I pause at the top of the stairs, trying to soak up the end of my time here. I listen to the grandfather clock downstairs and the branch that taps the guest room window. My window. Tiptoeing, I sneak back down the hall and stare into that dark room.
There’s no stab or tear or ache—just a twinge, like a phantom limb. It’s my room, same as it ever was, and never really mine. Andrew and I were only one of many things that happened here. But as much as I regret so many things this year, I’ll never be sorry for that.
Andrew. I might never get the chance to see his room again. His door creaks when I open it, and moonlight shines through the windows. No one’s closed the curtains or the blinds. No one’s moved anything, except for a pile of items on his bed. I don’t dare sit or touch anything. I wish I could steal one of his shirts or something—a Dead tee to replace the one ruined with his blood—but I’ve taken enough from this family.
I just walk around, looking at all the things left behind. What would I leave? Some clothes, a half-dead plant, a decent music collection. Andrew had some basketball trophies. Some concert tickets. Some talents. Some gifts. He took those with him. He should have shared them more.
Andrew’s room is no phantom limb—it’s like hacking off pieces of myself that were barely hanging on to begin with.
I swallow any sound the pain wants me to make. I can’t get caught here. I’m trespassing in all meanings of the word. Taking a last glance around, I force myself to close the door.
It’s so hard. I don’t understand how this is still so hard.
I take the stairs two at a time, less concerned about being quiet in my haste to escape, but halfway to the patio door, a throat clears. I freeze. “Hello?”
Someone exhales loudly. “Raychel.”
I turn around. Mrs. R. is illuminated by the refrigerator light, a carton of juice in her hand. “I … I brought Matt home,” I say. The fact that I did nothing wrong tonight helps to level my voice. “He needed a ride home and I had Asha’s car, so I offered to take him and Keri.”
Mrs. R. lets the fridge click closed. I can barely see her now. “He’s drunk,” she says.
“Yeah.” No point in lying.
“You’re not.”
“No.”
She’s silent for a moment. “What do you want from him?”
“From Matt?” I assume she nods, because she doesn’t say anything. “I … nothing.” A real apology, maybe, but that’s not what she’s asking about.
She comes forward, and the microwave clock shines a blinking blue on her face. “Do you really think you can be friends again? Do you think you can be something more? He’s not—”
“I never wanted to be something more,” I interrupt. Even Mrs. R. can’t believe I would voluntarily pick Andrew over his brother. It makes me too angry to keep a conciliatory tone. “Matt was drunk at a party and he needed a ride home. That’s all.”
She exhales. “Then thank you. I … I wish—” Her voice cracks. “You have to understand. He’s my son. I can’t pick you over him.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“Then why did you make me choose?”
I haven’t felt this helpless since I watched Andrew fall. “I didn’t end up with Andrew as some kind of rebellion,” I say.
“But you should have told us.”
“We were going to. We just … ran out of time.”
“I always thought…” She sighs and pauses for a moment. “I wanted you and Matt to be together. I thought that, in the long run, you would be. And then you’d be … family.”
Her admission pushes me to say what I should have all along. “I thought I was family.” She doesn’t reply, which feels like a knife in the chest, but I make myself go on. “And it still could have worked out, you know? Maybe I picked the wrong one, but I loved Andrew. And I’m sorry you can’t deal with that.”
“I could have dealt with that,” she says. “If I’d gotten the chance.”
I’m not sure how to reply. “I love this whole family,” I say finally. “Even Matt. Even though he hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” she says. “But you don’t love him. You want to be him.”
She’s right, as always. Why wouldn’t I have wanted to be Matt? His family, his finances, his future—of course I covet those. But she’s also wrong, and I’m not leaving without saying it. “That may be true, but why would I want to be someone I don’t love?”
She doesn’t have a response for that. I slip out the door and go home.
MATT
In the morning, I have a text.
I hope you’re not too hungover. I meant what I said—if you ever want to talk, you know where I am. If not, good luck at Rhodes.
*
I don’t answer it, but I don’t delete it either.
Mom spends the day in bed, and doesn’t say a word about me coming in late. I think I’m off the hook until right before bed. “Matt,” my dad calls as I’m headed upstairs.
I pause at the top.
“If you wanted to go to a party with Raychel, you could have just told us.”
My mouth opens and closes. “I didn’t even know she’d be there,” I finally manage.
He shakes his head. “You’re not the only one that misses her, you know.” He tilts his head toward the master bedroom, then walks away. It’s the last I hear of it.
RAYCHEL
Matt doesn’t answer my message, but I’m not surprised. Alcohol always makes promises it can’t keep.
It’s the conversation with Mrs. R. that won’t leave me alone. I’m angry and hurt and frustrated, but also comforted. She wanted me as a daughter-in-law. The fact that she had such extensive plans for our future is a little alarming, but at least it makes clear that there’s no way I could have salvaged this situation once Andrew died. Except maybe one. “You know what’s bizarre?” I ask my mom.
She pats her head, glancing in the rearview mirror. “This haircut?”
“No,” I say, reaching over to put a piece back in place. I talked her into going with me to Keri’s hairdresser. I just got a trim, but Mom got a brand-new ’do that makes her look way younger. I keep doing double takes when I look over. “Your hair looks amazing.”
She smiles. “Then what?”
“Oh. What’s bizarre is that if I’d had a baby, the Richardsons would totally have forgiven me.”
Her eyebrow rises. “You think?”
“Yeah. I mean, they would have been super pissed, but then there would have been a baby to coo over. You can’t stay mad at a baby.” Especially not one that was Andrew’s. A little piece of him for all of us to keep. “Of course it would have ruined my life,” I go on, trying to push the sudden sorrow away.
Mom shrugs. “You didn’t ruin my life. You just changed it.”
I’m almost speechless. “Really?”
“Of course.” She reaches across the console to squeeze my knee.
“But you always said…”