“It’s okay. Marley.…” I try to hold her, but she’s angry now. Frustrated.
“It’s not okay!” she says fiercely. “That fucking yellow pendant—my yellow pendant—got tangled in her hair. Her hair that was down because of me. She was pulling it and yanking it and laughing, and it snapped. The pendant rolled into the street.”
She stops, the memory alive in her eyes.
“I saw the car before she did. She… never even saw it. But I did. I saw it and I froze. I didn’t even try to warn her. My voice was frozen too.”
I lean back in shock. Holy shit. She tenses, as if she’s hearing the screeching tires, the sickening thud.
“Marley. It wasn’t your—”
“Then I heard screaming,” she says, cutting me off. “I thought it must be me, but it was our mom. I don’t even remember how she got there. She was just there, on the ground, holding Laura. Screaming…” Her voice goes high and shrill, the pain of the words, of the memory, embodying itself in her. “?‘You’re supposed to watch out for each other! How did this happen? Marley, how did this happen?’?”
She’s silent for a long moment as she struggles to catch her breath. “That was what she screamed, over and over.”
She wraps her arms around her knees, burying her face as she fights the tears that threaten to fall. Her voice drops to a whisper. “I’ve been screaming that same question to myself every day since. Every minute. But I scream it inside, where no one can hear me.”
I see it now. Hidden behind her every movement. Her every breath. She still blames herself for what happened, even though it isn’t true. It’s not her fault.
It’s the truth to Marley.
“I’ve never cried. I never even talked to anyone about it. I don’t tell the sad story. I just try to disappear,” she says finally. “Because if Laura can’t be here, neither should I.”
“Marley,” I say, reaching out to touch her hand. “It wasn’t your fault.” I have never wanted to make someone realize something so much.
“It was,” she says, looking down at where my fingers meet hers. “My mom was right.”
“Sometimes…,” I say. “Sometimes when we’re hurt, we say things we don’t mean. We say things without thinking about the consequences. I’m sure she didn’t mean it.”
But she’s not convinced.
“Laura always looked out for me. She was trying to save me, and I didn’t even try to save her,” she says, angry with herself. “I just stood there.”
I squeeze her hand, thinking. “Marley. Do you think the accident that killed Kim was my fault?”
She looks up, confused. “No. That was an accident. You know that was an accident. I mean… you were hurt too.”
“Then how is this any different?”
“It just…” Her voice trails off, and she looks away. “It just is. You got hurt. I didn’t. Laura was just trying to help me, and I couldn’t…” Her eyes grow distant. “She was just better. In every way,” she adds. “It’s not fair that I’m here and she’s not. I want to be like her, but I’m not. I never will be.”
I lightly touch her cheek, her face turning toward me. “You don’t need to be like her, Marley. You’re already everything.”
She shakes her head and looks down at the tiny bits of torn Stargazer on the ground.
“You are,” I repeat, thinking of all the things we’ve shared since we met. “Marley, you’ve made me feel understood in a way that no one ever has. You’re kind, and you’re such a good listener, and you’re so fucking strong. I think your stories are as incredible as they are because you know loss. You know love. You know what it means to feel,” I say.
She keeps her head down, silent.
“For me, you’re the best part of everything. I was such a mess when we met, and you made me feel alive again. Can’t you see how special you are?” I try to lean forward to catch a glimpse of her face, but she doesn’t budge, so I lighten it up. “I mean, who gives people flowers based entirely on their meaning? Who else has a small army of popcorn-loving ducks ready at their beck and call?”
I know that one moment won’t convince her, but we have more than just today. More than just this moment. We’ve got time.
“I meant what I said, Marley,” I say, pulling her close, relieved when she leans into me, smelling like jasmine and orange blossoms, warm and familiar. I wrap my arms around her, holding her tight for the first time.
“No more sad stories. I promise,” I whisper.
And just like that we start a new one.
19
“Try this one on,” Mom says, holding up an oversize pin-striped blazer. I squint at it, unsure of how to break it to her that she’s successfully found the ugliest item in this place.
Sometimes my mom is right on the money when it comes to picking out clothes. And other times she holds up a blue pin-striped blazer for me to try on.
Luckily, she registers my expression and holds up a casual dark-gray sports coat instead. “You want to look casual but professional.”
I take it from her, shrugging on the jacket, the fabric clinging comfortably to my shoulders and arms. I check myself out in the department store mirror.
I wonder what Marley would think. Would she think I look good?
I try to smooth down my hair, and my eyes find the thin scar on my forehead, the ever-present reminder of all that’s happened in the last few months.
The longer I look at the sports coat, at my reflection, the more nervous I get for this interview tomorrow.
Mom adjusts the collar and gives me a once-over.
“I know that face,” she says, patting my cheek lightly. “That’s your worried-on-a-big-game-day face.”
I look down at her. “Is it that obvious?”
“What? The expression of existential dread?” She shakes her head, smiling back at me. “Not at all.”