I miss you.
I miss you.
I miss you.
There’s never an I miss you not.
And there aren’t enough petals on the flower. There aren’t enough petals in the world.
In the limo, Dante has to pull the thorny stem out of my trembling hand because I’m still gripping it, even though the naked and ugly bud is the only thing left.
Hours after our friends and your extended family and my family leave your house, I stay. I help Dante inventory all the frozen casseroles and stews and empanadas that people leave behind on your kitchen counters.
When we finish, I pull out my phone again and get lost in it. But Dante starts pacing around your living room, very much in the here and now.
He kicks the leg of your dining room table. He punches a wall and says it’s all bullshit. I don’t want to be here to witness Dante explode, but it’s been almost impossible for me to leave your house since you died. I still can’t make myself go.
Dante opens and closes his hand after he hits the wall. It settles into a tight fist, like he’s holding one of his drumsticks. He aims his angular dark eyes at me, and says, “You think it’s bullshit too, don’t you?”
He’s talking about the comments on your photos. They’ve been rolling in nonstop all week.
I stay quiet. I look down at my phone and read a few of the newest ones.
I don’t have a right to say anything. I’ve been looking through your photos since the accident, just like everyone else. I’ve been clicking on every single picture you ever posted, reading over your captions and hashtags, like they’re prayers. I’ve been ignoring the “Rest in peace,” “We’ll miss you,” and “Only the good die young” messages people who barely even spoke to you have been leaving beneath your selfies. There are more broken heart emojis in the comments than there are kids at our school.
But Dante’s right. They are all bullshit. So I look back up at him and nod.
With my approval, Dante turns to look at the other side of the room. I don’t know what he’s going to say next until he says it.
“We need to get it deleted.”
I’d forgotten your father was in the room, but that’s who Dante’s talking to now, probably because your dad has always been the kind of dad who gets things done. Like that time he argued with our teacher for giving us detention for passing notes, when really I was giving you a Tylenol in an origami box because you had cramps. Or the time he volunteered to coach our girls’ soccer team when we were in middle school after the paid coach got let go. But ever since your accident, he just kind of sits there, like nothing matters. Or maybe like everything does, but he doesn’t know where to start.
Dante can’t delete your accounts. Your mom already cut off your cell phone. I only know that because I was calling your number over and over again on speakerphone while I sat in the school parking lot yesterday, just so your voice could fill the air like it used to.
I wanted to memorize the way you sounded. Where your tone changed and how I could hear a song playing softly in the background. Now I can’t get your voice out of my head.
Hey! You’ve reached Tavia’s phone. It’s probably in my pocket or in my purse or on my bed, and I’m sure I really want to talk to you. So leave me something lovely because I love you.
The last time I called, I got an automated message instead. And it was so shocking, to go from hearing you to hearing We’re sorry. You have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you’ve received this message in error, please check the number and try again.
I didn’t need to check the number, but I did try again.
I don’t look at your dad or Dante as I find your name, press down to call you, and put my phone on speaker. And when that recorded robot voice tells us your number’s been disconnected, your dad looks at me from across the room. He shakes his head, like he can’t deal; mutters something in Spanish; and stands up to leave. A minute later, I hear the front door slam.
I look at Dante, and everything about him softens. The hard angles of his face become curves. The onyx of his eyes melts into molasses.
“Did you know,” I ask, “that her number was already dead?” I flush a little after I hear myself say that word. He shakes his head.
I wish I’d taken screenshots of every photo you ever sent me, every selfie with filters that made your eyes sparkle or gave you the ears and nose of some adorable animal, because those were private, meant only for me, and the ones Dante wants to delete are public, for everyone to see. But the private stuff only lasted a few seconds, and now those are gone forever, just like you. With your phone turned off too, I need to preserve every piece of you that hasn’t disappeared.
So while he seems gentler, I ask Dante not to get rid of your accounts.
“With her phone gone, these pictures are some of the last things we have left that are purely her.”
He still looks like he wants to punch something, but he just keeps watching me, quietly.
Even though I know there isn’t, I say, “I’ll see if there’s a way to disable the comments.”
He frowns, but then he nods.
“And I’ll post something asking people to stop,” I add.
I don’t say that I know all your passwords and that I could erase every trace of you in a few seconds.
I don’t say that I still send you instant messages and emails or that during every free moment I have I watch the long-ago-posted videos of you singing and playing the piano. I don’t tell Dante that as soon as I walk out of his house, I’ll put my earbuds in and dial my own voice mail because you left me a funny message six months ago that I’m so grateful I never got around to deleting.
I haven’t cried, but I don’t say that, either. My hands shake every time I think about your name, and Dante can’t know that.
He has enough on his mind.
From the look on his face I can tell he’s thinking about how we found out about the crash. Some idiot from our high school took a picture of your upside-down car and posted it to his story with a black-and-white filter and the caption SHIIIIIT. Just saw the worst accident. Perry, of all people, texted a screenshot of the picture to me with a message:
Holy shit. This isn’t Tavia’s car, is it?
It was. The Unraveling Lovely bumper sticker, the one we designed for the band’s tour last summer, was a dead giveaway.
I knew you were on your way to see Perry, but he had no idea. I didn’t even message him back.
I can feel Dante looking at me. He probably knows I’m remembering that night too.