“Are you seriously saying you’re okay with your girlfriend fooling around with someone else?” I’m beginning to wonder if I’m still unconscious and just in a weird, twisted dream.
“Echo, Savannah and I aren’t together. We took a break when I left. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I knew you’d worry, and Sav’s your best friend. I didn’t want weirdness between you two…I wanted you to have someone.”
“Someone who killed your baby and didn’t even tell you till after?”
I bite down on my bottom lip, and taste the result: blood. Damn it. Why did I say that?
His grim response is almost inaudible. “She told you?”
“No, I overheard her and Mom talking, then pressed her—and Clay—about it.”
“Clay? Why’d you ask him anything?”
“Because Mom seems to think he drove her, and paid for it. Which he didn’t confirm nor deny.”
He releases a snarl of disbelief. “He what?”
“I, uh…don’t know for sure. That’s just what I heard Mom say.” I wipe at my tears, closing my shameful eyes. “Sebastian, I’m so sorry, for all of it—for saying anything. I disowned them both, though, and may have thrown the chalk box at Savannah’s head. I just…why didn’t you tell me?”
He sighs in my ear. “Do I really need to answer that again? When you found out, you lobbed a heavy metal object at Savannah’s head that could’ve killed her, then got so upset you sleepwalked down the fucking stairs and broke your arm. Why do you think I didn’t tell you?”
“Well, I’m so sorry that I love you and don’t like it when people go around hurting you!”
“I love you, too. Calm down for me, please,” he begs. “Shit, Echo, I need to go. I have to process a few things. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, drugs are kicking in. I’ll be out in few minutes.”
He laughs lightly. “I’ll call you tomorrow—make that later today. Okay?”
“K,” I murmur, feeling my eyes closing.
“Take care of yourself, Echo. I’ll be okay, I promise. Love you.”
~~~~~
I’m just dozing off when I make out a faint sound coming from under the covers.
I swat at the annoyance, hoping that smashes whatever it is before registering that it’s my phone ringing, just as it stops.
I’m digging under the covers for it as it pings with a new text.
Kingston: Please tell me you’re all right. They won’t let me in to see you.
Unable to lift my head completely, I fumble through a reply with heavy eyes and fingers.
Me: Where are you?
Kingston: Outside the hospital.
Me: Curfew?
That’s what I type, despite the flurry of questions I should be asking. But in this moment, I just want to be close to him—to block out the entire world, and all this bullshit. To feel his arms hold me as I fall asleep to the sound of his soothing voice.
Right or wrong, I crave him.
Kingston: All that matters is you. Are you okay?
Me: Been better, but yeah.
Fighting to keep my eyes open, the last thing I see is the final text he ever sends me.
Kingston: I’m sorry, Love.
Epilogue
Thirty-six hours after being admitted, I was released from the hospital. My prognosis? Six weeks with a cast on my arm, a prescription for sleeping pills, and a mildly concussed head.
Oh, and my dad demanded the bell be hung back on my bedroom door. Sebastian took his ass-chewing over the phone like a champ, and wasn’t mad at me. Thank God.
When I got home, Kingston was already gone—for good—and my parents refused to discuss it further. However, they did ensure me Sebastian was being allowed to stay and finish his year of study across the pond, so that was some good news.
With a cast on my arm, I couldn’t practice my routines—the only “escape” I had—so I returned to a paperback existence. I’ve never read more books in my life. But even with my fictional heroes and happily-ever-afters, time still crawled by so slowly it might as well have stopped altogether.
I was no longer speaking to Clay or Savannah, who were both smart enough not to show their faces at our house, with Savannah also wisely avoiding me like the plague at school.
And with the first snow of the year falling, my parents and little brother sang “Happy Birthday” to me. I felt older, but not wiser. And when I blew out the candles, I wished for the clarity I thought I’d once found to return.
Where do I go from here?
I’m still pondering that same question days later as I read the letter once more. It’s the second of two very surprising correspondences I’ve received since that night.
The first was from Kingston’s father, Gerard Hawthorne, thanking me. Maybe my parents got one too—I didn’t ask—but mine shocked me. He wanted me to know that the young man who returned wasn’t the same one he sent over, and that it was mainly because of me. Apparently, Kingston had credited me with being a fresh, positive influence in his life who taught him the value of loyalty to family, self-discipline, and striving to do the right thing.