“Mom?”
If she heard me, she didn’t respond. She was just rocking back and forth, staring out the window, eyes lost and unfocused. My eyes scanned the room, looking for any hint as to why she’d had such a drastic setback in just a few short hours. On my father’s side of the bed, atop the things he’d usually left there but would never come back for, lay a piece of paper with creases in it, as if it had been folded and inside an envelope. I walked over to it, picked it up, and started reading. I’d only made it one sentence in when it all became clear.
Dear Cory Wallace,
Congratulations! On behalf of the faculty and staff at Central Florida University, it is with great pleasure that we inform you of your admission….
I didn’t need to read any more.
Kneeling down next to her, I placed my hand on her knee, hoping to break whatever trance she was in. It didn’t. In fact, for the next twelve hours my mother seemed nearly catatonic. She rocked in her chair, but wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t acknowledge anyone else in the room. When the sun went down, I’d gone to check on her and found her in her bed, still awake, but still silent.
McKenzie and Mrs. Harris eventually left. I think McKenzie wanted to stay, to help me with my mother, but Mrs. Harris told her, “Everyone needs some space.” I didn’t want to think about what would happen if she had caught on to us—if she’d somehow figured out we’d spent the night away together—but those words stuck with me, lodged themselves in the back of my mind, just something else to worry about. When she left, McKenzie wrapped her arms around my neck, hugging me, and I tried to hug her back in the most platonic way possible, knowing her mom was watching us, examining us. But what I wouldn’t have given for five minutes alone with her. Just five minutes to feel her and let her comfort me. To just hold her.
Over the next few days, it felt as though we were back at square one. We were on a cyclical loop of mom sleeping, eating, and then sleeping some more. In the middle of the night I’d hear her crying, and I’d check on her. But there was nothing I could do. I’d lost her to the grief again. Everyone was worried, but we were hoping she’d pull out of it again, just like she had before. We just didn’t need any more setbacks.
Unfortunately, each night got progressively worse.
Chapter Twenty-One
McKenzie
It was lunchtime, Tuesday, and I hadn’t had a moment alone with Hayes since we got back from Bellingham. He’d been dealing with his mom, and my parents both kept me away, afraid that in her grief Mrs. Wallace would lash out at me again.
I looked over my shoulder, stupidly paranoid that someone would see me walking toward the practice rooms and become suspicious. I made it into the equipment room, fairly confident no one had seen me enter, and stood next to the door with the lights off. I pulled out my phone to send a text to Hayes.
Can you meet me in the equipment room?*
It took an agonizing three minutes before he responded.
**I’ll be there in a few.**
Time stood still until I heard footsteps coming down the hall. I held my breath when the door opened. It would be easy enough to explain why I’d be in the room with the lights off; I could tell whoever it was I had a headache. But I was a terrible liar, so I hoped it was Hayes.
I saw the silhouette of his broad shoulders and long hair and let out a sigh of relief.
“Kenz?” he whispered.
“I’m here,” I replied quietly, standing but not moving. I wanted the door closed tightly behind him before I even attempted to move. The sliver of light that had leaked into the room disappeared as the door clicked closed, and I was immediately pulled into his arms. My hands twined in his hair that was hanging loose that day and I pressed my nose into his neck.
“God, I’ve missed you,” he said, his voice raspy, full of emotion. “These past few days,” he started, but paused, squeezing me tighter. “All I’ve wanted was to have you by my side.”
His words shattered my already fractured heart. It pained me to be away from him, especially when I knew he was struggling, but it was obviously hurting him as well. “What can I do?” There was almost nothing to my voice; it was a strangled sound, like fear, anger, and regret squeezed through a funnel.