Rush thought about going back for Danny at the end of her shift, but there’s something she has to try first. She waits for dark and then walks through the woods, keeping her eyes down on the silver laces that spike her old hiking boots. She pushes her hair back with each step. It’s always trying to spill forward, to have its way. When she’s playing her cello, it leans over the scrollwork as if it wants to tangle in the strings, to wind itself around her bow, nestle in the hollow spaces inside the instrument.

She wishes she could play tonight. Not the way her parents want and expect her to play. Not even the way her sister used to play. Her own Rush way, finding the notes and then setting them free, one by one. Listening as they turn faint and soft and disappear on the horizon.

But tonight is for singing.

There is Imogen’s window in the distance. Outlined in a white frame, scribbled in with darkness.

Rush wants Imogen to see her, standing there in a white camisole that Imogen liked because of the way it breathed loose, gapping around Rush’s curves, what Imogen called her lavish girl glory.

What was she wearing, the last time they . . . ?

Rush can’t remember.

It feels like a tiny betrayal.

She thinks of Danny, with her quicksilver smile and her obvious staring, leaning over the counter at Coffee Gods.

Rush stays safe within the border of the woods. The Lillys would not like a visit from her now, or ever. They hate all of the Grays, but they hate her with a special force that parents reserve for secret relationships. Rush pictures Imogen’s bedroom, and a small avalanche of memories and feelings come with it.

Imogen has to be in there, doesn’t she? If she’s blank, where else would she be?

Rush’s mouth opens and sound leaves her, traveling over the yard. She doesn’t add words, because the flavors can get muddled and bitter; they can bleed together in your mouth until you want to spit them out. Purely formed vowels leave only a linger of sweetness in the back of your throat.

This is a song Rush made herself. She’s tried singing at school; she’s tried at the mother tree, in all of Imogen’s favorite places. Maybe home will be stronger. Maybe the bed where they —

Rush cuts herself off.

At first she wanted to keep the feeling of Imogen preserved. But that means pretending they were perfect together, that every kiss was as good as the first one. Now when she feels a sliver of the past it lodges under her skin.

Rush’s voice wavers, and she tells herself to keep steady, to stay focused on the future.

Bring Imogen back.

Then they can sort things.

Then they can find perfect.