and his friends toilet-paper my yard before my dad interrupted them….
I sit on the green of the grass, the green of my floor, until I can see every last detail.
* * *
—
An hour later I am on the steps, leaning back against one of the columns. Through my shirt, the brick feels rough and cool. I pull out my pen and notebook and write.
I lose track of time. No counting days or minutes. No worrying about how much time has passed or how much is left in the day. I fill up pages with thoughts and scenes and pieces of me. I write until my hand cramps, and then I close my eyes and rest my head on the cool, rough brick.
When I open my eyes again, it’s sunset. The sky is pink and gold and orange. I sit watching as it grows brighter and then darker as the sun begins to fade. I write twenty-eighth sunset because that’s how many I’ve seen here. And then I pack up my things and head home.
* * *
—
That night I leave the window open and fall asleep to the hum of the cicadas. Sometime around midnight Miah slips into my room, into my bed. I feel his skin and his chest and his breath on my neck as he pulls me into him.
“Here’s what I know,” he says. “I’m right here. We’re right here. I can’t tell you what the point of this is except that I’m so fucking happy I met you, and I can’t tell you what’s going to happen tomorrow or next week or next summer or five years from now. But I do know that right now, in this moment, on this island, I’m where I’m supposed to be, and that’s with you.”
DAYS 29–30
I wish there was a way to freeze time. Like if this was a Ray Bradbury story and we were each given five chances in our lives to stop time for as long as we wanted so that we could live in a certain moment indefinitely.
On days 29 and 30, this is what I wish for. The ability to breathe because he is here and I am here and no one is leaving.
THE ISLAND
THREE
DAY 31
The day before he leaves, it rains. My mom stands in the living room, papers spread across the floor like tiles. She scans the pages, glasses on the end of her nose. Every now and then she moves the papers around, stands back, scans them again. Dandelion walks in, sits on one of the stacks, and starts washing his face. She picks him up and sets him on the couch.
“What are these?”
“Letters written immediately following Tillie’s death. Apparently there was an inquest before the police officially concluded it was suicide.”
“Was her husband a suspect?”
“For, like, a second, but never seriously, no. His devotion to her was widely known. And the coroner’s report”—she taps one of the papers with her foot—“was pretty conclusive that she killed herself.”
We stand side by side, staring down at the papers. Pieces of a life. I want to sit on the floor right now and read all of them. I want to help my mom put them in order so that we can get the clearest picture of Tillie before and after, so that we can solve the mystery of why once and for all.
But Miah is waiting. My heart does this little tug.
I say, “I’m going to Miah’s.”
“Okay.” She is distracted, and I can see that she’s deep in it, taking the puzzle apart and putting it back together as she stands here.
“He leaves tomorrow and I may be back late.”
She gathers her hair, ties it in a ponytail, and frowns at me. The glasses are green and I remember when she got them, on a road trip with my dad and me, at a drugstore in Memphis.
“How late is late?”
“The morning?”
“Claude.”
“Mom. You’ll know where I am, and if you want to come get me and bring me back here, you can. But this is important to me.”
“What exactly am I supposed to say here? If I tell you no, I’m standing in the way of you and this boy and you may resent me forever or at least for a long, long time. If I say yes, I’m the world’s most negligent mother, someone my own mother would disown in a heartbeat, if she only knew.”
“How about ‘I get it’? How about ‘I don’t love it, but I get it, because I remember