The After Girls (7 page)

“Oh, I know,” Audie said. “I remember.”

Sydney’s eyes widened. “You do?”

Audie nodded, a soft smile creeping up at the corners of her mouth. “He used to come in here often — with Grace. Had a saxophone, nothing fancy, just an amateur one. I think he used to play old jazz. Big hotshot that one — going places. It was such a shame.”

Sydney shook her head. She’d learned more about Astrid’s family in five minutes than she had in five years. “Astrid never talked about him.”

Audie quietly took a sip of her tea. She took a deep breath, remembering. “You didn’t know what love was until you saw those two — Robert and Grace.”

Robert, she thought, turning the name over in her mind. She’d never even known his name.

Audie went on. “They were gaga for each other. I mean ga-
ga.
Couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and Astrid, God, was she the cutest kid. I mean, hair like you wouldn’t believe, a crown of ringlets. Some kind of Irish angel, she was.”

Sydney shook her head, wishing she had moved here sooner, that she could have known Astrid as a tiny tot, shared a kiddie pool with her, swapped the toys of their Happy Meals. That their limited time had been longer.

“So what happened? Was it like a big wreck?” Thinking about it,
talking
about it now, it was nuts how little she knew. But it was the way Astrid had always said it.
Don’t push. This is all you’re going to get.

Audie gave a shrug. “I don’t know the exact details. They were up in West Virginia, I think, when it happened. He was alone in the car — a rental, I guess. The funeral was far away — I think he had some family on the West Coast.”

“And that was it? Everyone just never spoke about him again?”

“It was what Grace wanted,” Audie said with a sigh. “God forbid something like that ever happen to me and your uncle,” she knocked on the table and proceeded to cross herself. “But who’s to say what you’d do to get through it?”

Sydney nodded, but she wondered how Astrid had felt about that. If she’d just accepted it with nothing more than a sigh and a shrug.

Sydney thought about Astrid. Choosing to leave. Taking fate into her own hands. She almost wished it had been something as simple as a wreck.

“I’m really sorry about your friend — and about Astrid’s dad,” she added, her breathing quickening. “But it’s not the same.”

“What do you mean?” Audie asked, her mouth just barely hanging open. She almost looked hurt.

“Because it wasn’t your fault,” Sydney said. “Anything like that — it just happens. There’s not a reason. There’s no fault. It’s not the same,” Sydney said again. “It’s just not.” Her voice caught in her throat.

Audie slammed her cup down on the table so hard that Sydney almost thought it would break. “It’s not yours either,” she said.

Sydney just shrugged.

“Look at me, Sydney,” Audie said. “You have to believe that. It’s not yours.”

“I don’t know,” Sydney stared down at her cup. She thought about the night at the party, Astrid almost ready to open up, how she’d just walked away. “She was my best friend, and looking back, it’s like I barely knew anything about her. I didn’t even know her dad’s
name
. I should have done things differently
.
”

“It’s
not
your fault,” Audie said. “Astrid was a quiet girl, a disturbed girl. Nothing you could have done would have changed that. It’s a tragedy, just like what happened to her dad. It’s just a tragedy.” Audie put her hand on her cheek then, but Sydney couldn’t even bear looking up. What if it was like that thing in psychology, the thing where all the people just watch a crime happening, and no one does anything because they think the other person will — bystander something? What if that was them — Astrid crying and crying for help and she and Ella just standing there, waiting for someone else to take care of it? She wished there was something stronger in her tea, something that would erase the thought.

The timer dinged, and Sydney felt herself jump. The moment was broken, and Audie moved her hand back to her lap. “Scones,” she said quietly. “You’ll stay for one?”

Sydney shook her head. “I should go.”

“Wait,” Audie said, ignoring the beeping timer. She shuffled over to the bookcase, grabbed the first one on the shelf. “I want you to take this,” she said. “I think it’ll help.”

Her aunt pushed the book into her hands:
The Other History of Falling Rock
. It was Audie’s pride and joy. A book that they now sold in town gift shops, the kind of shops that also sold hemp jewelry and postcards. It had taken Audie ten years to compile.

Sydney opened it to the first page: “What follows is a history which not all will believe …”

“The ghost book?” Sydney asked. “I don’t really think — ”

“It’s not just about ghosts,” Audie said. “It’s about loss. It’s about spirits moving from one world to the next. About how this one here is just one stop on the journey.”

Sydney felt her stomach knot. The dead, spirits, whatever you wanted to call them, were a huge part of Audie’s worldview. Guardian angels. Ghosts hanging out in old places. A whole other world full of specters and unusual sounds in the night. Most of the time Sydney found it at least mildly funny, just another one of her aunt’s quirks. Now was not that time.

Sydney scooted her chair back and stood up. She wasn’t in the mood for any half-cocked philosophies or theories. Astrid had left. Astrid was gone. And she wasn’t coming back. Maybe Sydney could have done something months ago, but now there wasn’t anything that could help — especially not some bullshit book.

“Thanks for the tea,” she said, but it came out as a snap. “I should go.”

And she breezed through the beaded curtain before her aunt could protest.

Up at the front, her uncle was checking out a customer. Her fiddle, newly strung, was ready on the counter. “Thanks,” she said quickly, as he counted change out of the register. She flicked her eyes to the large grandfather clock, though she still had plenty of time before practice. “I’ll see you later.”

Her Uncle Sid handed the customer his bag and then turned to her. “You stay longer next time, okay?”

Sydney nodded, walking quickly out of the shop.

It was only once she got to the car that she realized that she was still holding the book in her hands.

• • •

Max was a jerk at practice.

“Come on, Sydney,” he yelled. “Focus!”

Sydney shot him a look but it didn’t stop him.

“The show’s tonight, the fair’s this weekend, and you’re all over the place.”

In just days, he’d gone from supporting, loving, eager-to-hook-up Max to demanding dictatorial Max. She’d experienced the transition before, but she’d at least thought his good mood would last a bit longer this time, considering. It was like he was two different people. When he wanted her (whatever she was to him), he was sweet and comforting. When he wanted music, or more like a musical ideal that he (and only he) could understand, he was exacting, overbearing. In short, an asshole.

And yet in spite of herself, she still liked the way that his sandy brown hair fell around his face, just above his shoulders. He’d always have that on her.

“Alright,” she said, taking a deep breath in an attempt to still her mind. “Let’s just try it again from the top.” She had her bow at the ready. Max, on guitar, started them off, softly strumming.

Eight counts of eight, she told herself. Eight counts of eight.

One
. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

It wasn’t a difficult song; it was one they’d played many times. Not the main crowd favorite, but well-liked. A bit moodier, still upbeat. On the demo that Max wanted to record, it would be the second track. He was serious about River Deep. Had been since they’d started three years ago. So was Sydney.

But the problem wasn’t the music. It never was. It was Max. He hadn’t said a word about them hooking up. Of course, she hadn’t either, but that was beyond the point. He was the one who wanted space until he didn’t want it anymore, for a few fleeting moments. He was the one who called the shots.

Three
. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

She hadn’t told Ella what had happened between them. She had a feeling that she wouldn’t approve. Astrid was the kind of person she told those things to. Astrid was the one who never judged. It’s not that she didn’t love Ella — she did — but Ella wasn’t the one that you ran to if you were ashamed of yourself. She was the one you celebrated with when you were proud.

Six
. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

Astrid had wanted to tell her something, too. Her mind flashed back to that stupid party, Astrid getting drunk, her face right before Sydney walked away. What had she and her mom been fighting about? A boy? But Astrid never was all that into boys, at least not beyond the faraway crushes that everyone had at some point or another. Could she have been seeing someone and they hadn’t even known about it? Had she tried to talk to her mom about her dad? Was she tired of never mentioning him, of practically pretending that he’d never existed? Sydney had never even seen a photo of him anywhere in their house. She’d always thought it was a little strange, but now that he had a name, now that she knew he played the saxophone, liked jazz — was wild for Grace — it just felt wrong.

And yet she’d never questioned it. Not once.

Now, Sydney wished more than anything that she’d stayed. Pressed her until she got it all out. But instead, she’d just let Astrid be Astrid. Open up one moment and shut back down the next.

That night, Sydney had known that something was wrong. God help her, she’d known. And she hadn’t done anything to help.

Eight
. Two. Three. Four —

The guitar stopped. Sydney looked to Max and Carter. Carter quickly stopped playing and looked at her bashfully, his face warm and nice like it always was. He felt bad for her. He always did.

Max just stared at her. “Can you not count?”

She thought of Astrid and all she felt was rage. At herself. At Max. At everyone.

“I guess not,” she said, and she threw her bow across the garage as hard as she could. It hit a plastic sled and landed on top of a can of mineral spirits. She didn’t throw her fiddle. Even she wasn’t dramatic enough for that. And she knew that it damn well wouldn’t do anyone any good.

She set it down instead, stomping out of the garage, cursing the pretty sunset that met her outside, bright orange and pink that really ought to be enjoyed. She had nothing else to do, so she sat down by the mailbox in front of Max’s house. She put her hands at her sides, took a deep breath, and screamed.

No one turned, no neighbors or idle walkers, because there was no one there to turn. Max’s house was the only one along this road. In another place, maybe someone would have thought that she was hurt, that she’d been attacked, but not here. She almost wished that she was hurt, really hurt, with a broken ankle or arm or even just a sprain. She wished that she could trip and fall and have a reason to scream and cry. She wanted concrete, physical pain, instead of this: the abstract, the questions, the guilt — hot and angry and empty and heavy all at once.

Carter came up to her shortly after. He sat down next to her, about an inch away without touching. He didn’t say anything yet, but his presence, his tall lanky body and stupid curly hair, was almost comforting. Almost.

When he finally spoke, his voice was honest. “Max can be kind of an ass sometimes.”

“It’s not just Max,” she said, without looking over.

“I know.”

They didn’t say anything more for a minute. The sunset was more progressed now. Almost purple. A mosquito buzzed by and landed on her arm. She swatted it away.

“I guess you want me to come back in there,” she said. “And learn to count.”

Carter looked back towards Max, and she followed his gaze. He was hunched over his notebook, probably working out another damn chorus, his back facing them.

“Max just doesn’t know what to do with you,” Carter said. “I know he feels bad about what happened, and he — ”

“So that’s how he’s trying to help?” she asked. “By criticizing the hell out of me?”

“It’s a lame tactic, I know,” he said. He crossed his arms in front of him, then let them go again and stretched out his legs. Carter was all angles. He never knew quite what to do with himself. “What I mean is that he’s scared,” he said.

“Of what?”

“Of you, of things that are real. You know.”

“We broke up a year ago,” she said. “Why does it matter?”

“He still cares about you,” Carter said. “And he knows that you need somebody, and he just gets freaked out and then starts shit and pushes you away.”

She stared at Carter then, and he looked so open and honest and comforting. He was so good sometimes. Too good.

After a minute, she put her hand on his shoulder and forced a smile. He was so tall, she almost had to stretch. “Carter, babe. I think you’ve been listening to too much talk radio.”

“My mom puts it on in the car,” he said. “Not me. I only listen by proxy.”

“Mmm hmm,” she said, laughing. “Sure.”

“Well tell me I don’t have a good point, here,” he said. “Just trust me on this one.”

Sydney crossed her arms in front of her. “So you want me to come back in?”

He sighed. “Max will be Max,” he said. “Just try not to let it get to you.”

She uncrossed her arms and leaned back on her palms. “Whatever,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Carter jumped up immediately, but then he seemed to change his mind and squatted down so his face was level with hers. Close.

“And Sydney,” he said. “I’m really sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything,” she said. “It’s all Max.”

“I’m not talking about Max,” he said. “I mean, you know, everything else.”

“Thanks,” she said quietly. “You don’t have to be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not anyone’s,” he whispered, shaking his head. He didn’t wait for her to respond. “Come on,” he said, jumping up again, grabbing her hands and pulling her with him. “Let’s go.”

“From the top!” Carter yelled, as they walked back into the garage. Sydney retrieved her bow quietly, avoiding Max’s eyes. She picked up her fiddle and waited.