“You—you went to my room?”
He gives a hearty nod. “Sure did. So, about that interview…”
Kevin lets his words hang there, and I recognize that reporters’ habit to create awkward silence in hopes of the interviewee filling it with something they wouldn’t normally say.
I might have stormed off. I might have told him he was violating my privacy and to get lost. But my emotions roil around inside me, flexing, itching to get out, and before I can stop them, tears pool in the corners of my eyes.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please.”
No other words come to my mind—or lips. I don’t bother wiping the tears that now trail down my cheeks into the corners of my mouth.
Kevin’s fingers twitch toward his shoulder bag, and I realize he probably has a camera in there. Looking for a shot of my grief. Wanting to capitalize on Nathan’s death to pump up his own career.
And my anger explodes.
Everything I felt toward Momma—the way I wanted to shriek and throw things at her—I let it bubble to the surface.
“You want a quote?” I hiss. “I’ll give you a quote.”
Kevin perks.
“You’re disgusting. All you reporters are. You’re vultures, hovering over Nathan’s corpse, looking for your big break. Well, guess what? He isn’t your highway to fame. He was my brother, and he’s dead. He died alone in his own vomit because his sister didn’t help him. Because I didn’t help him.” My voice builds until I scream, “Put that in your article!”
I turn and sprint away from him, my chest shuddering with barely contained sobs. When I let myself into my building, I slow to a walk, exhaustion suddenly swallowing my legs so I can barely climb the stairs.
Halfway up the flight, my phone rings. I can’t even think enough to turn it off, and I answer without looking at the number.
“Hi, are you free right now?” Jason’s voice floats through the speaker and cuts straight through me.
I stop in the middle of the stairwell, soaking in the simple comfort his voice brings. My eyes sting, and my heart pounds so fast I wonder if this is what hyperventilating is.
“Grace, are you there?”
I want to tell him where I am, what’s happened, how every demon I’ve ever hoped to run from has found me again. How I want to see him. How all I want is to feel a pair of arms wrapped around me.
But all I say is yes.
“Are you okay?” he asks instantly. “Where are you?”
I choke on a sob, covering my eyes with my palm and trying to calm the adrenaline shooting through me. I won’t panic. I won’t panic.
“Now isn’t a good time,” I croak. “I’ll call you back.”
Without waiting for him to answer, I hang up. And I hurry the rest of the way to my floor. I just need to get to my room. I need to be there. I need to be alone.
Sweat runs down my chest and beads on my forehead as I fumble with the key, dropping it once, cursing under my breath, until I manage to unlock and throw open the door. I dash inside, and silence surrounds me, like the eerie quiet after a train wreck or a car crash, when you survey the damage in horrified awe. The same word echoes in my head, a word I’ve avoided since Nathan’s incident, a word I’ve hid from for months. Dead. Nathan’s dead.
Nathan’s dead.
A sob catches in my throat, and my knees buckle. I sink to the floor, tears already spilling down my cheeks. I grab onto the hem of my comforter, clinging to it like I can hold on to the last whisper of my control.
I let all the anxiety, all the grief, crash into me. Everything I’ve held back for months—the memories that haunt me even in dreams, the constant background of feelings that buzzes beneath the surface all the time. I’ve spent so long holding them back, facing them now feels like I’m experiencing Nathan’s death all over again.
“Hydrogen, h-helium,” I whisper, but my voice catches. The elements aren’t going to help me this time.
I pull my knees to my chest and curl in on myself, wishing I could shrink into nothing. Pain lances through me as fresh as when I walked into Nathan’s room and found him lying in the middle of the floor, eyes open and chest still. Dead.
Nathan’s dead.
A knock sounds on my door, but I can’t get up to answer it. My breath comes in quick gasps, intermingled with choking sobs. I can’t seem to suck in enough oxygen. Why can’t I get enough? Is this what a panic attack feels like?
The knock comes again. But I just press my face into my knees and wait for it to go away.
“It’s my fault,” I whisper. “It’s my fault.”
I denied that fact for so long, no matter what Momma said at the funeral. She probably doesn’t even remember saying it. But I heard her, and I remember.
We were at the grave site, watching them put Nathan into the ground. Momma hadn’t stopped crying since that morning, since she put on the black Versace dress that smelled like new money and lost dreams.
She turned to me while they poured dirt onto the casket’s shiny mahogany, and she said, “Why didn’t you do something? Why did you let this happen?”
And what lay beneath her words was: This is your fault. You should have done something. You’re the reason he’s dead.
I never wanted to believe it, but those words sank in all the same. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I could have stopped it, could have stopped him from taking too many pills, ending his own life. It was his choice, but maybe it was my responsibility.
I’m so lost in my own thoughts that I don’t notice the door opening and someone approaching until a hand touches my shoulder. I jerk away from the contact, my head shooting up. And I see Jason peering back at me.