“Aria?” She swooned at Ezra’s sleepy, gravelly voice.
“Ezra.” Aria feigned surprise. “Hi.”
A few seconds of silence passed. Aria spun her bike’s pedals with her foot and watched a squirrel run across the purple house’s lawn. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” Ezra finally admitted. “Can you meet me?”
Aria squeezed her eyes shut. She knew she shouldn’t go. But she so wanted to. She swallowed hard. “Hang on.”
She clicked back over to Sean. “Um, Sean?”
“Who was it?” he asked.
“It was…my mom,” Aria fumbled.
“Really? That’s great, right?”
Aria bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. She focused intently on the intricately carved pumpkins on the purple house’s steps. “I have to go do something,” she blurted out. “I’ll call you later.”
“Wait,” Sean cried. “What about Mona’s?”
But Aria’s finger was already switching back to Ezra.
“I’m back,” she said breathlessly, feeling as if she’d just competed in some sort of boy triathlon. “And I’ll be right over.”
When Ezra opened the door to his apartment, which was in an old Victorian house in Old Hollis, he was holding a Glenlivet bottle in his right hand. “Want some Scotch?” he asked.
“Sure,” Aria answered. She walked into the middle of Ezra’s living room and sighed happily. She’d thought about this apartment a lot since she’d been here last. The billions of books on the shelves, the blue melted candle wax spilling over the mantel in Smurf-like lumps, and the big, useless bathtub in the middle of the room…it all made Aria feel so comfortable. She felt like she’d just come home.
They plopped down on Ezra’s springy, mustard-yellow love seat. “Thanks for coming over,” Ezra said softly. He was wearing a pale blue T-shirt with a little rip in the shoulder. Aria wanted to stick her finger through the hole.
“You’re welcome,” Aria said, sliding out of her checkerboard Vans slip-ons. “Should we toast?”
Ezra thought for a moment, a lock of dark hair falling over his eyes. “To coming from messed-up homes,” he decided, and touched his glass to hers.
“Cheers.” Aria tipped the Scotch back. It tasted like glass cleaner and smelled like kerosene, but she didn’t care. She drained the Scotch fast, feeling it burn down her esophagus.
“Another?” he asked, bringing the Glenlivet bottle with him as he sat back down.
“Sure,” Aria answered. Ezra got up to get more ice cubes and glanced at the tiny muted TV in the corner. There was an iPod commercial on. It was funny to watch someone dance so enthusiastically with no sound.
Ezra returned and poured Aria another drink. With every sip of the Scotch, Aria’s tough exterior melted away. They talked for a while about Ezra’s parents—his mom lived in New York City now, his dad in Wayne, a town not too far away. Aria began to talk about her family again. “You know what my favorite memory of my parents is?” she said, hoping she wasn’t slurring. The bitter Scotch was doing a number on her motor skills. “My thirteenth birthday at Ikea.”
Ezra raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding. Ikea’s a nightmare.”
“It sounds weird, right? But my parents knew someone who was really high up who ran the Ikea store near here, and we rented it out after-hours. It was so much fun—Byron and Ella went there early and planned this whole big scavenger hunt all around the Ikea bedrooms and kitchens and offices. They were so giddy about it. We all had Swedish furniture names for the party—Byron’s was Ektorp, I think, and Ella’s was Klippan. They seemed so…together.”
Tears dotted Aria’s eyes. Her birthday was in April; Aria had found Bryon with Meredith in May, and then Ali had vanished in June. It seemed like that party had been the last perfect, uncomplicated night of her life. Everyone had been so happy, even Ali—especially Ali. At one point in a cavern of Ikea shower curtains, Ali had grabbed Aria’s hands and whispered, “I’m so happy, Aria! I’m so happy!”
“Why?” Aria had asked.
Ali grinned and wiggled. “I’ll tell you soon. It’s a surprise.”
But she’d never had the chance.
Aria traced her finger around the top of the Scotch glass. The news had just come on the TV. They were talking about Ali—again. Murder investigation, the banner at the bottom of the screen said. Ali’s seventh-grade school picture was in the left-hand corner: Ali flashing her brilliant smile, the diamond hoops glinting in her ears, her blond hair wavy and lustrous, her Rosewood Day blazer perfectly fitted and lint-free. It was so odd that Ali would be a seventh grader forever.
“So,” Ezra said. “Have you spoken to your dad?”
Aria turned away from the TV. “Not really. He wanted to talk to me, although he probably doesn’t now. Not after the Scarlet A thing.”
Ezra frowned. “Scarlet A thing?”
Aria picked at a loose thread in her favorite APC jeans from Paris. This was not something she could explain to someone who had a degree in English literature. But Ezra was learning forward, his beautiful lips parted in expectation. So she took another sip of Scotch and told him all about Meredith, Hollis, and the dripping red A.
To her horror, Ezra burst out laughing. “You’re kidding me. You really did that?”
“Yes,” Aria snapped. “I shouldn’t have told you.”