Free Then You Were Gone by Lauren Strasnick Page A

stack of crusty plates. Lee turns, says, “Take care of this?”
    Now Kate’s in my face with a bowl of cold chicken and roasted beets. “Eat, drunkles.” I let her feed me. The beets are sweet and tangy and I swing my legs back and forth while I chew.

30.
    I tell Sam I’m sick. He knows I’m hungover. I skip school, go to the Italian deli on Alpine, buy an eggplant sub and a liter of Pellegrino, and walk home. I eat my sandwich, lie on my lawn, mess around with my phone. I google “Mark Mills.”
    Up pops his website, along with a few tangential mentions on music sites and rock blogs. I click MarkMills.com. One page only. Stark blue, looks homemade. Bands he reps. Contact info. I cut and paste his studio information into my cell. Ridiculous. So easy. Who the hell is this guy? How did he get with D. Webb?
    August 18. Roughly a month before she went missing. I scroll through Gmail trying to sort out where I was the day she was posing for those pictures. A few nonsense emails from Lee (“Blow me.” And, “Come over. Come sit on my face.”). A forward from my mother. A Zappos receipt. Nothing noteworthy. I try text next—clicking Kate’s name,reading backward, to August 18: “Bitch, you late. Hurry up. Want pie.” So, supper club. Thursday. School day. Dakota was living, breathing, getting naked with sketch music managers, scribbling dates down on old army jackets.
    Back to Contacts. Mark Mills. I tap his name with two fingers. Consider emailing. Stop myself. Toss my phone into the purple bougainvillea. Roll face-first into dry grass.

31.
    We used to do this all the time, me and Lee. Screw around for hours. Order Thai takeout or pizza. Do our homework downstairs in front of the TV while his parents were out at some dinner or fund-raiser or fancy premiere.
    Now, no more screwing around. And Lee’s big, showy shack makes me feel sad, sick, and lonely.
    “Pass that, please?” He points.
    We’re trading dishes. Shrimp lo mein for pork fried rice. Lee takes a sloppy bite of noodle and makes a face. “Tastes weird, right?”
    “What?”
    “The lo mein.” He chews quickly and pats his mouth with a napkin. “Saltier?”
    “Tastes fine to me.” I suck on my lip and push the plate away.
    “You’re done?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You barely ate.”
    “I did, Lee, I ate, like, half a tub of that eggplant.”
    “That’s nothing. That’s like eating air .”
    I shrug him off and grab at the orange chicken. “Look,” I say, picking up a glossy piece of meat with my middle finger and thumb. “Mmm.” I fake enthusiasm, taking a bite and playfully pushing Lee backward. He’s not laughing.
    “Knox.” He drops his chopsticks.
    “What?” I lick my thumb clean and flash my fakest grin. “I’m eating, see?”
    “You’re miserable.”
    I don’t want to have this conversation right now. I want to pack up my crap and go home. “Lee, I’m fine. I’m tired, okay?”
    “You’re different.”
    “Lee.”
    “It’s like, you look at me and it’s like—” He looks at me. “Like I make you sick or something.”
    “Stop.”
    “No, I just—I want to talk about it.”
    “There’s nothing to talk about.”
    “I just—I can’t tell if it’s her?” he says, breathing hard. “Or if it’s me .” We watch each other. “Is it me?”
    “Is what you?”
    “You don’t, like, let me touch you anymore.”
    “That’s not true.”
    “It is .” His eyes are wet. “Why can’t you just admit it?”
    “Admit what ? Lee. Jesus, stop . You’re freaking out over nothing.”
    “It’s not nothing. God, Adrienne. You’re showing up drunk to dinners, you’re completely withdrawn, you’re dressing different—”
    “You like this,” I say, grabbing at my dress, incensed. “You prefer it, remember?”
    “Prefer it to what ?”
    “You said I looked sexy.”
    “You do! You did and you do.”
    “So—what is this?” I scream, not looking at him, looking at the shiny walls instead. “You’re pissed off