Aria’s dreams don’t always start with Ezra. She actually spends so much time with him when she’s awake, he’s mostly a shadow presence in her sleep, a silhouette at a typewriter, a smile beneath a paper bag, behind a camera.
Tonight the dreams start with a memory of Emily’s eleventh birthday, the five of them riding the carousel at Franklin Square. But they’re not eleven in the dream, they’re sixteen, even Ali. She wants to ask Alison where she’s been, what happened to her, but she can’t get close enough - Ali’s horse stays just too far ahead, right there but maddeningly out of reach as they go round and round. Then Alison brushes her hair off her neck as she turns to smile at Emily, and Aria catches a glimpse of bones through a rotting hole in her skin. Aria screams, but no sound comes out of her mouth. Then Spencer is pulling Aria onto her own horse, which is a real horse now, tall and white and sleek, and they’re not on the carousel anymore, they’re riding down Hverfisgata in the center of Reykjavik.
And then they’re in Aria’s bed, her bed now, but in her old room in Iceland. Spencer is topless and kissing her hard, then breaking the kiss and burrowing her face in Aria’s neck. Aria feels Spencer’s nose brushing her ear, but then it’s not Spencer’s nose at all, it’s Jason’s. Instead of Spencer’s breasts, she feels the muscles of Jason’s smooth chest against her. His arms move around her waist, and she stares at him, running her fingers over his face, his nose. She can feel his eyelashes, feathery beneath her thumb and there’s something about his face that still shows a trace of Spencer, lingering in the shape of his eyes or the the set of his mouth and the thought feels important but also slippery. It glides away as she runs a hand through Jason’s hair, tastes the salt on his skin. His lips are all over her, she feels flushed, full of longing. His stubble tickles her thigh and her hands are in his hair again and then she realizes his hair is longer and his face is smooth and it’s Alison’s chin brushing her stomach as she crawls up Aria’s body, her long red nails scratching lightly as she goes.
“Did you miss me?” Alison says, her voice teasing and playful.
“Yes,” Aria breathes, surprise spiking over desire. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you -” She gets distracted from her own question as she looks at Alison’s face, how her cheekbones are like Jason’s, and it’s important - something about his face she needs to hold on to.
“Aren’t you supposed to be all hot for teacher?” Ali asks, with a smirk. “What are you doing sweating up your sheets over big brother? Honestly, you could do so much better. Sisters before misters, hon.”
Aria stares at Alison, who is wearing that French lingerie she used to special order on her mom’s credit card, and running a lazy hand over Aria’s stomach, keeping the heat under Aria’s skin on simmer.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Alison says, sounding almost bored. “Like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Aren’t you?” Aria asks, and Ali responds by taking hold of one of her nipples, twisting it between her fingers till it hurts. Her flesh pinches, feels warm and alive.
“Even dead, I’d be a better lay than Jason,” Alison answers, rolling her eyes. “Come on, the stars are fading.”
And then Ali stops talking altogether and kisses Aria forcefully, her tongue snaking into Aria’s mouth like a secret, a warning. Aria arches her body towards Alison, gasping at the feel of Alison’s heartbeat against her groping hand.
“Hold me tight,” Alison says, at a crucial moment. “Tell me you miss me.”
“I miss you,” Aria cries, and then wakes up to find sunlight streaming into her room.
The sheets are soaked, and her pillow is wet with tears.