There were nightmares I had every night.

It was nighttime, and I was standing in the middle of the road. The moon was shining right on me, like a spotlight. A car drove by and Katie was in it, sticking her head through the sunroof. She was laughing, smiling, holding her arms above her head. The moon would always shift in the sky to highlight her instead.

I tried to move, to find a way to get to her, pull her from the car before . . . I was always frozen. My feet like lead, anchored to the asphalt. I was forced to stand there, watching as another car sped around the corner. It was like lightening when the two collided. I sank to my knees, every time, and watched Katie fly through the air. She always loved the sky, and now she was heading towards it was what I thought.

I woke up that morning, covered in sweat. Just a dream, I told myself as I got out of bed and walked to the kitchen. I was still getting used to the quiet, all the empty space. The cardboard boxes that filled my apartment were gone now. Ramona officially moved out. I was alone.

It was funny because, secretly, I couldn't wait for her to leave. And then the door shut, and the space was too quiet. Then I realized that I wished she'd stayed.

The kettle began to whistle. I filled the mug to the very fullest and carried it with me to the couch. I checked my phone—I always checked my phone—and there was nothing to see. I think part of me expected a text from Katie, or even Ramona. I stopped expecting to see Truman's name. We hadn't spoken since that night at the elevator a week ago.

I said I had nightmares. Plural. The first one was of Katie's accident. The second was of Truman, the look in his eyes when the elevator doors closed. It was the same look he had the night we stood in Katie's hospital room. Like he had just lost someone.

Wrapping a blanket around my shoulders, I told myself I didn't need him. It was better without him. Easier, too. But I still got dressed. I still grabbed my keys, got on the subway and went to the warehouse. I knocked on the door, pounded on it until my knuckles were red. It never opened. I wanted to go inside and see Truman's small piece of the sky. But not today. Defeated, I walked to the hospital. I always seemed to end up at the hospital.

I froze outside Katie's room. There was already someone in there, his wheelchair beside her bed. I felt my nails dig into my palm when I saw his hand in hers.

I stepped inside. "What are you doing here?"

James turned his chair around. His eyes were red, dark curls falling over his forehead. "Eden. Hey. I came to visit. Katie's dad said it was okay."

"Since when do you visit Katie?" I asked, taking a seat on the couch. He wasn't holding her hand anymore.

"Since . . ." His voice trailed off. Dropping his head onto the bed, he said, "This wasn't my fault. I didn't do this."

"You were driving the car." I flinched when I said it. I could still see Katie's text, still had it saved in my phone: Leaving the party with James. See you tomorrow! There was no tomorrow. There were only bright lights and hospital beds.

"We were hit, Eden. How many times do I need to explain myself to you? When will you stop blaming me? We both lost something that night," James said, glancing down at his wheelchair. He'd flown out of the car too. The paramedics found them laying side-by-side.

"I should go," he mumbled. I could feel him staring at me, probably waiting for me to tell him to stay. I sat there with my mouth closed until the door shut behind him.

I couldn't remember how many times James cried the days after the accident. I think he may have cried more than me. I remember how Katie's mom hugged him, reassured him that he wasn't to blame. I remember how Truman watched him, hatred turning his blue eyes black.

The door opened again and Katie's dad walked in. "Give the kid a break, Ed. Wasn't his fault," Mr. Falls said.

I hated looking at him. Katie was all her mom, light hair and dark eyes. But Truman was his dad. Black hair that curled around their ears, blue eyes. They even had the same smile. And now, seeing it on his father's face, made the dull ache inside me throb.

Katie once told me she thought her dad was having an affair. She said he came home one night and, when she went to hug him, he smelt like flowers. She said her mother hated flowers. I didn't believe her then. I spent nearly every night watching their parents together; they were so in love. But now, I think I might believe her. He and Truman were too similar.

He sat on the couch beside me, stretching out his legs. "You staying for a while? I was gonna head home, take a shower."

"Yeah, no problem. I don't work 'till later."

"You still at that bar?" he asked, sounding half asleep. I snuck a glance to find his eyes closed. Katie's dad always held it together more than her mom. I never saw him cry after that first night. He was all freshly ironed, button-down shirts and briefcases.

"Still at the bar," I answered.

"Your parents are fine with that?"

I shrugged, then remembered his eyes were closed. "They are."

I watched him stand up and walk to Katie's bedside. He brushed the hair off her forehead, whispered something I couldn't hear, then kissed her cheek. He had waved goodbye, halfway to the door when I called his name.

"Do you know where Truman is?" I asked, hating myself. "He hasn't been around for a while."

Mr. Falls eyes softened. He shifted on his feet and tucked his hands in his pockets, the same way Truman did. "He had to get away for a while," he said. It sounded rehearsed, like he was reading from a script. I wondered if Truman told him to say that. If he knew I'd ask.

"But he's . . . fine?" I pressed.

"Truman hasn't been fine for a long time, Eden," he said.

Then he left. I crawled into bed beside Katie and fell asleep.

____

The bar was dead that night. It was the usual people milling around, a beer in their hand. The kind that didn't tip, only grunted, slammed their glass down and left. I was halfway through scanning the faces for his when Santana walked in, sliding into the seat beside me.

"Water," she said.

"You know this is a bar." I reminded myself I should probably be nicer to her.

"Water," she repeated, drumming her fingers along the counter.

"Fine." I poured her a glass, watching as she drank the entire thing. "What are you doing here?"

"Have you heard from him?" Santana asked. She was staring at her hands, lips parted so I could see the little gap between her front teeth. I knew Truman loved that about her.

"No." I paused. "Have you?"

"No." She tapped the glass and I refilled it. "I moved out of his apartment. I've been living with a friend. I went back there today, to check on him. I still have a key," she explained, noticing my face. "Anyway, his place was empty. Nothing in the fridge. The plates were still on the table from that day, Eden. He's . . . I don't know where he is."

Maybe it was how helpless she looked, but I said, "I saw his dad today at the hospital. He told me Truman had to get away for a little."

Santana scoffed. "Of course he did. That's his thing, huh?" She pushed her glass towards me. "Why don't you fill this with something stronger?"

So I did.

"You know, I'm not mad at you. Like, at all," Santana was saying, two glasses later. "This is Truman's fault. I know how he can be. He's so charming. The eyes, that smile he gives you . . . It's like you can't help yourself. God, I couldn't. I'm not blind. I knew how he felt for you. You should've seen the look on his face when he told me about that kiss you two shared in the closet. God, Eden, he looked like a kid on Christmas fucking morning. I should have left him right then."

My hands were shaking. My whole body was shaking. "Why didn't you?" I whispered.

"I loved him. And we'd been together for so long. It was just easier. I can see why he wants you. You're beautiful—"

"Don't."

"Whatever. I'm just saying that I don't blame you, Eden. I wouldn't be here if I did. This bar kind of sucks," she said with a laugh.

"It does."

The door swung open, and a man in a suit walked in. He was a regular, came in nearly every night. Markus walked out from the back, winked at me, walked over to him and handed the man a beer. I knew Markus found him attractive. I also knew he had a boyfriend, but I minded my business.

"Where do you think he went?" I asked Santana, whose eyes were slowly closing.

"Dunno," she said. "Probably in some girl's bed." Then she started laughing, so hard she nearly fell off the stool. I had to reach across the counter and grab her shoulders to hold her up.

"All right, that's enough for you," I said, pulling her glass away.

Then she was crying, mascara running to her face. "I miss him, Eden. I know I shouldn't, I know he's horrible. But I miss him so much. And you know what hurts the most?"

"What?" I asked, knowing I shouldn't.

"That, wherever he is, it's not me he's missing."

Santana was smiling at me, the kind of smile that's just an attempt to hold back a waterfall of tears. I grabbed her hand and squeezed it. I spent so long feeling sorry for myself, for Truman, for Katie. I never cared enough to feel sorry for Santana, too.

"I should go," she said, blinking up at me. "My friend's probably already asleep. She hates it when I get home late and wake her up. She's a total bitch." She covered her mouth with her hand, then laughed. "Don't tell her I said that. I really need to find somewhere else to live."

Santana was lifting her purse over her shoulder when Markus ran over and wrapped his arm around my shoulders. "You know," he said, squeezing me, "little Eden here is looking for a new roommate. Did she tell you that?" He turned to me, grinning. "Did you tell her that, Eden?"

"Markus," I gritted, "fuck off."

It was too late. Santana was already beaming at me. "You are!" she yelled, leaning across the counter. "Oh, Eden, please. I'm desperate."

"You're drunk," I corrected.

"Drunk and desperate," Markus chimed in. I pushed him away. He laughed as he walked away, back to his mystery man.

"Please." Santana's hands wrapped around mine. "Oh, please, Eden. I'm the best roommate. Just ask Truman." We both flinched. Then she burped and said, "Or don't. Why did I say that? But will you think about it?"

I was beginning to understand why Truman said he had trouble saying no to her.

"I don't think this is a good idea, Santana," I said, pulling my hand out of hers.

"I'll pay sixty-percent of the rent."

"You'll—What?"

"Fine," she said, reaching her hand across the bar, "seventy-percent. Do we have a deal?"

I don't know how long I stared at her with my mouth hanging open, but then my hand was reaching across the counter, shaking hers, and I found myself saying, "Deal."

________________________

the beginning of an unexpected

friendship. . . thoughts?