Page 94 of How to Be Remy Cameron

I bite my thumbnail. We’re on each other’s screen, backlit by bedroom light and matching laptops, but we can barely make eye contact. “What if it means there’s a part of us that’s hollow? Or always curious?”

“We’re not empty without them, Remy,” she says, like a reminder, like a vow. “What they take with them, we didn’t need. They only leave behind that ‘what if’—but so does everything else in life.”

We exhale together. Maybe those doors we’re afraid to open in friendship need to be cracked just a little. Maybe we need to see what’s on the other side.

“Is this about the Rio thing?” she asks tentatively.

“No.”

“I don’t want to…” Lucy chews her lip; her eyes dance in the light. “I shouldn’t get involved.”

“Good,” I whisper. “It’s for the best.”

“Is something else wrong, Rembrandt?”

“Too much shit to unpack, Lucia,” I reply, returning that same weak grin she’s been sending.

“I hear you. One day?”

“One day,” I confirm.

She tells me she has to go. Her mom needs help with her sisters. I hang up. Clover’s pacing my floor. I missed our evening walk. I never miss our walks. I never fight with Rio. I’m someone new. Or this is who I’ve always been. Was Mystery Donor this confused at seventeen? The thought wipes a cold film across my brain. Then I remember Free’s message. And I remember Lucy’s words.

Message from Remy Cameron

No. I don’t need to know what he looked like. Who he was. He’s gone.

I’m not him.

You’re Free. I’m Remy. We’re not them.

Sent Nov 13 8:39 p.m.

23

“It’s been six days. Ourlongest fight was three. This feels like it’s gonna be an eternity.”

“Have you tried texting her?”

“No.”

“FaceTime?”

“Nope.”

“Have you sent her parents an e-mail?”

I chuckle, shaking my head. Ian’s such a nerd. He’s the kind of person that would walk up to a friend’s parents, shake their hands, and ask for permission to go on a walk with their child. At least, that’s what he’s done with me. We’ve looped around my neighborhood twice. It’s extra chilly today, but I don’t mind. Clover doesn’t either. She’s chaperoning us—according to Mom. Truth is, she needed a walk. And I needed Ian time.

Outside of school, we haven’t seen each other much. He’s been busy, I guess. There’s that word again:busy, busy, busy. Except Ian hasn’t been at work—not that I randomly popped up at Zombie the other day. Mom wanted caffeine and Willow wanted a muffin. That’s it. I didn’t casually suggest the café in hopes of seeing him. And Ian hasn’t been with Brook, who picked up extra shifts at Regal Cinema to pay for a rental tux for homecoming.

We’ve texted. One night, we FaceTimed. It was a bunch of yawning and sleepy smiles and my ramblings about Adult Swim. But nothing else: no hidden soft touches; no dark-classroom kisses; no happy, clumsy sex in the back of my car, which might’ve happened once a week ago. My lower anatomy likes to remind me of that last detail.

Mostly, I’ve missed Ian’s glasses, his stupid little topknot, his word vomit, and the way he looks in sweaters. He’s wearing mine today, the one I left at his house after our unplanned, fully-dressed swimming adventure. I’m wearing his hoodie. None of this escaped Mom’s intensely keen observation skills.

We pass Mr. Ivanov’s house a third time. We always stop to admire the lawn. It’s not even Thanksgiving yet, and he’s already piled the grass with reindeer and elves and plastic candy canes. The big white oak is dressed in twinkle lights.

Clover barks. Then we’re walking again. Ian’s quiet. More than usual, at least.

---