“Okay. I’m kicking Duck’s butt. Three strikes in a row.” He made a bowling motion for emphasis.
“You’re amazing, babe,” said Lucy dryly. He grinned at her proudly, pounding his chest, Tarzan style. He took another swig of Lucy’s beer before turning to Duck.
“Ready for round two?”
“God, he’s so embarrassing,” groaned Lucy. “I can’t take him anywhere.”
“He’s got a sweet side to him, though,” I said. “Like the other day when you stepped in dog poo and he spent the afternoon scrubbing your sneaker in the courtyard.”
“That was really nice of him,” she agreed.
“Anyway, the two of you are disgustingly cute.”
“I know. We even make ourselves sick sometimes.”
I laughed.
“I’ll have the puttanesca.” Lucy shut her menu and put it down on the table.
“Pepperoni pizza for me.”
“Are you going to have some wine?”
I shook my head. “No, I want to stay off the alcohol tonight.”
“You’re such a nerd.”
“Says the girl in the T-shirt with a math pun on it.”
Lucy grinned.
We heard a shout of glee and turned our heads to see that Freddy had just scored another strike. He gave us the thumbs-up sign as Duck grinned at us and shrugged his shoulders.
“Duck looks happy,” said Lucy.
“He is. Things have been really great between us.” Duck’s mood had improved dramatically once Rad was out of the picture. For him, it was a case of out of sight, out of mind. It wasn’t that simple for me, but that was something I kept to myself.
“Well, he deserves it; he’s a great guy.”
“I know. I’m lucky to have him.”
Later, the boys joined us at our table, and Freddy helped himself to some of my pizza.
“Did Audrey tell you? She got her first feature story.”
“No kidding?” Duck said. He put his arm around my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. “Way to go!”
“Congrats, Audrey,” said Freddy. “We should celebrate!” He flagged the waiter down for a new round of drinks.
“I’m not drinking tonight.”
“Why not?” Freddy asked.
“She wants to stay sharp,” said Lucy, her eyes brimming with laughter.
“So who’s the feature on?” asked Duck.
“Some up-and-coming writer. I have to interview him about his new book on Monday.”
“Well, you have the entire weekend ahead of you,” said Freddy. “A drink’s not going to kill you.”
“I suppose not,” I said, caving in. “Maybe just one, then.”
Later that night, I found myself lying wide awake in bed. Duck was fast asleep. I always envied how he could do that. Sleep was like clockwork for him.
I crept out of bed and went in search of my brown leather satchel. I found it lying on the kitchen table, reached into the front pocket, and pulled out the copy of A Snowflake in a Snowfield. I made a cup of tea and settled myself on the loveseat with the book on my lap.
It was a chilly night, and I drew my favorite woolen throw up to my chin and curled my legs under my body. I breathed a sigh of contentment and reached for my tea. After taking a sip, I flicked open the book and turned to the first page.
An unnerving feeling settled over me as I began reading. It grew in intensity as I progressed further. The book was set in 1920s Wisconsin, a story about a woodcutter’s daughter that read almost like a fairy tale. There was a dark undercurrent of abuse and neglect I found deeply disturbing. In the closing scene, Emily, the protagonist, trudges across the snow toward her favorite ironwood tree, a length of rope clutched tightly in her hands. In the last few moments of her life, Emily’s thoughts play out on the final page in a series of flashbacks that felt strangely familiar to me.
I snapped the book shut and realized my hands were shaking. I got up to get myself a glass of water. I barely made it to the kitchen sink when my legs gave out under me and I collapsed onto the floor, gasping for breath. For the first time in a while, I reached for my rubber band, but I didn’t have it on. I pinched as hard as I could at the skin above my thighs. The pain was excruciating and I bit down on my lip to stop myself from crying out. Tears flooded my eyes and spilled down my cheeks.
After a few agonizing moments, the tension in my body began to ease and I clutched my knees tightly to my chest, rocking back and forth.
I had no idea why the book had been so triggering. Somehow, it was written in a way that mirrored many of the feelings I had kept buried since Ana’s death—the sorrow, the regret, the overwhelming guilt. It was as though this writer had understood me in the most intimate way.
Taking a deep breath, I picked myself up and walked to the kitchen table. I withdrew my laptop from my satchel and flipped up the screen. With trembling fingers, I typed “Colorado Clark” in the search box. It was such an unusual name that I had no trouble finding a photo of the author. My heart pounded wildly in my chest as image after image flooded the screen. Colorado was the boy I had met the night of Ana’s funeral who was still on my mind all these months later. “Rad,” I whispered.
Fourteen
I arrived at the café where April had arranged for me to meet Rad. I found a corner booth and sat down, staring out the rain-splattered window where intricate letters spelled out the words “Callisto” in reverse. Every so often, drops would burst onto the glass like newly formed stars on a flat, translucent galaxy.
I checked the time on my phone. He was ten minutes late. I drummed my fingers nervously on the table. It felt like a lifetime since we last spoke. A teenage girl with frizzy brown hair walked by with a handful of dirty plates. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” she said before disappearing behind the counter. She came back a few minutes later with a menu. “Give me a holler when you’re ready.”
“Sure, I’m just waiting for someone.” Just as the words left my mouth, I saw Rad outside the window, pulling up his coat collar against the rain. Moments later, he was through the door. His eyes scanned the café as I stood up.
“Hi, Rad,” I said, as he strode toward me.
“Audrey?” he said with a jolt of recognition. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m with See! Sydney. I’m here to interview you,” I explained.
He broke into a grin and shook his head in amazement. “You’re kidding me, aren’t you?”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
“But you’re barely out of school. How did you become a journalist so quickly?”
I shrugged. “You know, slept my way up.”
He laughed. “God, what a strange coincidence.”
“Isn’t it?” I said. “Congratulations on your book, by the way. I had no idea your name was Colorado.”
He grimaced. “Mum is the only person who calls me Colorado. To everyone else, I’m just Rad.”
“You know, I had this poster of Colorado stuck on my wall when I was a kid. Come to think of it, that’s probably what started my fixation with snowcapped mountains in the first place.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Isn’t that weird? It’s like something out of a novel.”
“Well, that supports my theory—you know the one about us being characters in a book.”
“I can’t argue with you there.”
The waitress walked by our booth and threw us a look. “Do you want a menu?”
“Yes, thanks,” Rad said.
Rad slid into the booth opposite me, and the waitress came back with a menu. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
Rad took off his dark blue coat and put it on the bench beside him. His hair was wet from the rain, and he reached up and ruffled it with his fingers.