“I read the letter,” she said. “It was … in his pocket. They gave me his clothes after … There was so much blood.”
Tears slide down her face and I wrap my arms around her like she’s done so many times for me. Losing you would mean losing your parents, too. I hadn’t thought about that. I wait for her to push me away, but she doesn’t.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know what to do.”
She pulls away. “Grace, why didn’t you tell me what was going on? You know how fragile he is. I could have kept an eye on him.”
I hang my head, ashamed. I’d been so caught up in myself that it had never occurred to me to talk to your parents. Or maybe I was just afraid to.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “It’s just been so hard and…” I start crying and she takes my hands in hers and squeezes them.
“Honey, we love you both so much. And Gavin loves you more than anything in the world.”
“I know. I love you guys, too.”
“How … how did you leave things?” she asks quietly.
“We’re staying together. We’re going to work it out.”
Middle fingers up, put them hands high, wave it in his face, tell ’em boy bye …
I was so close.
She frowns. “I can’t say that makes me feel better. You really hurt him. That Gideon boy…”
“I didn’t cheat on him,” I say. “I would never.”
She sighs. “I won’t get in the middle of it. But … you’re part of this family now, Grace. You’re like a daughter to us. When you do stuff like this, it’s not just Gavin you’re affecting.”
I nod, chastened. “I understand.”
“We’re going to take him back to Birch Grove for a week or so. I want him to come home after that, but he said he wants to stay in that apartment. I need your help keeping an eye on him, make sure he’s taking his meds. And I need you to tell me if anything is the matter. You can talk to me, about anything. Okay?”
I nod. “Okay.”
“I’m going downstairs to find Mark and get some coffee. Do you want any?”
I shake my head. “I have to go, actually. My mom’s waiting for me.”
“Okay. You’ll come by later, after school?”
I nod. She gives me another hug and is gone. I open the door to your room and watch you for a minute. You could have died, Gav. I would have had to stand by your grave and know it was because of me, that there would be no more songs because of me. But you didn’t. We have another chance. Your chest is moving and your eyes slide beneath your eyelids and I wonder what you’re dreaming about. The heart monitor beats steadily. Medicine drips into your veins and you are alive.
I quietly close the door and head toward the elevators.
THIRTY-EIGHT
I am sitting on the floor of my kitchen holding a knife.
You don’t know this. You’re practicing being a rock star while your girlfriend crouches against the dishwasher wondering if she has the guts to do herself in.
I can barely breathe, sobs crashing through my throat, an avalanche of tears. I will bury myself alive. I will cut my skin to shreds. I swear I will, I will. And I’ll burn this fucking house down if it means I can cut you loose, be free, be without Gavin Davis. It’s been a week since your accident and already I’m falling into this dark pit and I can’t crawl out of it and pretend to be okay anymore, I can’t. Why do you have to make this so hard for me? Why does your life have to be in my hands? They’re not big enough to hold you.
My phone is pressed hard against my ear as I wait for my best friend to pick up. Nat answers: bright, cheerful.
“Hello, dahling!”
“I can’t do it anymore,” I say. My breath hitches and another sob breaks free.
They say that slitting your wrists is the best way to go. They say it doesn’t hurt too bad. It’s like falling asleep, only messier. But you know all about that already.
Nat immediately changes her tone. “Grace? What’s wrong?” She’s mama bear angry. “What did he do?”
So many things. What didn’t you do—today, every day?
I ignore her question. “I’m so tired. I can’t. I can’t.”
“Grace. Break up with him. This has to stop.”
My entire body shudders, this darkness inside pulling me down in the muck. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is. And if he fucking dies, who the fuck cares.”
“Holy shit, Nat.”
“I’m sorry,” she growls.
You play on a constant track in my head, the volume too high. Bitch. Whore. Slut. I love you, don’t you understand? One more chance, just one more chance. I hate you.
I can’t stay with you until the end of the summer like we agreed, I know that. But you’ll say I want forever with you, we’ll be better this time, you promised you’d give us a fair chance and I will chicken out because I can’t see you in a hospital bed again.
“Should I come over?” she says. “I can come over.”
This house is a prison, a suburban Alcatraz. Nat would make it better. She’d make the bars disappear. But my mother would never allow it. Not on a school night.
“Grace?”
I look at the knife. Sharp blade, dark black handle. It scares me. It’s real. It can do some damage if it wants to.
“I’m holding a knife,” I whisper. I say it again so I can hear the words, take the next step. “I’m holding a knife.”
Someday I will remember this. This cry for help. Even now some part of me knows I just want to feel the heft of that knife in my hand, to know there is a way out, if I need it. To know I can control this one thing. This is my life, I want to growl. To you, my psychotic boyfriend, to my family that only speaks in yells and punishments. I can end it if I want. It feels like the only decision that’s all mine and no one else’s.
It feels like power.
Nat and I talk for an hour. She guides me off the ledge with her soft voice, her warmth, her assurance that it won’t always be this way. We will get the heck out of here, she says. And I believe her, at least a little. Because, Jesus Christ, what if we don’t?
When the sun finally slips below the horizon, I realize I have to stop crying, have to pick myself up. Mom and Roy will be home soon. I’m supposed to make dinner. To make sure every little thing is perfect: spines of books lined up just so, every blade of grass in the yard watered, the edge of place mats flush with the edge of the table. All of this so when my mom and Roy wheel through the door, they might not lay into me right away. I need to be Perfect Daughter. Perfect Stepdaughter. Or else.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Nat asks, unconvinced.
“Yeah. I’m fine. Really. Promise. I’m sorry I’m being a drama queen.”
“Break up with him.”
A whisper: “I can’t.”
I have a million reasons why. I have none. It doesn’t matter. This feeling of can’t is stronger than anything else, like you’re some dark lord who’s put a spell over me. (Are you? Because that would explain so much. Tell me you’re magic, Gavin. I’ll believe you.) I hang up. I stand and put the knife back where it belongs. The blade winks at me as it slides into the block. I wish I could stab it into your heart, put us both out of our misery. Instead, I dry my eyes and set the table for dinner.