Free When Cicadas Cry by Laura Miller

much,” I go on. “I loved you so much more than I showed you. I’m so sorry.” I stop to take a breath, but I still don’t look up. “Ashley, I love you. I’ll always love you.”
    It’s so quiet. Everything’s so quiet. I no longer hear the voices from Sunny Square in the background. The hum from the train that just went by has disappeared. And the air is like mud again.
    I try to take another breath, and I look up, and Ashley’s gone. Immediately, it feels as if a knife jabs straight into my heart.
    “She didn’t hear any of it,” I whisper, as it sinks in.
    I sit back against the iron bench. There’s an ache so strong in my throat that I can hardly get a breath, or even swallow; I’m devastated. I don’t question why she left or if she were ever really there at all. My mind is just so consumed with the fact that she didn’t hear anything that I needed her to hear. She didn’t hear any of it—not even a word.
    I close my eyes. Liquid forms behind my eyelids, though for some reason or another, I can’t feel it; I just sense it. And when I open my eyes, there’s another train. It sounds its whistle so loudly that it startles me. And the whistle doesn’t stop either. It’s just one continuous, high-pitched noise. And it sounds as if it’s getting closer. I stand up and turn toward the sound. And immediately, I notice the train is off its tracks. It’s comin’ straight for me. I try to move, but I can’t. My feet are cemented to the ground. So instead, I close my eyes and prepare for impact.
     
     
    My eyes snap open.
    I’m in my bed. My alarm is blarin’ from the cardboard box I use as a night table. I swipe at it, and the room goes silent.
    I turn on my back and look up at the ceiling. I’m breathing heavily. It was just a dream .
    “It was just a dream,” I whisper to myself.
    I rub my eyes with the palms of my hands and then slide my fingers through my hair. I feel as if there’s a thirty-pound weight sittin’ on my chest.
    “Ashley,” I whisper, suddenly recallin’ the rest of the dream.
    I jump up and run to my laptop. It’s at my kitchen table where I left it the night before. I log onto Jack’s Facebook and type Ashley Westcott into the search box. We’re not Facebook friends. We haven’t been since the day she left.
    I click on her About section and quickly scroll down through her place of work and where she lives. It doesn’t say she’s married. I go back to her timeline. Workin’ quickly, I scroll past photos of her and her friends, smilin’ and havin’ fun; shots of a little brown and white beagle; pictures of a sunset over a lake. But there’s no wedding photos.
    She’s not married. I breathe a sigh of relief.
    This is crazy . Of course she’s not married. I just saw her. She would have told me if she were married. Right? Hell, maybe not; I don’t know. Anyway, I would have seen the ring.
    I close the laptop and shut my eyes. I try to hear her laughter. I try to imagine it just as it is. I try really hard. And then, just like that, I can hear it. I can hear the soft hitch in her voice—its low and high pitches, the ones that make it distinctly hers. It’s her laugh...exactly. My heart swells.
    It’s funny how you can remember somethin’ like someone’s laugh, how you can just close your eyes and think real hard and just recall it. It’s the gift—and the curse—of memory, I guess. It’s yours to keep, whether you like it or not.
    I take a breath and listen to it—to her—as if she’s right next to me.
    And then, it’s as if from somewhere deep inside my soul, a soft, clear voice rises up and echoes the words of my heart: I wish. I wish she were right next to me.

 
     
     
     
    Chapter Thirteen
    Past (2 Years Earlier)
     
    Rem

     
     
     
    “M iss Westcott, has anyone ever told you that you have the prettiest eyes?”
    It’s a lazy Saturday. Those still exist in this small town. We’re along the river downtown, takin’ in the way the world has