For whatever reason, when she sees me each weekend, Megan still hugs me like when she was five. Her skinny arms wrap around my waist, and her eyes squeeze tight like she’s absorbing me into her skin. This is both heartening and heart-wrenching. I want her to miss me. I hate being a thing she has to miss. “Hey, baby girl,” I gush in a high, enthusiastic voice. “Long time, no see.” Her head rests in the center of my chest, where it reached two summers ago and grew no taller. I kiss the messy brown hair. It smells faintly unwashed.
Megan appears on my doorstep like a hallucination every Friday night, the retreating purr of her mom’s car soundtracking her entrance to my empty apartment. I am somewhat amazed that at fourteen, she still chooses to spend her weekends with me. I hoard these golden moments, polishing the memory of them on a hectic Tuesday morning or during a lonely Wednesday lunch hour. They remind me there is more to my life than an indifferent job and a string of complaining voicemails from Megan’s mom—my ex—The Bitch.
“What’re we gonna do this weekend?” Megan asks as she dumps her backpack at the door of her bedroom. She has clothes in the closet and stuffed animals on the dresser, but I never see them move. She totes her “real” clothes from home, and she always brings along Bunny, a much-loved gray washrag of a rabbit she’s had since she was two. My room for her is as sterile as a motel—convenient when it gets too late to go home, but nowhere she actually wants to hang out. I try to come up with places to entertain her during our time together. I hope she’ll remember those instead of the musty bedsheets that don’t smell like her. Mostly, I’m just frantic to fill the hours of two people who are determined to love each other despite no longer knowing each other very well. “I thought we could go to the movies tomorrow.” I settle onto the sofa, and she snuggles beside me like
