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chapter 13



I trudge home after that, kicking random rocks as I go, feeling utterly miserable and empty inside. Cat drove off without me, so I walk the distance across town by myself. I keep my head down and my face blank, and the whole way, all I want to do is collapse in a heap and hope everything will magically get better. It’s night out, and the sounds of passing cars and hooting owls keep me from going crazy as I keep on walking.

When I get home, I don’t say a word. I just look at my dad, who’s still sitting in his usual spot in the kitchen and head up the stairs without eating dinner, take a shower, and go straight to bed.

The rest of the weekend passes in a blur. I stay in my room the whole time, lying in bed and watching TV on my phone, only leaving to use the bathroom and eat. When Monday rolls in, I spend it entirely depressed. I don’t talk to anyone, don’t vlog, don’t pay attention to any of my classes, and I don’t even run into Cat. I go straight home the second classes are over, lock myself in my room, do homework, and sleep some more. It’s like that for almost the entire week, and I swear I haven’t felt worse since Mom died. I feel so depressed, so tired, like I can’t move, can’t do anything; I only have the willpower to sit in the corner and cry.

I miss Cat. Five days have passed since I last saw her, and I miss her badly. I wish I could get the courage to talk to her again, but I can’t and I don’t think I ever will again. We’re drifting apart, I’ve realized, and we have been ever since she first told me she loved me.

Maybe we weren’t meant for each other after all.

Finally, on Friday, I have my first human interaction in almost a week, with no one other than my dad. As soon as I push open the front door on my way home from school, drop my backpack off, and start to head back upstairs to my Room o’ Sorrow, Dad steps in front of me.

“What have you been doing?” he says in a low voice.

I sigh. Not this again. “Nothing.”

“You’ve barely left your room, West.”

“So nice of you to finally notice something about me,” I mutter, trying to push past him. This is the absolute last thing I need right now.

He holds me back. “I’m being serious, West.” His eyes lock with mine. “What is going on?”

I shake my head, forcing a laugh. “Wow, for a second there you had me fooled, old man. I almost believed that you actually cared about me.”

My dad steps forward, gripping my arm tighter. I can smell the alcohol in his breath from here. “It’s not an act,” he says. “I do care about you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

I glare at him. “You’re an a*shole,” I say.

He bites his lips, and it looks like he’s fighting back anger. I almost snicker. Clearly he doesn’t care about me. He just needs me to do him a favor, as usual. “What?” I say to him, not bothering to hide the disgust in my voice. “What is it you want from me? Money? Dinner? Something else?”

“West,” he says, exasperated. “I don’t f*cking want anything! I just want to be sure you’re okay! Why don’t you believe me?”

“Hmm,” I say, pissed off now too. “Maybe because you’ve ignored me for the last year? Maybe because you haven’t shown a hint that you so much as care about in the longest time? Maybe because you treat me like shit all day, every day? Oh wait,” I say, laughing angrily. “I have an idea: maybe because you f*cking killed my mother and never said anything about it?”

“I didn’t kill her!” he screams, his eyes wild, and it looks like he’s about to punch me. “I made a mistake, West! I made tons of f*cking mistakes! I treated you like shit and I deserve all of this, but you look hurt and I want to make sure you’re oka—”

I push away from him, grabbing my backpack and feeling the bile rising in my mouth. “Never talk to me again,” I hiss. “You aren’t even my father. Not anymore. Not anymore.”

For an instant, a look crosses his face—a pang of inexplicably raw sadness and regret. It disappears as soon as it comes, though, and a dark look replaces his features. His eyes narrow, and his hands begin to shake like he’s fighting the urge to lunge at me. “You’re a f*cking waste of space,” he hisses, so seriously that it actually makes me shiver. “Get the hell out of here.”

“So you can scream at the air to make your dinner next time and starve to death when it doesn’t? Deal.” My heart is racing. The blood pounds in my ears. I throw my backpack at him and start to head right back out the door, needing to get out before I explode from anger and all of the stress of the recent days.

“Good! Now go cry to that girlfriend of yours like a goddamn baby!” he screams.

Now I spin around. I can’t stop myself. My fingers curl into a fist. “She’s not my girlfriend.” No one messes with Cat. Not even my a*shole father can get away with that.

“Yeah, suuuure. I know you two have been getting it on!”

My blood boils. “F*ck you!” I yell. “She’s my friend. My best friend. I guess you wouldn’t know about that, though, seeing as you have no friends!” I storm across the room, barely resisting punching that smug smile off of his face right then and there, and swing open the door. “I hope you’re f*cking dead when I get back!” I scream and slam it shut behind me.

Then, I run.

I run and run and run until I can’t run any longer.

It’s late afternoon now, and the sun is just starting to set. All I feel is the cool wind against my skin and the anger boiling within me and I just need to get away, to escape all this. I sprint down the street, past the other tiny, falling-apart houses in my cramped neighborhood, down toward the town center. I’m running so fast, so furiously, that I barely even know where I’m going. I just keep pumping my arms and legs, moving faster and faster, because maybe if I run quickly enough I’ll outrun all of this. Maybe everything will go back to normal. Maybe I’ll be shocked back to that happy time before Dad stopped caring and before Mom died, when I still had my best friend and family and when all I did was laugh and smile and not worry about anything except for cars and school.

I keep moving, letting the wind clear my head of everything but Cat. I don’t want her to go. I don’t. I always thought I loved her like a sister, but do I really? I keep feeling these things for her, things that are certainly more than just friendly. Am in love with her? How would I know?

Seconds turn into minutes, streets turn into avenues, and before I know it I’m stopping, out of breath, in front of a dark field. I pant for a minute, surveying line after line of graves in front of me. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse the yellow, orange, and light red of the setting sun beyond them.

After a minute, I take a deep breath and start walking through the maze of graves. Every step, every turn, is natural now, and I don’t even have to look to know I’m going in the right direction. After six months of visiting this cemetery I know the path to the grave by heart, like it’s seared so deeply into me that it can never leave. I wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case.

When I arrive, I stop, open and close my eyes, and look at it.

Mom’s grave.

It’s small and white marble, still covered by the roses I leave every week when I visit her. It’s peaceful, though—unharmed and content, like I imagine she is now. Slowly, I reach out and touch the inscription.



Rose Mary Ryder

1970 – 2013

Beloved Mother, Wife, and Mega-Badass FIFA Player

May She Rest In Peace



I smile a little at it, one of those sad smiles you get when you’re trying not to cry. Mom was a badass FIFA player, though, and she would always beat Cat and I at it. When she won, she would laugh and do her victory dance which was really just her doing that scooba move over and over again. She always cheated, too, and she had no shame in trying to slide tackle her opponent’s players until they got seriously injured. She was one of those loud, always happy moms who would trash talk me and throw her controller and party when she won, and I’d just roll my eyes and laugh at her. In that far off time before he fell apart, Dad would join in too, and they’d both make fun of me and we’d joke and play, or sometimes Dad went to my side and we both worked as hard as we could to ensure Mom would lose. But she never did.

I sigh a little, and I feel the tears glistening in my eyes. It’s been six goddamn months, and it still hurts each day she isn’t here. I know it’s stupid, but sometimes I find myself staring at the front door and wishing, hoping she’ll be back, like she’s just on a trip, like she’ll return any day now to play more FIFA and to bring the normal Dad back with her and to make everything happy again. She never is, however, and each time I don’t see her face at that door I feel like I’m finding out that she’s really dead for the very first time—over and over again.

I run my finger down the tombstone, then brush the roses I left here with the side of my thumb. The air is thick and smells like an assortment of flowers, and as I breathe it in, I feel something in the pit of my stomach already begin to settle.

Mom’s grave, which is surrounded by foot impressions from my previous visits, is my happy place. It’s the one place where I feel safe, where I feel truly at home, and it’s also all I have left of my mom. It’s where everything changed and everything will, where I’m reminded that she isn’t just on some trip—that she’s dead and gone and there is no coming back.

Then, I can’t take it anymore. Everything from this past week seems to catch up with me at once, and I bury my head in my hands and cry. I let the tears slip from my eyes and down my cheeks. They burn my skin and I don’t even care, because crying, at least, means letting go. Means giving up and then fighting harder for what really matters, for what still can be fixed. I cry for my mom, my dad, for Harper and Cat. I cry because I need to cry, because it feels good to finally let out it all out. To finally face the truth.

And just like that, I long for Cat again. I long for her warm embrace, for her comfort, for her, really, and I don’t even know what I’m doing but the next thing I know my phone is in my hand and I’m calling her.

My tears fall from my nose and splash onto the screen as the phone rings once, twice, three times, and I hold my breath, hoping she’ll pick up, needing her to forgive me just one more time.

There’s a click, and my whole heart seriously flutters.

“Hello?” Cat asks slowly, carefully.

“I need you,” is all I can whisper out.