I can’t help but smile back. He delivered his line perfectly with no change in facial expression. Maybe he really is funny underneath all that martyr swagger. Like the same guy who said Shakespeare was a pervert in English.
He stops tapping his fingers on the table as a somber look covers his face. We’ll have to talk about it again—the pink elephant in the room. “Are you going to do it soon?”
“Define soon.”
“Tomorrow, the next day? Do you have a plan?” His voice is even, like he’s trying too hard to sound like this isn’t bothering him.
My breath accelerates with my heartbeats. “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” His posture drops and he locks his jaw. “No, I’m not going to do it tomorrow or the next day.”
“So you have a plan, then.”
I take a deep breath. “Why does it matter, Tom Sawyer?”
“Because I’m in this,” he says with conviction.
I arch an eyebrow and drag my finger around the rim of my mug. “In what?”
“I have to help you now.”
“Help me what? Live?”
He takes a sip of his chai. “Yes.”
“Thanks, but I’m good.” I give him two thumbs up.
He smiles, but his expression is tense. “It’s either that or I have to . . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence again.
“Have to what?” I snap. “Are you threatening me?”
“No, just stop. You’re hearing me wrong.”
Flames start shooting around my body, burning up my bones. “I don’t think I am,” I say, breathing hard. “I’m relieved. I thought for a second you were going to be a bossy asshole, glad to see that’s not the case.” I scoot my chair out and stand, taking a huge gulp of my coffee, scalding my throat. “Fuck, that’s hot.” I push the chair in and walk to the door.
“Ellery, wait.” Colter catches up to me at the door and leans on the doorframe, his expression painful and guilty, like he just swore in front of his grandma. “I’m sorry. That all came out wrong.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, really. But I don’t need any help.”
He looks at his shoes and shakes his head before turning his gaze on me. “I’m pushing you, aren’t I?” he says, clutching the back of his neck. “I do that.”
I want to melt into the ground when I look at the damage behind his smile. “Just—I mean, I get it.”
“I keep thinking that’s the reason my brother finally did it. I just pushed too hard.” He shrugs and his voice sounds so sad and hopeless that I want to kick myself for caring so much.
You’ve got to get out of here.
I can’t.
Flexing my fingers a few times, I move to pat him a couple times on his shoulder. God, I’m so monumentally bad at being a human. I want to say something to make him feel better, something that will bring his breezy laugh back, but that’s not the person I am. I jerk my hand away before I make it worse. “I’m sure that’s not what happened.”
He clears his throat and his eyes brighten like he’s trying to cover the moment with a blanket. “Yeah, maybe.”
I nod my head toward my car. “I’ve got that English paper to do before tomorrow, so . . . .”
He stands up straight and pushes the door wider. “Me too. Last minute.” He chuckles.
“I’ll see you in class?”
He nods, but his expression has slipped back into somber, like he’s thinking about his brother, like he blames himself for his death. If I remind him of his brother, then why does he keep hanging around me? It’s only making it worse on both of us.
I hesitate at the door, but only for a moment before I snap back into plan mode.
He’s not going to stop you.
18
20 Days
I drive by Tasty’s on the way home from school. I’ve been doing that, without even thinking about it, like it’s just something I have to do. I duck down so Dean can’t see me, but I make sure he’s in there, alive, and “scooping fucking ice cream for people,” as he put it.
I rifle through Mom’s medicine cabinet and pull out the leftover pain pills from her knee surgery. I shake the bottle. It’s full. I open the orange container and pour all the pills out onto my palm. They’re white and huge. I hate swallowing pills, it always feels like they’re stuck there for hours afterward, like a cough that won’t disappear. I shake the pills around in my hand. There’s a dozen or so.
Could that kill me?
No. Pills are for cop-outs. Anyway, they would take too long and there’s no guarantee in the end. I grab the bottle and shove all but one of the pills into the container. I take one, then dunk my head under the faucet and swallow it down. I lie on the bed, and before I even have a chance to close my eyes another memory slips through the drug’s haze. All the scenes from the night Tate died flow in and out of me like I’m a conductor.
? ? ?
I hold on to the railing and lean over. Mom’s at the bottom of the stairs with that stern parental look, holding an empty laundry basket. “I know you have dirty clothes. I saw them on your floor.”
“Those were clean. You need glasses.”