Marley.
Her fingers feel small beneath mine. Delicate. I squeeze them and gather my courage, praying with everything in me that when I open my eyes, she’ll still be there. I let my lids open slightly, peeking, hoping.
Marley’s face is inches from mine, so close I can count her eyelashes. I smile and pull her even closer, overjoyed at the feel of her, the realness of her.
“God, I missed you,” I whisper into her hair. “Where were you? Everyone was telling me that—”
Suddenly she sobs and pulls away.
“You promised me,” she whispers, her voice strained as she looks at me, her eyes full of pain and betrayal. “You said no more sad stories. You promised.”
It guts me.
I did make that promise.
My eyes close as I think of how to tell her what’s happening, how I woke up in a hospital room and my world was turned upside down. I grip her fingers and pull her hand back to my cheek, wanting to tell her that I won’t ever fail her again. That I’m back and everything is fine now.
“Marley, I…”
But when I open my eyes again, she’s gone. Oh no. NO.
Then I see her shadow leaving the room.
“Marley, wait!” I bolt from the bed to chase after her.
But the second I move, I jolt awake. Back in the hospital. Alone. My good leg hanging off the side of the bed.
I struggle to catch my breath as I look around at the beeping machines. I feel the tug of the IV in my hand. The stupid cast wrapped tightly around my leg.
“Marley,” I whisper.
I heard her, felt her touch on my cheek. I can feel the exact spot her fingers had been, the skin still buzzing.
She was real. I’m awake now. My brain couldn’t have just made her up. Right?
I see her face, the tears, the clouds consuming her expression.
You said no more sad stories. You promised.
I hear the hollowness in her words, matching the emptiness I feel every second without her. And it’s all my fault because I can’t get back to her.
I turn the light on, fumbling in the bag of stuff my mom brought me earlier for my iPad. I pull it out and open Facebook. Tapping the search bar, I type in her name, thousands of results cascading down the screen.
I scroll through, faces blurring in front of my eyes, blond hair, brown hair, blue hair, none of them the right Marley.
But I keep looking. Because she’s real.
I know she is.
30
The next afternoon I stare at a commercial with toilet paper dancing across the TV screen, trying to ignore the tension that’s been building between me and Kim since she got here fifteen minutes ago.
My mom left to give us some “alone time,” and I… really wish she hadn’t.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see she’s sitting with her arms crossed, her leg shaking, her jaw locked in a way that screams she’s biting something back. Finally she grabs the remote off the bed and the TV goes dark.
“Kyle. What is going on?” she says as she tosses the remote onto my bedside table.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say as I avoid her gaze.
She pushes her chair back and stands up, the legs squeaking loudly against the floor as she grabs her duffel bag and spins around to face me.
“If you’d just tell me what’s going on with you, maybe I can help,” she argues, clutching the bag to her chest.
“You can’t,” I insist. It would be impossible for her to understand. How am I supposed to tell her I’m in love with someone else when she thinks we just broke up?
“You don’t know that,” she fires back, her blue eyes flashing in a way that I almost forgot about, her cheeks blushing in anger.
I think of Marley, and all the days, all the hours, we spent together, how we never fought like this. A wave of longing comes over me as I watch Kim fume.
I remember our relationship before. Before the accident. Before Marley. The charm bracelet. Always trying to patch the holes instead of looking at what was making them.
Not this time. This time we have to deal with it.
“Look at us. Fighting again. Just like we always did,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “We don’t have to anymore, Kim. I mean, we almost broke up seven times. Eight, if you count the night of the accident. We were terrible at communicating. About dealing with our problems. And that’s probably why you didn’t say anything about Berkeley. Because it would have started a fight, just like it always did, right? It’s ridiculous.”
“So I’m ridiculous now?” she challenges.
“Yes!” I say, throwing up my hands. “We both are. But let’s pretend for a second that we’re not. Let’s pretend that we can say anything, as long as it’s honest, and the other person will listen and understand. Without judgment.”
She looks stony, but she stays silent.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Berkeley? For some reason, you were able to tell Sam but not me. Why?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do,” I say. “I can take it. Tell me why. ‘I want to know what it’s like to turn around and not see you there.’ You were right. Why are you acting like you never said it?”
“If you’re trying to get back at me,” Kimberly says, looking hurt, “it’s working.”
She storms out, slamming the door behind her. I stare at the spot she was in, letting out a long, frustrated sigh.
“Brilliant.”
* * *
In the hours after she leaves, I feel restless, the four corners of the hospital room closing in around me the longer I sit here.
Should I have said something different? I spent so much time thinking about what I would say to Kim if I saw her again, and I screwed it up because I’m so hung up on the fact that Marley isn’t anywhere to be found.
I feel like I don’t have space in my brain for anything else. Every corner of my mind is dedicated to possibilities. Places she could be. Explanations. Memories.