Allyson In Between ✔︎

Chapter Three

|photo by Alessio Quaranta from Pexels|

My phone pings as an alert window pops up to remind me that art therapy starts in thirty minutes and I groan. I don't want to go. Especially not now. I want to keep reading the IM conversations. I'm dying to know if I kissed Noah Dodge on my fifteenth birthday.

It's incredibly strange to think that all of these...like...stories are about me, my life. My gigantic crush on the boy from my dream—the young man in the swim team photo. I've never had a boyfriend, that I can remember, but I definitely wanted one. My best friend and I used to talk about it all the time.

Meaning Kara, the best friend I remember.

We stopped being friends after the move—according to Mom. Which still seems impossible to me. It's hard to believe that either one of us would've let distance keep us apart, but it must be true because her number isn't in my phone.

Samantha Zhao is my best friend now. And my sister wants me to contact her.

I switch over to the texting app, to the message Samantha sent me two days ago. She's sent twelve of them since my accident—all with the same trio of purple hearts. Only one of the texts had words. On June twenty-first, the day I transferred from the hospital to Faircrest, she wrote: Thinking about you. So now, I guess, when she's thinking about me she just sends the hearts. Which is a nice gesture, and I'm sure it would mean a lot to me if I remembered the relationship we had. But right now... I scroll back farther, to the beginning of the text conversation we had a few days before my accident. I've only read it one time—because it almost gave me a panic attack—but maybe now...maybe it wasn't as bad as I remember?

Sam: I know you weren't sick Monday — and I know why you skipped school, because I came to your house with your favorite noodle soup and I SAW YOU walking down the street. You're going to end up like Oscar.

Ally: I'm sorry I misled you, but I promise it's under control.

Sam: Misled??? It's called lying! What the hell is going on with you, Owl? You're seriously scaring the crap out of me right now.

Ally: It's complicated.

Sam: Well Great. Thanks for the bullshit answer. I'm just going to file that under what-the-F-ever and leave you with this: I have intel that's going to complicate the hell out of your relationship with the man-whore. So you just let me know when we're the kind of friends who can tell each other secrets again. Mm'k?

I stand, stretching my arms toward the authentic colonial chandelier hanging over my head, so I can breathe in a little calm. But that nothing-is-the-way-it's-supposed-to-be knot in my chest persists. Because the scary text conversation seems worse now that I have the instant messaging transcripts to compare it to.

So yeah, that's a definite no. I don't want to know what changed—why I changed my relationship with Samantha. But I do have questions—hundreds of them. And it only makes sense that I should reach out to someone who might be able to answer.

I close out the disturbing thread and scroll through the long list of text messages that have come in since my accident—the whole reason Mom gave me the phone. They're all basically the same. One, or a combination of the phrases: Get well soon! I'm thinking about you! Let me know if you need anything!

None of them are from Noah Dodge.

But. His name is in my contacts, just like Mom said it would be. He was the lifeguard who pulled me out of the pool, the smiling face in my dream. We have a connection.

Maybe he's just waiting for me to start the conversation. Like I did the very first time we talked.

I press the text bubble next to his name and type: Hi, Noah. This is Allyson Clark. My mom gave me my phone and I found your number and

And why am I talking about my mother? I hit the backspace key all the way back to my name and add: Thank you for saving my life.

Much better. I read back through the text with my finger hovering over the send button, and take another breath. My knot is still tight, but my stomach is fluttery—in a good way. Because I want this. And I'm brave enough to make the first move.

Right?

I touch my finger to the screen. Right or wrong, it's done.

My phone pings with another alert: fifteen minutes to art therapy. I need to find another place to read—like the bench by the fountain. The session will be over by the time Penny thinks to look for me outside.

<> <> <>

The black iron radiates warmth through my denim shorts. The ornate bench is impossible to see from inside the mansion because of the perfectly trimmed hedge lining the front sidewalk, but it's not like I'm hiding. I'm right here in plain sight for anyone who bothers to step onto the front porch.

I press the boxed-in bumblebee image that opens the instant messaging app—and my phone buzzes. Noah's name flashes on my screen and everything goes fluttery: my heart, my stomach. Even my brain. I switch back to the texting app. Noah's message says: No problem.

Is that...maybe...a weird response?

Another text comes onto the screen: Do you need anything?

Um, yeah. I have a hundred questions I'd like to ask. And I'd like to meet the owner of that amazing smile—like in person.

My arms sprout a million goose bumps. Do I really want to meet the boy I've been reading about for the last hour? Am I brave enough to ask him to come?

There wasn't any emotion attached to my dream—or whatever it was—but after I woke up, I felt good. Like peaceful or...I don't know. There was just a kind of rightness about seeing his face—in the same way reaching out to Samantha feels wrong. I type out the words: Will you come visit me? And this time, it's a little easier to press send.

Noah's reply is instant. It's a yes with an exclamation point—like he really wants to visit me. Which makes me feel like jumping up and down. So I do.

But then I stop abruptly—panting and mildly frantic with the thought, the possibility that I might not be alone out here. This is the main entrance after all. People tend to come and go. I scan the parking lot looking for bodies, but the cars are empty; the walkway is empty. I slump to the bench, relieved, and type: I'm living at a rehabilitation center called Faircrest. And then realize I have no idea where Faircrest is. Except that it's somewhere in Virginia—and it takes Mom two hours to get here from Summerfield—which is just a name to me, "a suburb town southwest of Richmond." I finish the text with: I'll send you the address.

I know where you are. When should I come?

Noah Dodge knows where I am.

I wish he were here right now, while I'm feeling brave. But it might be smarter to give myself some time to finish reading those IM transcripts.

Yes. It would be good to know—and have time to get used to the idea—that the boy from my dream was...or I guess he still is my boyfriend.

The phone buzzes again: I'm working the afternoon shift tomorrow, but I could come in the morning. 10:00 a.m.?

That's not a whole lot of time. I straighten my back so I can fill my lungs, but Dr. Greene's breathe-into-your-diaphragm prescription isn't making me feel any calmer. This is a big, big step—bigger than going "home" for a visit, because I'm ninety-five percent sure Noah Dodge is the man-whore. What if he already knows the secret I'm not ready to hear?

I close my eyes and try another approach. Noah's smile is easy to conjure—and I certainly feel something now: massive amounts of curiosity. I have questions and Noah Dodge is willing. I push reply and type: Yes!