Pre-college rite of passage tradition ends in tragedy for teen couple. One dead, one injured.

She was there.

She was there the exact moment the love of her life took his last breath.

I click on the link and start to read the article, but a message pops up, blocking my view.

Riley: Exactly how needy would I come across if I told you I was missing you already?

I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding and read the text over and over. I picture her in her room, in the corner with all her cushions… the way her gaze lifts when she watches me in her bed. I picture her smile when I say something stupid, her head as it tilts back with her laughter. And then I picture her eyes, her clear gray eyes full of hope.

Dylan: Aboutxas needy asxit would sound ig I tolf you that Is deal wit th wra th of your mpther just to saee you.

Riley: What?

Dylan: Im reakky bas at this.

Riley: Um. Maybe go on your computer because I’m not kidding. I’m needy. And I need you to keep me sane right now.

Dylan: Ok. Hanfxin.

Riley: What? Lol. Wtf are you on?

I find Eric on his laptop in his room. “Yo. Can I borrow a computer?”

He faces me. “What? You can’t google on your phone?”

“No. I’m texting with Riley and I can’t type on my phone for shit.”

He laughs and gets up from his chair. Then he opens his closet where more than ten laptops are piled up high. He grabs one and turns to me. “You need me to set it up so you can text from here? Or are you on Facebook?”

I shake my head. “Yeah, set up the text thing.”

Riley: Dylan?

I start to reply with Eric hovering over me. “Jesus Christ,” he says, taking the phone from my hand. His fingers fly across the screen and when he’s done he hands it back to me and gets to work on the computer I’ll be using. I look down at the text he just sent.

Dylan: Turns out my brother’s a Neanderthal… doesn’t understand technology and has fat as fuck fingers. Give him five. I’m setting up a comp for him. Hopefully that’ll help his cause. The kid can build an engine in his sleep but he can’t fucking type to save his life.

Riley: lol. K. Thx.

I show him the message. “What the fuck does this mean?”

“Laugh out loud. Okay. Thanks.”

“Why doesn’t she just type that?”

He shakes his head with his chuckle. “You’re such a fucking noob, D.”

“What the hell is a noob?”

He ignores me and says, “All done.” He sets the computer on his bed. I sit down on the mattress and place the computer on my lap.

Dylan: Can you hear me?

Riley: See you? Yes. OMG. Lol.

Dylan: okay. What is OMG?

Riley: Oh my god. I feel like I’m writing to my grandpa.

Dylan: Shut up. Seriously though. What is OMG?

Riley: Oh my god.

Dylan: Just tell me.

Riley: O = Oh. M = my. G = God.

Dylan: Oh.

Riley: Yeah…

Dylan: So…

Riley: So…

Dylan: What are you wearing?

Riley: rly? Lmfao.

I stay in Eric’s room while he works and I type (slower than Riley’s grandpa, apparently). I don’t know how long we stay in there, occasionally laughing at and with her, while Eric eyes me every so often, but I don’t care. I could talk to her all night like this. And I do. Even during Friday night dinner with Dad and E. I have to revert back to my phone when I’m at the table, which makes for more typos than the history of typewriters has ever seen (so Riley says). But now I know what lol, lmfao, omg, k, brb, btw and w00t mean. Though I’m still a little confused on the last one.

I skip the “Friday night insert random sport here” and opt instead to lock myself in my room with the computer Eric has generously let me keep.

Dylan: Hey. Can you send pictures through this?

Riley: Yep.

Dylan: Send me a picture of yourself.

Riley: A random picture or you want me to take one?

Dylan: Take one of you right now. I want to see you.

Riley: You send me one first.

Dylan: You seriously think I would even know how to do that?

Riley: lol. True. It’s a little weird, no?

Dylan: No, it’s not. Unless you’re naked or something. Then send me 80 pictures. Please and thank you!

Riley: You’re such a goof. Okay. Hold on.

She sends me a picture of her in her room. She’s sitting in bed, her back against the headboard just like I’m sitting. It’s dark, but I can make out her eyes, still clear, still perfect. Her nose is scrunched a little and her lips… God, her lips. They’re wet, a little pouty and fuck she’s beautiful.

Riley: You there?

Dylan: Yeah.

Riley: What are you doing?

Dylan: Taking off my pants. That picture does something to me.

Riley: Wow, you’re brave when you’re talking through texts.

Dylan: Yeah, well you can’t throw anything at me from all the way over there.

I wasn’t kidding. That picture really did do something—to my cock. Now hard in my pants.

Riley: God, I wish you were here.

Dylan: Me too.

Riley: What do you think we’d be doing if you were here?

I think a moment before responding, trying to ignore the sensation building below.

Dylan: What I think we’d be doing and what I’d want to be doing are two different things, Riley.

For a while, she doesn’t respond. Maybe I’ve pushed the wrong buttons. I seem to be good at that.