Brynna couldn’t remember if she replied or just nodded. But she remembered his hand, outstretched, palm up.
“Go ahead,” he said, gesturing toward his hand with his chin. “This one’s on me.”
Brynna almost salivated, desperate for the oblivion she got from just two of those tiny little pills. They were best when mixed with beer. They obliterated everything when she took three.
But she couldn’t tell Dr. Rother that. The doctor prodded, but Brynna wouldn’t tell her the truth. She couldn’t tell her that it was better when she smoked or drank. Not because she couldn’t feel the pain, but because she couldn’t feel anything. Then Brynna would think of her parents on the day she was released from rehab; they were smiling, her mother teary, but sadness overwhelmed them. Something worse than sadness—disappointment. The guilt still stung her.
Dr. Rother’s eyes flicked to the clock on the back wall. She closed her file and nodded, still smiling. “I really think you’re making some good progress here, Brynna. It may not seem like much, but you have gone through a significant trauma.”
Being a drunken addict or daring my best friend to die? Brynna wanted to ask.
When she left Dr. Rother’s office, her mother was waiting in the parking lot, engine running. Like she did every time Brynna left the office, she offered her a bright smile and a large mocha with extra whipped cream.
“Everything go okay, hon?”
Brynna nodded and took a large gulp, liking the feel of the liquid as it burned her throat. “Yeah, fine.”
Her mother turned the wheel, and Brynna leaned against her seat, lazy eyes scanning the tiny town of Crescent City. There really was nothing here. A half-forgotten case of urban sprawl with a spanking-new mall that hardly anyone went to and a housing development with gorgeous homes for great prices for people who wanted to live in the middle of nowhere. She sighed and was ready to close her eyes when a clutch of bright purple fabric caught her eye. It was a hooded sweatshirt in the Lincoln High colors—a shocking, unmatchable purple with a marigold trim—and it was on a girl with a waist-length, glossy black ponytail.
Erica.
She was in a crowd, wrestling her way into the coffeehouse across the street.
“Mom, stop!”
“What? My god, Brynna, what is it? I’ve got coffee all over my lap.”
But Brynna had already stopped listening. She kicked the door open and launched herself out of the car, barely feeling the hot pricks of liquid as her paper coffee cup exploded on the pavement.
“Erica!” Brynna called, running across the street and pushing her way through the crowd. “Erica!”
People turned with angry expressions as she bumped into them, elbowed at them, and tried to get through. But all she was aware of was the pounding of her heart and her need to find Erica.
“Brynna!” Her mother was behind her now, apologizing, grabbing at Brynna’s arm.
Brynna spun. “Erica’s here, Mom. She’s here. I saw her!”
The coffeehouse went dead quiet, all eyes on Brynna. Suddenly, the smell of roasting beans and burnt coffee was cloying, pressing the air out of her lungs. Where was Erica?
“I saw her come in here.” Brynna rushed to the counter where the girl behind the register took a step back. “Did you just see a girl, about my age, with a purple Lincoln High sweatshirt on?” She patted her own head. “Her hair was in a ponytail. It was black and long.”
The barista held an empty coffee bag in one hand and a silver scoop in the other.
“What?”
Brynna slapped the counter. “A girl. Just now. A teenager. In a hooded purple sweatshirt.” She turned. “Did anyone—did anyone see the girl who just came in here?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart, but no one who looks like that came in here.” A heavyset man with a bushy moustache that bled onto his lips answered Brynna.
“Bryn.” Her mother’s voice was soft, but her grip on Brynna’s arm was fierce. “You probably just thought you saw her.”
“No, Mom!” She shrugged off her mother’s hand and addressed the crowd. “No one saw her?” The desperation in Brynna’s voice was evident. Erica was here; she was alive. A tiny spark of hope—or was it fear?—dove through her as she looked at the startled faces around her. The blood rushed through her ears and then the quaking fear was back, the dark cloud that hung on her periphery: It couldn’t have been Erica because Erica is dead. Because I dared her, and she died.