I shake my head. “It wasn’t your fault I forgot to eat. And you didn’t push me… Or maybe you did, but I like being pushed. Either way, I could have stopped anytime I wanted and I didn’t. Which makes this,” I say, tossing a hand at my face, “very not your fault.”
A slow smile creeps over his features as his eyes scour my face. “No one’s going to mess with you,” he says, and this time, instead of tracing the skin under his own eye, he oh-so-softly traces the purple smudge under my eye with his thumb. “You look dangerous.”
When his gaze finds mine again, there’s a spark of something in his eyes that goes straight to my heart. For an electric moment, I’m sure he’s going to kiss me. I hold my breath in anticipation.
Finally, he takes a deep breath and backs away. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll think about it,” I repeat, then drag my gaze out of his and climb out of the truck. I head up the walk to my door without looking back, because I’m sure the sudden raw need I feel coursing through my body is written all over my face.
But needing Marcus like that is only going to get me hurt. Or worse.
When I walk into the house, Becky and Dad are sitting at the kitchen table eating. There doesn’t appear to be any blood, so maybe they’ve come to a truce. But when I look at Dad’s plate, his burger is untouched.
He pushes away from the table and looks at me. His lips press together and he sighs deeply. “I shouldn’t have made a scene at the bar. I’m sorry.”
I glance at Becky and when she gives me a small, sad smile, I know this is her doing.
I should say it’s okay, but I can’t find understanding or sympathy in me right now. “My head is hurting. I’m going to bed,” I say, already turning for the hallway.
I shuffle toward the bathroom and my aunt’s lowered voice drifts up the hall on my heels. “You can’t check out like this, Bruce. Addie’s not ready to be on her own yet, and you’re the only parent she has.”
“Whose fault is that?” Dad says.
I stumble over my own feet as familiar guilt slices through me in the form of a hot blade.
“I don’t know, Bruce,” she answers. “I wasn’t there. I don’t know what happened in that car. But you can’t let that child go through life believing it’s hers.”
“Even if it is?” he challenges. He sounds much more sober all of a sudden, and it sends a cold finger up my spine.
There’s a silence that seems to stretch forever before she says, “Even if it is.”
I scoot into the bathroom and click the door shut. I make it to the toilet before my legs give out and drop heavily onto it. My insides feel like I just got off a roller coaster and I put my head between my knees when I start to feel sick.
The moment I knew I couldn’t live with what I’d done was after Mom’s funeral, when I overheard Becky tell a friend she felt dead too. But I’ll never tell her that. I don’t want her to blame herself for what I did when I got home, and I know she would.
I can still hear her and Dad talking, so I crank on the faucet. I sit with my forehead on my knees and focus on breathing until the nausea passes. Finally, I pull myself up and lean on the counter with my head over the sink, waiting out the last waves. When the knock comes on the door a second later, I jump.
“Yeah?” I call, but my voice is weak.
“You okay in there, Add?” Aunt Becky asks through the door. I should have known five minutes of running water would set off alarms for her. She stayed with Dad and me for a month after they let me out of the psych ward. She’s versed in all the warning signs, thanks to my shrink.
I push off the counter and open the door, pasting on a smile and trying to look normal. Whatever that is. “Just getting ready for bed.”
“You look pale,” she says, giving me the once over. “You’re sure everything’s okay?”
“I’m just really tired and my head’s hurting.” Blame it on the concussion. That should work.
“You know if you need anything…” She lifts her hand tentatively and squeezes my shoulder. “I know I’m not your mom, but I want to be there for you, Add. If you need to talk or cry or scream or…whatever.”
My smile feels more pasted on with every word out of her mouth. “Thanks Becky, but I’m really fine.” As I say it, I back a step into the bathroom and her hand falls away. I want to close the door so I don’t have to look at her, but if I shut it in her face, she’ll know I’m lying.
“Okay. Get some rest and I’ll see you in the morning. I can give you a ride to school on my way out of town.”
“Thanks,” I say, hoping that’s the end of it.
She looks at me a moment longer then turns up the hall to her room. I pad to mine and crawl under the covers. But I don’t want to fall asleep, because the images already creeping through my mind aren’t ones I want to relive again tonight.
“I don’t understand,” I say, cutting a sideways glance at Mom as we roll down the road toward school.
She looks so drab, so unlike how she seems when she’s writing. That glaze of euphoria is gone, as if she turns from color to black and white when she steps out of her books and into the real world.