Exit Stage Left

Chapter 2: One Last Stop

The tears blur my departure as I turn from my old street and down the block. Pass Ian's house. I said goodbye to his parents, Susan and Dwight, this morning already. But it doesn't stop me from looking as I drive by, just in case.

I shouldn't be so upset about my dad. I have parents, in Ian's. The most amazing people I've ever met, who love me still. They were the ones to encourage me on this crazy journey.

"You need to find yourself," Susan said the night she and Dwight sat me down to suggest it. "Ian wanted you to live, Rye."

It was a long time before I wanted to. But they were right. I really do have to go.

I wave despite knowing they aren't aware I'm doing it, blow them a kiss. Deliberately take Elm Street past the cemetery. Park and breathe before scooping up the handful of daisies I stole from the neighbor's yard and slam the car door behind me.

Ian's grave is close to the road. His family one of the oldest in town. It means I don't have to go far to reach him.

The stone is really beautiful, black marble. He picked it out six months before he died.

"I can't leave everything to Mom and Dad," he said as he ran his hand over the sample in the showroom. It grossed me out headstone places had a showroom, like they were selling cars or furniture, not markers of death. I wanted to leave, but his smile held me, as usual. His casual acceptance. And the way Ian made me laugh as he draped himself over the headstone, making his so-called zombie face.

I crouch in front of the real thing, wishing I was back there with him now. That I could rewind time and hug him again. Kiss him. Find a way to stop the leukemia from coming back. No superpowers appear, just like no miracle did for him, despite the drug trials and herb treatments and endless chemo and radiation.

An old, dead bundle of daisies lies to the side, my last offering, nestled lovingly beside the giant pile of flowers Susan tends so carefully. So sweet of her not to discard my meager attempt at keeping Ian company. I do the job for her, tossing the brown mess aside, settling the new bundle where the old had been.

I pinch off a daisy head and tuck it behind my ear, just like Ian always did.

"I guess..." I fight for words, trying to think of something clever, because Ian would love that, but failing. "I'll see you." Dad's words.

The wind picks up. It blows over me in a soft breeze, ruffles my hair, kisses my cheek. Gone as quickly as it came.

One more tear escapes, trickles. I snuffle, wipe it away.

Press my lips to his headstone. "Love you," I whisper.

My car waits for me, low in the back, the inside baking with heat when I slip inside. My iffy air conditioning gives me a break and pumps out a blast of cold before settling on luke-warm. The frames of my sunglasses are hot against my skin, but they hide the red rims of my eyes and make it easier to believe, when I don them, I really am going on an adventure.

And not leaving my heart behind.

Classic tunes fill the interior as I blast the stereo, the only reliable part of the whole car, pumping Queen and Meatloaf and Mom's favorite ABBA over and through me, the pounding bass vibrating my seat as I sing at the top of my lungs to clear my head.

Works wonders. I barely flinch as I drive past the park where Ian and I used to hang out when he couldn't go far. And the coffee shop where we drank endless cups and talked and laughed when it rained.

Every "where Ian and I" flies by until the highway beckons.

As I pass the "Thank you for visiting beautiful Clifton, New York," I choke. I can't help it. Bark out one last sob, tearing at my chest, making my eyes burn, my lungs heave as my diaphragm protests.

And then it's over and I'm merging into traffic.

This is going to be awesome, you know. His memory sits in the seat beside me, an apparition no stranger to my times alone. I glance at him, nod. Knowing it's crazy to cling to him like this, but missing my best friend so much I just can't bring myself to release him.

Not yet. And maybe not ever.

A sign tells me it's 186 miles to Manhattan. I push the gas pedal down and commit to my new life even as my make-believe Ian smiles in the passenger seat beside me.

I pull over and stock up on chocolate and chips at a gas station, buying all of Ian's favorites because they are mine, too. Munching and singing-hearing his voice clearly butchering every song just like he used to-I start to feel an odd sensation in the pit of my stomach. But it's not until I pass a giant line of tractor trailers and catch another sign I realize what I'm feeling.

117 miles to go.

It's excitement.

The realization startles me. Am I? Am I really excited to leave home, leave Ian, everything I know? But no, not everything. He's beside me, isn't he? My lips pull into a smile as Heart sings Barracuda on my stereo. Ian's favorite song, the sound of his phantom's voice bellowing the words at the top of his lungs, so loud I laugh.

I can do this, then. Knowing he's coming with me after all. I've packed his memory, the moments alone I can imagine. He's still here, just like one of my t-shirts. I feared leaving Clifton behind, because I'd spent most of my life doing everything I could to keep Ian with me.

No complaints. I put my entire life on hold to make sure we had every moment together possible. My best guy friend since kindergarten when he was first diagnosed, my boyfriend since tenth grade, still suffering around short bouts of remission. Three years out of high school spent first taking care of him the best way I knew how-by being at his side as long and as often as I could-and shelving my own dreams.

Suddenly, I understand my guilt at abandoning him doesn't have to mean he's gone. The possibilities are endless. Maybe I will check out schools. Make new friends. Make a new life.

Something I've never really allowed myself, I now realize. My life was Ian. I don't regret a moment. I'm grateful every day for him. But this feels right. Moving on, my amazing love at my side whenever I need him.

Susan knew it. Dwight. I wonder if they'd worry knowing how I linger over their dead son's memory.

I push back my sunglasses, ponytail hitting the headrest as I smile into the blue sky and the road ahead, not really caring. I'm moving on. And I'm taking Ian with me.

Love you, babe, he says.

"I love you, too." My whisper disappears in the volume of the song.

I'm so lost in the music I almost miss my exit, tires squealing softly as I cut across two lanes and nearly side-swipe a van full of kids. I wince my apology, wave to the cursing driver and scoot forward, down the off ramp, still driving too fast. Adrenaline pumping, heart skipping, Ian laughing in my head-he loved it when I played the daredevil-I merge yet again into more traffic, the skyline now dominated by a bridge and high rises in the distance.

It's almost six o'clock by the time I follow the bumper-to-bumper line of cars across the Hudson River and onto Manhattan Island, leaving the mainland behind me.

I follow the parkway around the island. The river glitters on my right, the city growing from residential buildings to taller apartments and on toward the center of New York, towering over the rest on my left. I can imagine Ian rubber necking to get a good look. He loved coming to the city, though he rarely had the chance.

I'm going to explore it for him. With him. Make it our home.

I take a left on West 54th, spotting a little marquis on the side of a large brick building faced by lovely trees. The sight stirs a thrill in my stomach and I'm grinning all over again.

Going to be a star, Riley James, Ian's voice whispers.

While looking into colleges is one possibility while I'm here, I've been suppressing my real hope.

That I'll be able to start acting again.

Aunt Vonda did mention she lived on the outskirts of the theater district. I think I forced myself to forget. Just in case I didn't get the chance to step on a stage again.

Dreams are made for living, babe, Ian says.

I shrug off the memory. Time will tell. For now, I can smile at the chintzy blinking lights someone set up, the hand-painted sign proclaiming the show is "The best in town, says the Chelsea-Clinton News." And dream.

I glance at the post-it note I plastered to the dusty dash of my car, squinting at my own handwriting while dodging a yellow cab that jerks to an abrupt halt in front of me. I make a right turn and drive for several blocks, liking the neighborhood already, the steps up to the doorways, the old trees shading the street. Finally, I pull up to a towering, old apartment building.

My phone is already ringing when I slip it out of my pocket. Aunt Vonda's face smiles back from her avatar when I hit answer.

"Hey, Auntie," I say with a smile in my voice. "I'm out front. I think."

She laughs, a little high pitched, ending in a soft snort. "I'm looking at that miserable excuse you have for a car," she says. "I'll be right down."

I hang up, still grinning. Exit the driver's seat to a blast of cooler air, realizing only then the inferno I've been sitting in. Not that it matters when Aunt Vonda comes bouncing out the big wooden front entry and down the steps, her generous boobs bobbing as she rushes to the sidewalk. She leaps over the curb into traffic, gives the guy who honks the finger before dashing to my side and crushing me in her arms.

I hug her back, shaking for some reason, feeling every emotion possible as my old hurt wells up in my throat and tries to expel itself all over her. It's tough to hold back despite the hope of my drive. Seeing her makes me think of Dad. Mom. And the fact Ian really is gone, my fantasy bubble shattered yet again.

I manage to hold it together. By the time Aunt Vonda lets me go, beaming as she grips my face between her hands, I'm smiling again, if barely.

"Darling pet," she says. Kisses my cheek with her pink lipstick. Dad got all the height in their family, my aunt at least six inches shorter than me. But she kept all the heart. I think it's a better trade all around.

"You look more like your mother every time I see you." Aunt Vonda hugs me again before sighing happily while I struggle with more tears. It's fine, I'm used to pretending everything is okay, only losing it after the illusions fade and I'm confronted with reality. There have been times in the last year I've broken down, unable to stop for what felt like days. But I'm really hoping this move will mean the end to those events.

Considering I've spent the last three hours pretending Ian is alive and with me, I know it's not a very good beginning.

Aunt Vonda squeezes herself into the passenger seat of my car and I almost snap. She fills Ian's place, grunting as she shoves the remains of my junk binge aside. I didn't notice the black box in her hand, only spotting it when she waves at the alley beside the building.

I follow her directions, pulling across the street and into the back lot as she chatters at me while I do my best to control the unreasonable anger I feel. As though she's broken the last of my connection to Ian.

"I hope you like your room, I made it up special. I know how much you love daisies, so I bought a quilt with daisies on it." Her bubbly chatter prods me out of my temper and into amusement. I almost laugh as she rushes on. "Okay, go down here." She points at the ramp, guiding me to a pair of steel doors. "You can park in my second spot as long as you want." I'm not planning on using my car much, hoping to get around on foot or use public transit as much as possible. My hatchback is known to quit now and then, and after the long drive we'd just had, I don't want to risk it.

Besides, it's a perfect chance for Ian and me to-

For me. For me to get to know the city.

I pull down into the darkness of the underground, following Vonda's pointing, finally slipping my little car in next to her minivan. Fleur de Vonda glares back with a huge, smiling image of her face, her website and phone number in flowery letters beneath.

"The pimpmobile," she rolls her eyes and laughs. "Johnny talked me into it." Her oldest son's job as an IT guy for the government must be stifling his creativity, because he is always at Aunt Vonda for something. New website, social media. She is more hooked up than I am.

"It's hot," I say with a wink, forcing myself to be normal and not a freak who fights an endless battle in her head with remembering her dead boyfriend is dead. The van really is atrocious. I just pray she doesn't want me to drive it.

Aunt Vonda is already out, the passenger door squealing as she shoves it open, the hinge protesting such abrupt behavior. I pat the dash and whisper thanks for the car's faithful service before climbing out, stretching. The air of the garage is cool, tainted by the smell of oil and mustiness, but a welcome change from the heat of the car.

With Aunt Vonda's help, it only takes one trip up the cranky old elevator to the sixth floor and her apartment. We giggle together as we stuff ourselves in the tiny box, crammed with the two giant suitcases, and wave off a young couple who smile and let us go.

The hall on Aunt Vonda's floor is quiet and clean, much nicer than I expected from the outside of the building. And her door is painted a lovely deep green to match the rest in the hall. Shining gold numbers sparkle in the light as she breathlessly keys the lock.

Smiles at me over her shoulder.

"Welcome home, pet," she says. "I'm so happy to have you here." And opens the door.

***