as I imagined myself wearing that same shirt to bed if I were there. I’d sent him a selfie in return. I’d been outside wearing a tee with the outline of Texas. Sophia had given it to me for Christmas last year, and the fact it’s from her and that it has Texas on it makes me have double the amount of love for it. His lack of response has me scanning the picture with a critical eye, wishing I’d done my hair rather than tying it up in a bun and that I’d worn lipstick and angled my face because my nose looks long and my neck fat.
I scroll until I reach Sophia’s number and send her a text.
Me: Hey!! How are you?
I sit back as I wait for her response, checking through Matt’s social media pages like the stalker I’ve become over the past few years while living with one foot there and the other here in Washington. There are new pictures posted from over the weekend, ones with friends we’ve had our whole lives, and others I’ve met while visiting, and some who I don’t recognize at all. A blonde girl is impossibly close to him, her shirt too low, and her lipstick too dark. I scroll to the next photo, quickly finding the same girl only this time she’s on Matt’s other side, her arms wrapped around his and they’re kissing. My stomach plummets. Blood drains from my face as I stare at the image, trying to make sense of it. The next is a picture of Sophia and Matt, smiling as they throw back a shot.
Sophia: Oliviaaaaaa! I am currently elbow-deep in flour, baking cookies with Ariel and Morgan for the football team.
A new kind of pressure on my chest joins the freshly laid wounds from seeing the party. I imagine being there with them, laughing, and talking about boys and college—classes and experiences we shared rather than ones we have a partial understanding of.
Me: That sounds fun! I was just looking through your pictures from the weekend. Is Matt dating someone?
Sophia: No! Definitely not. She wishes it was something. I can’t believe he posted that photo.
Sophia: I can’t wait until you get here so you can go out with us.
I swipe at a tear and take a deep breath.
Me: Same.
Sophia: I’m counting down the days! I’ll call you later after the girls have left. XO!
My chest and eyes feel heavy as I stand and head back to my closet, where I dig until I find a second box. I shuffle the boxes I’d moved back into the closet so I can get the door closed, and then carry one of the two boxes downstairs and out to my car, putting it into my trunk and go to grab the second.
“Olive Oyl,” Dad says as I hit the bottom stair with the overstuffed box in my arms. He grabs it, making the box appear far lighter than I know it is. “You pack bricks in this one?” he asks.
“Maybe? I don’t remember. It’s stuff from Texas I never went through.”
Dad’s face falls several degrees, his eyes becoming focused on mine. “I didn’t realize you still had stuff you hadn’t gone through.”
“Not a lot,” I tell him, passing through the front door. “I’m actually looking for something specific.”
“Oh, yeah? Old love letters from Matt?” he asks, following me out to my car.
I shake my head. “Are you kidding? I’d never leave those here for the boys to snoop through.”
Dad scoffs.
“I’m looking for some old pictures.”
“Yeah? Project?” he asks, dropping the box beside the first.
“Kind of. Did you ever meet a woman named Ellen?” I ask.
His eyebrows lower. “Ellen?”
I nod. “She had dark hair and a tattoo on the inside of her wrist.” At least, I think she did. I awoke to a dream last night, remembering sitting on a woman’s lap, tracing the outline of a clover on the inside of her wrist.
He folds his lower lip down and shakes his head. “I can’t think of anyone who fits that description.”
“Yeah, she was a friend of Mom’s, I think.”
“You think?”
I shake my head, following him back into the house. “Yeah, I mean … it’s nothing. I was just curious.”
“Curious about what?”
“I don’t know. I was just thinking about something and…” I don’t know how to bring up that a woman who may have cursed one of his players went on a rant about a woman named Ellen being my mother. It sounds so epically insane that