right? Because it’s on the ocean. Near the ocean. It’s going to smell like ocean. I’m not sure why you haven’t visited before now, but I think it’s safe to say you’re going to love that ocean smell. Think about the term ‘divine providence.’ I just have a feeling about this move. I think it’s going to be a good one for you.”
That’s when I notice Dash’s face is slack and still. His chest rises and falls in steady rhythm. Because he’s asleep. Dash is asleep, spread out here on the roof like boy buffet, with my hand in his pretty, soft, Dash hair.
I shut my eyes for just a second, sending up a prayer of thanks to the god of girls’ obsessions. He might be leaving soon, but for now he’s right here, and he’s all mine.
I can’t help admiring him as he rests. In the last few years, Dash has grown tall. Six feet tall, to be exact, and probably still growing. Compared to me, at five-foot-three, Dash is a giant. I’ve always secretly thought his body was beautiful, but it’s become even more so in the last few years. His calves, on display right now since he’s wearing shorts, are thick with muscle, his legs long and tan and hair-dusted. His arms are shaped…well. Just well-shaped. Something in the dimensions of them is elegant and clean. His neck is strong and thick, his throat smooth enough to run my tongue down.
Except I can never do that, because Dash is like my brother.
A brother that I love.
I close my eyes so I can stop my thoughts. I didn’t ask for them, don’t even really know when they started.
If I was stranded on a desert island…
If I had to be a child bride…
If we were on the Oregon Trail and I had to marry off at fifteen...
Dash.
It’s only Dash for me.
And who could blame me? Who wouldn’t want this strong, kind boy—well, sort of man now, I guess. Who wouldn’t grab onto him with both hands and hold him if they could?
I know I would.
I know I never can.
So I just hope he’s happy. It’s going to hurt like hell when he pulls out of the driveway in a few hours, but that’s my problem. It’s my secret crush. Since I started nursing it, I knew I was doing myself no favors. Feelings like these burn bright in darkness. It’s my secret. One I know I’ll probably carry to my grave.
So I sit there, and I stroke his hair. When he flexes his shoulder and shifts onto his side, I whisper, “Do you want to put your head in my lap?”
When, to my surprise, he mumbles, “yeah,” I try to turn my mind off and just feel: my arms around his body, the width and weight and strength of him.
At our school, there’s a girl who’s evangelical and they put oil on people’s foreheads when they pray. If I had oil, I’d smear some on him right now.
But I don’t. I only have my childish tears.