Momo sat at the edge of the platform, leaning ever so slightly to look for a train that would never come. She’d cut her hair two weeks ago, her long brown waves traded for a choppy bob. Her mother had caused a scene when she found out, insisting that Momo was ruining her life, that the destruction of beauty would only bring shame to their family, but Momo did not care. Momo remained fully herself. As soon as she was allowed out of the house, she met me down the block to split a 2-liter bottle of Pepsi and those wireless earbuds that barely functioned.
    “You ever dream about getting out of this place?” Momo asked me, though she didn’t look in my direction. Her eyes were focused on the road, always watching the cars passing by, like she dreamed of becoming a modern-day Kerouac. Liquor would be traded for menthol cigarettes. Poems would be traded for nights at the club, and she would dance in that pair of sparkly shorts that she stole from Macy's. 

    “Why dream when I know it’s not gonna happen?” I laughed. The sound came out drier than intended, like it suffocated me to think about the future that town held for me. I didn’t dream of driving through the countryside, or clubbing in New York City, or running away to become an adventurer in Antarctica. I didn’t dream of that town either — its decaying playground, its chain restaurants, its cul-de-sacs. 

    Most nights, I dreamed of her. Of the moles on her back. Of the nail polish she used, soft and pearlescent and perfectly pink. I’d never say these things aloud. I didn’t fear God, but I feared people. Feared judgment. Feared myself. I wondered what images my mind would create if I fully indulged in my imagination, but I never did; the paranoia ran too strong.

    “It might. If you wish hard enough,” Momo said, turning to smile at me. “We’ll drop out. Move to LA and become… DJs or whatever.” 

    I smiled back at her. How could I not when the smallest shift of her breath was enough to leave me shaken? “Yeah? But I hate loud music. And parties. And dancing,” I said. “Then you’ll be my manager. I can do the fun, club stuff. You can handle the emails. I’ll even give you thirty percent of what I make.” 

    “Thirty? You’re robbing me blind. I deserve at least fifty.” 

    “Thirty-five.” 

    “Deal,” she laughed, tossing her head back. The black tattoo choker she wore moved with the sound, and I peeled my eyes away. Avoidance did little to quell the urge I was feeling. She reached out, placing her hand upon mine. I opened my mouth, and for a second, genuinely considered what she said. We could leave the next morning, hop a bus to California and scrape by together. We would live in a shitty studio in an old couple’s basement, and I’d kiss her when she got home from work every evening. 

    I said nothing. She did. 

    “Together.” 

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Ramona Marjorie Evans (1984-2017) passed away peacefully on February 7, 2017, in Nampa, Idaho, as the result of injuries sustained in an automobile accident. A dedicated wife and mother, Ramona was known as a beacon of light to those around her. A real estate agent and music teacher, Ramona’s dedication to her community showed in everything she did. Before her passing, she ran a 5k for charity and collected over two thousand dollars worth of canned goods for John Adams Middle School’s annual food drive. She is survived by her husband, Kevin, and their two children, Lila and Jacob.

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Momo played in a band. Momo wore short skirts even though she got in trouble with the principal for it. Momo still cried during sleepovers, even though she claimed she didn’t, and would only stop crying when I held her in my arms. She would wrap her fingers around my wrists and whisper to me. “Come with me… when I leave. I know I’m going to leave.” 

    I wanted to believe it for her. I wanted to be that for her. I couldn’t. 

    But I prayed. Every time I held her, I prayed. For forgiveness. For us. For a world where I was brave enough to give her everything she wanted.

    “If you were a boy, I’d marry you,” she said to me. We were watching Clueless for the fiftieth time, and I tried to ignore the fact that it was because she had a crush on Paul Rudd. 

    “If I were a boy, I’d marry you, too,” I said. The words tasted bitter on my tongue.

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It was an accident the first time Ramona got pregnant. She had never dreamt of being a mother, but Kevin had been insistent that they keep it. You’ll adjust, he promised, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand as he knelt in front of her. For the next six months, she believed it — foolishly, desperately. She picked up every book there was on parenting. She picked up baby clothes. She picked up cans of paint for the nursery. 

    It was a painful birth. She had been refused an epidural, and by the time doctors started to realize the depth of her pain, it was too late to get one. The months after the birth left her sleepless each day. Looking at her body in the mirror. Hating all she saw in the mirror. Hating Lila. Hating Jacob. It got better, marginally, when she started seeing Dr. Kingsley; it was a miracle what 20 milligrams of Prozac and scheduled free time could do. 

    When Jacob was born, she almost felt ready for it. She had been through this before, had learned to advocate for herself even when stubborn doctors dismissed her pain or Kevin made tasteless comments. 

    The baby was going to be a boy; Kevin insisted on naming him Jacob, after his father. Ramona didn’t protest — she knew better than to waste her time on a petty argument when Kevin had already made up his mind. It wasn’t fair, but these things rarely were; fathers got the final say, even when it was mothers who did the bulk of the work. 

    “You’re not going to use those, are you?” Kevin asked, watching over Ramona as she pulled Lila’s old clothes out of the boxes. They were folded neatly, almost pristine. She looked back at him with furrowed brows. 

    “What do you mean?” 

    “Well, they’re just…” Kevin trailed off, averting his eyes. He always took on this anxious stance when Ramona confronted him — arms crossed, lips bitten, body balanced on one leg. There was an almost performative weakness in the stance, as though his spinelessness alone would be enough to stop most arguments from escalating. It usually did; why argue when he would use it against her later? “Don’t you think we should get something stronger for him? Like something with racecars or the color blue?” 

    Ramona’s stomach lurched. Of course, he would say this. Of course, he would do this.
    “Does it matter?” Ramona asked, sharper than intended. It was hard to speak calmly when she was smiling through bitten teeth. “It’s more affordable this way.” 

    “I just want our son to grow up strong.”

    “And you think pastel colors are going to change that?” 

    “No. Whatever. You’re right,” Kevin said suddenly, pushing his body off the doorframe. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “It’s a waste talking with you, if you’re going to be so insistent on putting words in my mouth.” 

    Ramona opened her mouth to speak, but cut herself off with an inhale before she could. She knew, realistically, that she had done nothing wrong. That Kevin always operated in this space of plausible deniability, never saying too much but always saying just enough to get his way. She knew that she had feelings on the matter, that she didn’t care if their son grew up wearing pink or blue or tangerine, as long as he was healthy. 

    She brought home a racecar-themed onesie the next day. Kevin smiled.

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The first time I kissed Momo, we were in the eleventh grade. We were sitting on the same couch we’d known since we were little. The cabin around us was a gift her dad built when she turned eight. Everything had changed since then — posters had been added to and ripped from the walls, old toys were replaced by speakers and a small vanity, the drawer that once held dollar store packages of chocolate chip cookies was now used to hold small baggies of weed and a bong she’d bought with the paycheck from her first job. 

    She took a hit. I took a hit. We passed the bong between us as we ate slices of pizza on the wooden floor, the world around us burying into something hazier, something sweeter. She initiated the first kiss. 

    I initiated the second.

    Is it possible to build a religion out of love alone?

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Thanksgiving dinners were spent at Ramona’s house, though Kevin was always opposed to it. With every passing year, he seemed to have more gripes with her family — they were crude, they were unhelpful, they didn’t like him. Ramona always comforted him when he complained, insisting that he was seeing things, that he was creating problems that weren’t there. She never told him that his fears weren’t entirely untrue — her parents believed she could do better than him. Better than the small town she’d never left. 

    Her Dad pulled her aside after dinner one year, handing her a metallic lunchbox that she had all but forgotten about. 

    “I found this when I was renovating the cabin,” he explained quietly, glancing into the dining room to make sure Kevin wasn’t listening. “I thought you’d want to keep it.”

    That night, in her bedroom, she would look through the old photos. Photos of her and Grace at the mall. Photos of her and Grace in bed together. Photos of her and Grace smiling. 

    Kevin looked over her shoulder, his breath tight. “Who’s that?” 

    “Grace. She used to be my best friend.” 

    His brows furrowed. “You never told me about a Grace.” 

    “No. I didn’t,” Ramona said plainly, putting the lunchbox underneath her bed. When she slept that night, she dreamt of Grace’s magenta pens and her soda-flavoured lip gloss.

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I visited the cabin after you died.

    Brian showed me to the backyard, as speechless as ever. He’d aged since I last saw him — I couldn’t tell if it was time or if it was just the pain of missing you. My face is the same as always, but I wish it weren’t. I wish I could turn my grief into something tangible, wounds and scars, so I could wrap the feeling of missing you around me like a blanket. 

    The cabin was no more, but there was still the ground where it used to be.

    “She would have been happy to know you came back,” Brian said weakly, clapping my shoulder. I wanted to laugh.

    Would you? Would you have been happy to know I came back after all the time spent pushing you away? After I stole our dreams for myself and left you to decay?

    Brian went inside, and I was left alone. With the dirt. With you. 

    I didn’t understand it when I felt the urge to dig, but my hands sifted through soil. I dug and I dug, worms beneath my flesh, soil under my nails, heart racing so fast I could barely breathe. 

    My fingers touched pale skin. You looked up at me. Blinked. 

    “Gracie?” You asked as though you could hardly believe it yourself. 

    “Come with me,” I whispered back. This time I felt it in my bones. “Let’s run away together.”