Did that smile survive?
Along with the pictures are plenty of posts. Cute banter between her and her best friend, who apparently had a thing for Hannah Montana, while Kacey clearly did not. Hilarious one-liners between her dad and her, where her dad quotes old movies and she gives the most ridiculous answers back. Billy and her trying to outdo each other with the cheesiest “What do you call . . .?” jokes I’ve ever read.
Thanks to Facebook, I’ve learned that Kacey has a small army of friends who beg her to hang out with them on weekends. Sometimes she says yes, that Jenny and she will come. It’s never just her. And sometimes she says that she’s hanging out with her family that day. It’s so obvious that the Clearys were tight.
Her last post reads, “Better luck, next time, Saints! You can’t beat this redheaded Irish girl.” It’s dated April 25th.
The Friday of the accident.
After that, nothing but an endless stream of well wishes and prayers from friends and family fill her wall.
There isn’t a single response from Kacey.
But there are a slew of condemning messages about “the assholes who did this to you.”
“Aren’t you sick of the dark?” Madison turns on a table lamp. She shivers against the cool basement air. “It’s beautiful out. Eighty-two degrees and blue skies.” Her eyes linger over my unshaven face, my rumpled jeans and T-shirt, and that deep furrow between her brows deepens. “When did you go outside last?”
Murphy hears the word “out” and his head pops up, his tail wagging. I push my laptop closed, half with reluctance and half with relief. “Not today.”
Not yesterday either.
I should probably take the poor dog for a walk. I can handle it now. The doctor cleared me for light exercise last week. My body—in decent shape before the accident, despite my shoulder injury—could use it now.
“Are your parents still at the office?” Madison asks as she perches herself on the edge of the couch as if trying to avoid the dirt. Or me.
Hell, I may not have shaved or chosen clean clothes, but I have showered. I don’t think I smell. I’m half-tempted to take a whiff of myself. But after spending the entire day flogging myself with pictures of dead strangers, I decide that I don’t really give a damn.
“Yeah. More and more lately. Dad’s got a big case, so . . .” So, he’s using it as an excuse to not come home. And when he does make an appearance, he’s got a tumbler full of scotch in hand. He doesn’t get shit-faced, but it’s still concerning. My dad’s never been one for hard liquor.
He and my mom also never fought. Sure, they’d have small spats over taking the trash out and lowering toilet seats, but there were never any major blowouts, no name-calling, no arguments that threw the household into a nuclear winter.
Lately, though, fighting is all they seem to do.
Growing up, my parents were the ones all my friends wanted to hang around. They liked to laugh and joke with everyone and never took anything too seriously. My mom was the agreeable chauffeur, and my dad loved swearing at the hockey commentators as much as we did. You’d never even guess that he’s a high-priced lawyer and my mom runs her own small but successful design firm. On weekends, my mom could be found in the kitchen with flour on her nose and my dad would spend hours trimming our front hedge to perfection.
He was the husband who made his wife’s coffee every morning, because she’s not a morning person. She was the wife who ironed his shirts, because he hates ironing. Together, they were the couple who always went to bed together.
But all that has changed.
Silence hangs between Madison and me. I wait for the break in it. I know it’s coming. She’s picking at her fingernails. She only does that when she’s about to do something uncomfortable.
“My grief counselor said she could fit you in, if you’re interested in talking to someone.”
“I have talked to someone.” I slide out the bottle from my pocket and give it a shake. The small green-and-white Prozac capsules rattle like a maraca. Apparently they take three to four weeks to take effect. They should be kicking in any time now.
“But you’re not getting better.”
“Not everyone can forget as easily as you can.” The second the words are out of my mouth, the second I see her face crumble, I’m hit with a wave of regret.
“Who are you?” she cries out, tears streaming down her cheeks. Madison’s never been good with confrontation. “I want my Cole back. I can’t deal with this one anymore! You’re not the only one who lost Sasha!” I don’t have a chance to apologize before she’s running up the stairs.
I should get up, should chase after her, should apologize over and over again.
But I open my computer up and continue staring at sixteen-year-old Kacey Cleary’s bottomless blue eyes instead.
■ ■ ■
I hit “replay” for the tenth time, on an old video of a fifteen-year-old Kacey. Her grin is wide as her team’s rugby coach gets drenched with a bucket of water. I thought only guys did that sort of thing. That’s certainly not the case here, not with her as the team captain, anyway.
It seems like Kacey was a bit of a prankster—the water bucket incident just one of many practical jokes I’ve found evidence of—which means she must have a wicked sense of humor. I can tell that her teammates really like her. At any given time, she has at least four of them flocking around her. Every time her lips move, they’re laughing. An easy, pleasant confidence swirls about her that is so rare around girls, at least any that I’ve known. Madison sure never had it. She’s always been shy and rather oblivious to her appeal. While I adore her charm, there’s something decidedly sexy about a girl who’s comfortable with herself.
But has that all changed for Kacey?
Chapter 6
August 2008
“For Sale.”
I feel like someone slammed the sign into my gut.
“I never imagined they’d sell. Susan loves that house.” My mom sidles up behind me and wraps her arm around my waist as I look out on the Daniels property from our step. “Up one day and the agent already has multiple offers.”
I search for the right words but there are none, so I settle on trying to clear the lump in my throat.
“It’s nice to see you out here, Cole. You could use some sun.” Her hand reaches up to touch my cheek. “And a shave.”
The sound of my own name irritates me. At first, it just earned a few raised hairs. Then a prickle. Then a wince. Now, though, I hear “Cole” and I feel like I’m being reprimanded for something horrible that I’ve done. In my head, that paramedic’s voice still says it over and over again, as she tends to me while my friends lie dead mere feet away. While Kacey sits trapped in that car.
When I hear my name, a fresh wave of guilt flows through me.
I wish she’d stop using it.
“I saw Madison earlier. She was asking about you. She said you had a fight?”
Aside from a few checkin texts, I haven’t talked to her since she ran out of the rec room almost three weeks ago. She’s heading back to Washington next Thursday.
Two days before I leave for Michigan State.
There’s no physical reason why I shouldn’t go back to school. My ribs and my collarbone have set, based on the latest doctor’s appointment and X-rays. The doctor even mandated weights to build my muscle back up. He’s cleared me for football practice.
Too bad I’ve already quit the team.
Coach had been sending me emails periodically over the summer, checking in. I finally told him two weeks ago. I don’t think he was too surprised. Of course, I haven’t told anyone else yet. It doesn’t really matter, in the grand scheme of things. I’d just rather forget about football and move on.
I have been studying, though. If I took the exams today, I could probably get by with C’s.
“Why don’t you go over there and talk to her? Apologize,” my mom says with a gentle push against my back.
I sigh, knowing it’s time that I got this over with.