I turn back to him, trying hard not to cry. “You really hate me that much?”
He sighs. I see it then—how bone-weary my brother looks. It’s more than just circles under his eyes or that he hasn’t gained back his pre-chemo weight yet. It’s like something inside of him, the something that used to be bright and gleaming, the something that used to make everyone he met fall in love with him, is cracked in two, all jagged edges on the inside.
In those few seconds, his lack of a denial is all the answer I need.
“God, Charlie. What happened to us?” I ask.
His face breaks, and I see him there, the little boy who came back for me.
I want to say I miss you.
I want to say Charlie, stay.
But as if he’s deciding something, he frowns, then guns the engine so hard, the tires squeal as the car peels out of the lot.
He doesn’t come back.
I wipe my face on my arm and dig through my bag for a tissue, trying to calm what’s happening inside me right as Laurel with the designer flats passes me.
“Hey, Laurel,” I say, sniffling.
“Uh, hi?” she replies, and I realize she doesn’t remember me as she breezes past, leaving a stench of perfume in her wake.
I can’t do it.
I drop down on a bench outside—releasing my bag at my feet, resting my elbows against my knees, my head in my hands.
Behind me, the automatic doors slide open and closed, air-conditioning making its way weakly out between. I hear children and parents passing by and try to muster up the will to move because I can’t screw this up. I already missed a day.
But I can’t do it.
Charlie’s words—I feel them in my lungs, how sharp they are.
My breath begins to hitch, and I push the heel of my clammy palm against my chest, pressing it hard against my ribs.
My thoughts become frantic and electric, banging around the insides of me, brittle and hard, and my heart is beating two words: Not enough not enough not enough.
“Are you okay, miss?” the woman in front of me asks. She’s holding a little boy’s hand, and he’s hiding behind her leg because he’s scared, because I’m scaring him.
I’m scaring a sick child.
I grab my purse and walk away from them and the hospital as quickly as I can.
My heart doesn’t ease up.
I find a bus stop and crouch on the bench, leaning over and putting my head between my knees, trying to slow down my breathing.
I’m having a heart attack.
Everything in me is hot and frenzied and terrible, and I just need to get out of this place, out of my body, out of me.
But as I sit there on the bus stop bench, the sun beating down on me, I realize I don’t have anyone to call.
Em’s gone.
Matty’s gone.
Mom and Dad are at work
And Charlie’s not coming back.
I wish I had access to Mom’s Uber account.
A cab. I’ll call a cab.
I start digging through my bag for my wallet, but my hands shake more when I realize it’s not there, that I must have left it on the floor of the car when I spilled my purse.
“Oh God, oh God,” I mutter, resting my head in my sweaty hands.
I tell myself I can just wait, wait until Mom and Dad get off work, wait until someone can pick me up.
But even as I tell myself that, my breath speeds up even faster and my heart starts to move between my lips, and I choke, trying to keep it in.
I need help I need help I need help.
Ruby.
I hesitate for a second, but in her e-mail, she said being in her own head was a lot for her, too, and if I ever needed a friend, she was there. Maybe she could call me an Uber and I can pay her back later.
I grab my phone, fingers frantically searching for the number at the Float, hoping she’ll pick up, but it’s a guy on the other end.
“Float. How can I help you?”
“Is Ruby Collie there?”
“She’s not in yet. We don’t open until eleven.”
Crap, I say inside my head. Crapshitcrap, my heart beats.
“Um, can you have her call me as soon as she can? 555-0165. This is Parker. Parker McCullough. Tell her . . .” My voice breaks. “Tell her I need help.”
The voice on the other end makes a noise of recognition. “Parker? It’s Finn Casper. What’s going on?”
I feel my heart finally leave me then, floating up out of my mouth, away from me into the blue, light as helium, and I start crying, and even though the phone is still up against my ear and Finn is saying something, all I can hear are Charlie’s words, the kind you can never take back.
Seventeen
“HEY, I HEARD SOMEONE needed a ride?”
I look up.
There’s a beat-up old red pickup truck idling in front of the bus stop, and Finn’s in the driver’s seat, leaning over toward the passenger side, pushing the door open.
When I stand up, my legs are wobbly.
As I climb in, he takes my bag, puts it on the floor, and turns off the loud thrashy music coming from the speakers. “Sorry I’m late. I had to find someone to cover my afternoon shift.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t know who to call. I thought Ruby might be working.”
He gives me a funny smile. “You know Ruby can’t even drive yet.”
I shake my head.
“It’s okay. Fred owes me a shift. Hey, listen. Are you all right? You were pretty upset on the phone.”
I shake my head—a brief no—but don’t look at him. Instead, I focus on holding my hands together so I don’t start crying again.
I wait for him to say something, but it is quiet and the quiet is terrible.
His hand lands lightly on my shoulder. “Where do you need to go?”
I can feel the tears gathering. “I don’t know,” I say, because I don’t know anything anymore, and that is so terrifying, I’m pretty sure the fear is going to swallow up every single bit of me.
Finn looks like he’s weighing options. “How about this: I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”
I sniff hard, my voice shaky. “I guess, yeah.”
“Food it is.”
He pulls away from the curb and into the lane of traffic, angling all the air vents toward me. But even then it’s warm, the breeze from outside blowing almost hot against my face. Finn turns the radio back up, though not as loud. As he drives us through Clifton and onto I-75 South, I wipe my face with my arm, and then flustered, he leans over me to pop open the glove compartment and grabs a handful of White Castle napkins, shoving them my way.
“Thanks,” I mutter, blowing my nose.
I’m still too mortified to look over at him, so instead, I lose myself in the rumbling of the muffler and the now-subdued background beat of the radio. There’s sun on my face, and I can’t even think too much about what is happening inside me right now, because if I do, I’m pretty sure something in me will break for good.
? ? ?
I wake to a nudge on my shoulder.
We’re in a nearly empty gravelly parking lot, a blue neon sign saying THE ANCHOR GRILL flickering and spitting nervously overhead.
“We’re here,” Finn says.
I don’t know what I’m doing, so I nod. Before I can make my way out of the truck, though, Finn’s at the passenger side, extending a hand for me to hold as I hop down.
His palm is calloused.
For the first time since he’s picked me up, I take him in. He’s wearing old cargo shorts, a tattered heavy-metal T-shirt that says MEGADETH, his hair pulled off his face in a short ponytail. The black eye from the other day has morphed to a faint yellow-green.
He catches me studying him and looks away, inclining his head toward the entrance. “This way.”
When we enter the Anchor Grill, we’re greeted by the smell of grease and cigarette smoke. There’s a counter in front of a kitchen, a lonely piece of not-so-fresh-looking cherry pie sitting under a glass dome on the corner.
Even though we’re in a landlocked state, the decor is distinctly nautical—a ship’s steering wheel on the wall, a sculpture of seashells behind some dusty glass.
“Um, what is this place?” I whisper.
“Covington’s finest.”