“Hopeless,” I say. “We’re painting.”
Around ten o’clock, Mom sits on the edge of the white wicker bed, actually tucking Julian in like he’s five, but either it doesn’t embarrass him, or he’s too polite to protest. Even though it’s not that late, I’m tired enough to go to bed myself. I shut my eyes, but I can’t shut out the sounds in my head, the screams I heard earlier today, and I can’t stop thinking about all the obvious and weird things I should’ve noticed before.
Like Julian being out sick all the time. And the fact that his uncle made him shave his legs. I figured the guy was some kind of germophobe, but now…was he trying to make Julian look more like a girl? Or a child? Both answers do weird things to my stomach.
God, I can’t freakin sleep. What did I used to do when I couldn’t sleep?
Think good thoughts.
I try, I really try.
I WAS PROBABLY na?ve to assume everything would be perfect once Julian got home from the hospital. That first night I almost stepped on him when I got out of bed—he’d used all his blankets and pillows to make a pallet on my floor—and he’s done this every night since.
Days aren’t any better. He follows me from room to room, trailing after me even if I’m just going to the kitchen or to use the toilet. It’d be okay that he has to be glued to my side, except he refuses to leave the house, like, at all. Which means I can’t leave either. Maybe the house isn’t as cramped as the hospital room, but by the end of a week, I can’t take it. I need to go out. I need fresh air. I need five to seven minutes in the bathroom without someone standing right outside.
When Charlie shows up unannounced in the middle of the afternoon, I’m ready to hug him. “You want to go get something to eat?” he asks. “You too, Julian.”
Looking wary, Julian doesn’t answer.
“No, I think we’re good here,” I finally say.
Charlie shrugs, then holds up a couple of video games. Soon we’re sitting on the floor in front of the TV, while Julian watches from the couch. When I ask him if he wants a turn, he answers, “We never had video games.” Because if it didn’t happen while they were alive, it never would.
For about a week, this is our ritual: Charlie coming over after work with games. Us playing. Julian watching. Till the day Charlie tells me my hyper-cricket-legs are driving him fucking crazy.
“Go for a run or something,” he orders.
Julian sits up straight, obviously concerned. Charlie continues to obliviously click his controller.
“It’s cool,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re annoying. When’s the last time you left the house?” Charlie leans his whole body as he tries to get his car on course again, clicking furiously, but it falls over the edge of the cliff. “Fuck!” He starts to pass the controller to me, then yanks it back. “I’m playing again. Go. Get out. I’ll babysit.”
I glance over at Julian, who looks more worried than offended.
“We’ll be fine. Right, Julian?” Charlie says.
Julian gives me a totally unconvincing nod, but leaving the house is so tempting that I pretend he means it. I pull on sweats and sneakers, tell them I won’t be long, and then I’m out.
The sun feels amazing. God, I forgot how much I used to love running. I went for runs all the time before I got the van. I really need to force Julian to leave the house. It’s not healthy staying inside all the time—you need the vitamin D. But without literally dragging him, it’s probably not going to happen. For such a quiet kid, he can be seriously stubborn.
I turn a corner, running faster. My whole body feels lighter, my mind clearing enough to realize that no matter how much things suck right now, it’s all temporary. I can see the big picture, the aerial view. Things will be like they were—better, even. I know it.
I run another few blocks, starting to sweat a little. I’ve been gone for at least an hour. Julian’s probably freaking out.
I turn around and jog home.
When I arrive, out of breath and sweaty, I find Julian sitting on the floor beside Charlie, holding a controller in two hands while Charlie cheers him on.
AT MIDNIGHT I find Mom in the living room watching Family Feud without much enthusiasm, not even bothering to yell at the contestants for being so stupid. When I fall onto the yellow couch beside her, she says bluntly, “I’m worried about you.”
“Why?” I ask, surprised.
“You’re too together.”
I laugh. “Would you be happier if I had a mental breakdown?”
“You still aren’t talking to Emerald, you aren’t going out, but you’re bouncing around the house like you’re happy.”
“Wait, so are you worried that I’m together or that I’m pretending to be together?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m fine.”