Devon holds my hand to walk me to his car. Because of the ice, he says. We both have mittens on, so the grasp is soft and clumsy and reminds me mostly of being a little kid. Devon in general reminds me of when I was a little kid. So does snow.
We don’t speak on the ride to my house, except when Devon asks me if I’m sure I don’t want to grab a pizza, and I shake my head really fast back and forth. Zed will be disappointed when I share this part. I should say yes. To everything, I think.
As I’m getting out of the car, Devon tilts his head. He can’t see my mouth or my forehead—I’m all wrapped up in a scarf and an oversize winter hat. Safe from scrutiny.
“Call me if you need another ride,” he says.
“It was nice of you to come,” I say. He has to ask me to repeat myself, the sound is so muffled by my thick fleece scarf. “Or stay. It was nice of you to stay and make sure I didn’t, like, implode or whatever.”
It looks like there’s more he wants to say, but the snow’s coming down harder now, so I pretend it’s urgent that I get out of the car this instant.
“I like hanging out with you,” I say after a big breath.
“Everything is going to be okay,” he says. It’s a funny response. I expected him to say he liked hanging out with me too, or even that he is into me or wants to take me out next weekend or something. But he sounds certain, when he says it will all work out, and for a moment I don’t feel the snow somehow finding its way under my scarf or blurring my vision when it sticks to my lashes. I feel only his sureness and the flipping in my stomach that is different from the pounding that comes when I am near Joe. But it’s something.
I nod and wave and kick snow up, walking to my front door, and Devon doesn’t drive away until I am all the way inside the (very quiet) house.
“Hello?” I call out.
There aren’t calls back or feet scuffling or showers running. There is no one waiting for me by the kitchen counter with pamphlets on teen drug use or stern talkings-to. “Hello?” I try again, louder and faker, a sound that doesn’t expect a response. I wander from room to room, some part of me thinking maybe Paul is passed out, but he snores and I would have heard the buzzing breath of his sleep if he were conked out on a sofa somewhere.
I don’t mind the house all emptied out like this, except that I think it’s intended as a punishment in this circumstance. I am supposed to think about what I have done. They didn’t need to leave the house empty for me to do that. It’s all I can think of anyway.
I get online and look for Joe. He pops up immediately, and I think maybe I can distract myself with him.
Long day, I type in. I’ve only turned on one weak lamp in Cate’s office, and it’s mostly lit by winter moonlight reflecting off the thin layer of snow gathering outside the window. It’s cozy and warm and pretty as fuck.
What happened? he asks.
Pregnancy made Cate crazy, I say. Smiley face. LOL. Anything to lighten the mood. If Sasha Cotton is the troubled, fragile sex kitten, the least I can be is bubbly and peppy and fun.
Sounds like it. Joe isn’t talkative tonight. It happens from time to time, but I hate that it’s happening now, when I need to give my heart something sweet to spin around. I’m busy, talk later?
Busy means Sasha is there. Or on the phone. Or on his mind. I hover my fingers over the keys, trying to think of something to type that will keep him chatting for even another second. But before I can get any words out, he logs off, his name vanishing from the computer screen and leaving me alone. I listen to the nothingness for all of three seconds before it’s too much to handle. Where the hell are my parents? I choose Indie Dance on Pandora and turn the speakers all the way up. Keyboards, echoing percussion, and feminine male singers fill the room with sound, and I sing along at the top of my lungs. Dance a little in my chair. Tell my heart to stop leaping in every direction: love, fear, nostalgia, boredom, interest, thrill, loneliness.
I fall asleep before either of my parents makes it home. My new life is wearing me out so much that I can’t even make it to my bedroom, so I curl up on the couch fully clothed with late-night television and a worn green quilt and probably drool all over the pillow, and when I wake up the next morning, it’s only Paul who has returned.
Elise,
I am the worst. THE. WORST. I’m so sorry.
I’ll make sure we have chocolate chip scones every day for the next YEAR if you don’t stop talking to me. I’ll tell Devon . . . something. I’ll make it go away.
I’m the worst, the worst, the worst.
I can’t even.
I love you. You’re amazing. You’re better than me. I will fix it.
Me
She doesn’t respond.
I did not know it was possible to have even fewer people like me than I did twenty-four hours ago, but there you go.
Eighteen.