the second time jules saw gabe, he caught her staring from across the catwalk. their connection was brief and his expression absolute: GO AWAY. when she ignored the implied threat, he folded his pencil in his sketchbook and left.

the third time, jules found him beneath the lamb-tail clouds of a developing storm, plodding a journal entry from the roof of his van.

she approached the boy from behind and took the opportunity to study his transformation. his arms were built—not as large as trevor’s, but large nonetheless—and his left bicep sported a puffy pink callus bloating the matted ink of a fresh tattoo that only he could have designed; an image torn from a sketchbook and handed to an artist who’s needle skills matched gabe’s ability with a pen. the embroidery depicted the silhouette of a girl with arms and fingers outstretched like a nailed depiction of christ. though the face was in shadow, jules knew it was her. 

below the image, block letters recalled her whispered sacrilege: “sometimes life is’t worth the pain. I’M GOING FOR A SWIM.”

apparently, gabe had been watching from an eye in the back of his obsidian hair. “i need to find a new place to work,” he said.

“i’m sorry i keep bothering you, john.”

no reply.

(the voice in her head screamed so loudly that she wondered if the boy heard it too: turn around and LOOK AT ME!) jules shuffled closer and spoke softly. “looks like it might storm.”

“yeah,” he said.

“i don’t have a car yet...”

“fascinating,” he said.

“do you think you could give me a lift?”

“damnit,” he said and slammed the pencil into the journal’s crease. “look, sweetheart. you’re cute and all, but i’m not interested in—”

“neither am i. do you wanna hang out, or not?”

*  *  *

the exterior of gabe’s house had been embalmed and preserved exactly as jules remembered it. the only noticeable change was the shortening of the surrounding trees; branches severed and trimmed, heaped on the ground, bequeathing the limbs a thousand yellow stumps in place of leaves. the job was recent; rope still draped the highest branches and a boxy red wood chipper was parked beside the garage. jules assumed the workers had abandoned their post with early indications of rain. the work-in-progress already made the house seem taller.

the interior of the home was also clinically sealed. mahogany surfaces were still spotless. nautical accents were still tasteless. 

jules vaguely recalled the vast sunroom from the evening gabe pulled her through the glass sliding door and down the back steps on their way to the boat. the room was prettier in the overcast daylight with large window screens, soft yellow trim, and cream wicker furniture. outside, rain pattered the bayou and swayed the cattail brush. drops thumped the sunroom roof, culminated at the ledge, and created a drizzling shroud for the lounging couple.

“maybe we could go to your room for a while?” she suggested.

“i’m fine here,” gabe said. his body spanned both wicker arms of the love seat. detached, he sipped a beer and doodled (again) in his journal.

jules sat on the opposite wall in a matching chair. her beer’s aluminum tab was already cracked and open, but the drink remained untouched on the table beside her. out of habit, she erected a modest boredom-tower next to the can; cork coasters, a grisham novel, a paperweight in the shape of an anchor, a chewed pen... and a lace doily on top.

the tower leaned left, then toppled. jules looked up from the mess.

gabe was watching her.

“what?” she asked.

he sucked on his pen as he studied her. “i shouldn’t have left you at the hotel the other day. wasn’t expecting to see you again.”

“it’s fine,” she said, hiding her elation from the pseudo-apology.

“midwest girls are always looking for commitment. when you said you were from out of town, i figured you were good for just one.”

“that’s a pretty horrible thing to assume.”

gabe went back to his drawing. “yeah, well... it’s a bad time for me to start making friends.”

“why?”

“once upon a time i woulda fallen for a girl like you.”

“like me?”

“generic. bubblegum.” gabe made a popping noise with his lips.

“why is it a bad time to start making friends?”

a door opened and closed in the attached living room. with practiced finesse, gabe rolled his sleeve over his tattoo and slipped his beer beneath the love seat. 

before jules could hide her own can, a figure appeared at the open glass door.

the orange backpack; it was the first thing to catch her eye, then she saw the fishing gear in the man’s right hand. he—mr. jones—was just about to speak to his son when he noticed jules noticing him. he cocked his head and raised a brow.

all she could do was smile at the man who rescued her fish.

“what.” gabe snapped, breaking the silent reunion.

mr. jones blinked rapidly, then tapped the wetness from his collapsed umbrella and stepped inside. “how’s it goin’ in here?”

“still alive,” gabe said.

“the rain kicked me out early. i didn’t see you at the pier today, son.”

“it’s tuesday, right?”

“yep. i get off early on every—”

“—tuesday and thursday,” gabe finished his father’s sentence. “that’s why i stayed home.”

the man retained his diplomatic poise, but jules saw the subtle deflation in his eyes. “well,” he said, “maybe thursday then? you know where i’ll be.” when gabe didn’t respond, mr. jones turned his attention to jules and walked over. “i’m mr. jones,” he said, “this knucklehead’s dad.”

she stood up and shook his hand. “jules,” she said. “a friend.”

“jules... i like that name. can i talk to you for a minute, jules?”

she looked to gabe for assistance but the boy was buried in a sketch. “of course,” she replied.

mr. jones quietly snatched the beer from the end-table and led her to the adjacent room. he slid the glass door closed and spoke in a hushed but polite tone. “gabriel isn’t allowed any alcohol right now. do you mind if i put your drink by the door so you can take it when you go?”

“you can throw it out,” she said. “i’m so sorry, mr. jones.”

“no need to be sorry...” he hesitated. his lips subtlety (perhaps unintentionally) mouthed a silent prayer before he resumed speaking. “jules... how does... how does he seem?”

“seem?”

“how is gabe doing? is he happy?”

“i’ve really only known him a few days.”

“of course...” his voice trailed off as he became lost in some wistful thought. his eyes fell to the plush living-room windows. “of course,” he said again, then took a long sip from her beer. “thanks for understanding. maybe i’ll see you thursday?”

jules didn’t respond; the knot in her throat wouldn’t allow it.

mr. jones opened the slider and they stepped back in the sunroom. “this girl’s a catch!” he said with renewed enthusiasm.

“out,” gabe replied.

“i was thinking i’d watch the storm from here. mind if i join you?” he sat on the couch between the love seat and chair.

gabe stood up and walked out.

jules caught the slider before he could slam it, then turned her head for one last look at the man on the sofa. only the back of his head was visible as he surveyed the bayou through the screens. he’s heartbroken, she thought, then watched him savor his beer.

*  *  *

jules stepped through gabe’s bedroom like red-riding-hood through a wolf-infested forest. light from the hidden sun found scant purchase within the bedroom confines; the walls—once radiant orange—seemed to be stained by dripping coffee. severed twigs scraped the windows like forks on a chalkboard and jules strained to recall the summer leaves that once rustled her to sleep.

edgar stood motionless in the bottom corner of his cage. his neck molted with thin patches of white feathers and pimpled skin.

the room’s details adequately reflected the grim personality of the boy she once knew as “gabe.” anything tarnished by that night at the pier had been replaced by a toy of equal or greater value.

the odd support beam once held a solitary picture of john. now, nearly twelve months later, the column was covered from top to bottom in malevolent illustrations. emma, sarah, john, guns, rope, needles, pills, pools, cliffs, bridges, rivers, veins, knives; exquisite they were. disturbing they were. such TALENT mingled with such horror-show subject matter that jules—with flourishing heart and renewed spirit—had to cover her mouth to subdue the vomit creeping her throat.

finally, she was the PRINCESS in demonic surroundings.

gabe plopped on his bed, squeezed off the lid from a prescription bottle, then popped a handful of SOMETHINGS into his mouth. in a flicker of overlapping thoughts, jules witnessed jesse’s hand in place of gabe’s cramming a medi-cocktail between her lips. they were both emulating HER.

when gabe was gabe again, she sat beside him on the bed. “why did you lie about your name?” 

“why would i tell some easy lay my real name?”

“why aren’t you allowed to drink?”

he sighed and flopped backward on the bare mattress. “it’s called suicide watch. my parents check me every hour, on the hour. i can’t drink or smoke. i had a hookah but they took it away. they don’t allow any form of medication within a mile of this house. until last week, i wasn’t allowed to go online or drive my van without supervision.”

“damn...”

“if they had it their way, i wouldn’t have my art. the shrink told ‘em that it might help if i doodle my innermost feelings, so they caved and gave me back my pen.”

“your parents are hardcore.”

“they typed ‘suicide’ in wikipedia to better understand me. it’s a lot of shit to get around—” gabe rattled the bottle of pills. “—but i manage.”

“what do they expect you to do?”

“therapy three days a week. yoga. prayer. they want me to make friends—GOOD friends—and they want me to get involved in after-school activities. to top it all off, i signed a contract swearing i won’t try it again. what a fucking joke.”

“you tried before...”

“huh? you’re still here? the last three chicks bolted after the ‘restricted from drinking’ part. dad was right, you’re a real catch.”

jules touched his kneecap. “gabriel—”

“my girlfriend killed herself a year ago. i tried to do the same and failed. my shrink called it a ‘suicidal gesture.’ my shrink’s a whore.”

“it sounds like that’s all behind you now. you can clean yourself up. get better.”

gabe sat up and smacked her hand from his knee. “you really don’t get this, do you? are you stupid, jules? i watched my girlfriend overdose on benzos and swim across lake michigan. there’s no ‘GETTING BETTER.’ this is as good as it gets.”

“i’m so sorry, gabe.”

“drop it. i’ll see her again on our anniversary.”

*  *  *

the downtown streets were wet and empty. neon splotches from the abandoned storefronts echoed in the pavement’s sheen.

jules held her stomach and sobbed as she staggered through the glow from a stoplight and the gutter-piss from an overhead awning. she pictured gabe in the month after sarah’s death, rotting inside that room without school or work or play with albino skin and a humpback from drawing-drawing-drawing; creating new worlds where the princess was sarah and the princess was dead. edgar, molting and naked, memorizes the squawking lyrics to his namesake’s splendid cliché: i was a child and she was a child in this kingdom by the sea, and gabe revels in his pet’s poem; a frantic romantic with an aluminum heart, trapped in that prison with the ghosts of john, emma and sarah; trapped for a year in his own sepulcher by the sea.

sarah—jules—missed her only window to offer the TRUTH. the boy was mad. if he discovered that his year of mental deterioration was not the consequence of losing his love to suicide, but collateral damage from a mucked-up robbery... he would snap. and there would be no forgiveness.

she stepped inside the cutout entryway of another storefront and dried her tears. she couldn’t let rachel see her; not until she stifled the surreal musings and calmed her rapid gasps for air.

it’s not real, jules, she told herself. he’s not dead and he’s not going to die.

you can save him.

one day at a time, jules.

one day at a time.