It is an emergency.
I have news and a plan.
“Now, are we done chit-chatting about inconsequential things?” Willow chimes in.
“Yeah. What’s the emergency?” Penny asks, focusing on me.
I take a deep breath and sit up in my chair.
They’re all staring at me and even though they’re my friends and their stares are the ones that I can tolerate, it still makes me squirm in my seat.
Their stares and the fact that I’m about to tell them.
I’m finally going to tell someone about my plan. I’ve been sitting on it for the past week, trying to gather courage.
It hasn’t helped. I’m still as afraid as I was when I thought of the plan a few days ago. But if I can tell this to anyone, it’s them.
All right.
“I’m going to Colorado,” I say, just coming out with it.
There’s a minute of confusion where there’s more staring.
“What?” Willow frowns.
“Why Colorado?” Penny frowns too.
“Yeah. Like, for vacation?” Renn asks.
I can’t look at them so I stare down at the table, brown and polished and perfect, unlike me. And I just blurt out, “To see him.”
Him.
My best friend’s dad.
The man I kissed on my eighteenth birthday. The man I haven’t seen since.
“You mean… Mr. Edwards?” Willow breaks the silence after a few seconds, guessing correctly.
“Really?” Penny goes in an awed voice.
“You know where Mr. Edwards is?” Renn’s eyes are wide.
I nod, still looking at the table.
Again, there’s a few moments of quiet while they absorb the news. I expected as much but it doesn’t make it easier.
Their silence. The things I know they are thinking. That I can’t do this. That I’m too weak, too ill, too fragile for this.
“How’d you find out?” Willow asks.
I sigh and look up. “Facebook.”
Renn screeches, “You used Facebook?”
Her voice is high and disbelieving, and I can’t blame her for it. I never had any social media accounts, not even when I was in high school. I never saw any point.
I didn’t have friends, except Brian who lived next door. There was no one I wanted to keep in touch with or anyone who wanted to keep in touch with me.
So I was practically non-existent.
I shrug. “Yeah. I made an account last month.”
“And you never told me?” She’s hurt.
“I’m sorry, but it’s not under my real name. That would cause mayhem. Can you imagine? Violet Moore, The Slut of Cherryville, Connecticut, is on social media. Hate emails were enough. That’s all I can deal with in this lifetime.” They all seem to agree. “It’s just a dummy account I made to… well, spy on people.”
“People like Mr. Edwards?” Penny asks.
“I can’t believe Mr. Edwards is on Facebook though,” Willow muses.
“Yeah, Mr. Edwards does not seem the type,” Renn agrees.
This is not a laughing matter but I can’t help but want to at least chuckle.
Like me, they all call him Mr. Edwards. Religiously. Without the pronoun.
He is this great, unknown entity that they’re all afraid of and fascinated with and can’t call by his first name. In fact, I specifically asked them not to when I finally told them the real story as to why I was at Heartstone and what put me there.
That’s Mr. Edwards to you, he said.
It’s silly to remember what he said and to actually follow through on his command. Especially when he won’t even know if I broke the rules or not.
He’s not here.
But that’s exactly why I can’t say it. Because he’s not here.
“He’s not. I looked. He doesn’t have any social media accounts whatsoever.” I shrug. “But Brian does and he posted something about doing a cross-country trip with his friends instead of going home to Colorado this summer.”
Colorado.
The only thing I know about that place is that it’s full of mountains. Also, that it follows Mountain Standard Time, which I didn’t know existed until I looked it up. They are two hours behind us.
Now whenever I look for the time, I think about Mr. Edwards and the time he’s keeping. And then, my heart starts to beat really fast. It starts to pound, not in the panic attack sort of way, but like I’m still infatuated with him.
Like I still dream about him.
I don’t.
Not anymore.
Last summer, I was this naïve little girl who thought that she could take something for herself. She thought that for once, she could dare to touch her dream – something she only saw from afar but never reached for – and no one would get hurt.
But I was wrong.
So I don’t dream anymore. I don’t even write in my journals. I don’t read Bukowski, the miserable bastard whose advice I took and ruined everything.
“Mr. Edwards is in Colorado, then?” Willow’s voice brings me back into the moment.
“Yeah. I think he’s living in the town he grew up in. Brian used to talk about it, the town, the cabin. I think I know exactly where Mr. Edwards is.”