My eyes swing back toward him. “What?”
“This. Us.” He rakes his good hand through his disheveled hair, making it even messier. “Is that why we’re together? Because it hurts you to be with me? Am I just another way for you to punish yourself?”
Coldness spreads through my stomach and into my veins. Until he said it, the notion never once crossed my mind. It did hurt to be around him, at first, but as time wore on, he became separate from Aubrey, in a way. Disconnected from the boy I knew when she was still alive. He became just Ethan, the boy who helps dull the edges of my grief. No one understands the void of living without Aubrey better than he does.
“No,” I say, holding my hands stiffly in my lap. I’m back to being a statue again, rigid and still. “If anything, you’re the opposite. Being with you makes me happy, and in some ways that’s even harder—”
“Because you think you don’t deserve to feel happy,” he finishes for me. He shakes his head. “Either way, I can’t win, can I?”
Frustration simmers in my chest again. Unlike him, my anger comes on slowly, gradually, building and rising instead of exploding in a blaze. “You know what? I’m sorry my head is so screwed up. I’m sorry I’m so conflicted about my relationship with you. But God, Ethan . . . did you ever stop and think about how she’d feel about all this?”
“Who? Aubrey?”
“Yes. Do you ever wonder what she’d think about us if she were here?”
His eyes stray to the wall directly across from us, which is lined with framed pictures. The portrait in the middle, the biggest one, shows a much younger Ethan and Aubrey, posing together with their violins. I forget sometimes how alike they were.
“She’d hate it,” I go on when he doesn’t reply. “She’d want me to look out for you, not . . .” Kiss you. Fall in love with you. Lose my virginity to you.
“I don’t need you to look out for me. I can take care of myself now. You’re not my replacement big sister, okay? You’re not—” He suddenly winces and looks down at his hand. Without realizing it, he’d balled it into a fist, aggravating the swollen tissue there. “Anyway,” he adds, gritting his teeth through the pain, “it doesn’t matter if she’d hate it, because she’s not here. She can’t hate anymore. She can’t think anymore. She can’t do anything anymore. She’s dead, and I’m getting sick of you using your guilt over it as an excuse to drive us apart.”
Each word is a brick, dropping from a great height and slamming into me, one by one. If I ever had any doubts about the resentment he holds for me, deep down inside, they’re all gone now.
I stand up on shaky legs and turn to face him. “I don’t get it, Ethan. How can you even want me? Has this all been some kind of experiment for you or something? Your way of seeing if it’s even possible to forgive me?”
He stands up too, his face drawn in confusion. “What? No. Dara—”
I grab my coat from the couch and walk out of the living room, stopping him from talking. Stopping him from reaching for me and putting his arms around me and making everything okay. Because despite what Noelle believes, things don’t always work out in the end.
twenty-eight
Senior Year
LATE SATURDAY MORNING, MY MOTHER WAKES ME up with a firm knock on my bedroom door. “Brock has the stomach flu,” she says.
I roll over and look at her, my brain scrambled with sleep. “What?” I croak.
“Brock,” she repeats, and I dimly notice that she’s wearing dress pants and a blouse. “Tobias’s friend from down the street? Tobias was supposed to spend the afternoon at his house, but his mother just called and said Brock woke up with a stomach bug.”
I don’t know why she’s telling me this. “Are you going to work?”
“Yes, Dara. I mentioned yesterday at dinner that I needed to go to work for a few hours today, remember?”
I don’t, but this shouldn’t come as a surprise to either of us. For the past few days, I’ve done nothing besides go to school and sit alone in my room. And whenever Mom makes me emerge from my cave to do necessary things like eat, I do them as quickly and quietly as possible before escaping to my room again. I know it worries her, this sudden backsliding into my old reclusive ways.
“I can’t get out of it,” Mom goes on, glancing at her watch, “so you’re going to have to look after Tobias today.”
I freeze under my blankets. Look after Tobias. Just him and me. I used to babysit him all the time before Aubrey died, back when our relationship was easy and affectionate and fun. Since then, I haven’t been alone with my brother for longer than a few minutes. My parents never ask me to babysit, and I never offer. The thought of being fully responsible for him makes my palms clammy.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask, trying not to sound as panicked as I feel.
“He’s got that big job today.” Mom gives me an exasperated look. Clearly, Dad’s big job was discussed during dinner last night too. I vaguely remember something about heavy snow causing some sort of roof collapse, but I’m fuzzy on the details. “You’re okay with it, right?” she says, unsure. “Taking care of your brother for the afternoon?”
“I guess,” I tell her, because what else can I say? I’m the reason my parents work so much. The least I can do is make it easier for them.
After Mom leaves, I wander out to the kitchen. Tobias is at the table, squirting glue onto cotton balls and then sticking them into an open shoebox.
“What are you doing?” I ask as I open the fridge and take out a carton of orange juice. My voice sounds falsely bright, even to my own ears.
“Making a diorama.” He uses his finger to remove some excess glue from the edge of the shoebox. “I have to do an animal habitat for science. I picked a polar bear.”
“Oh.” This explains the mass of snowy-white cotton balls. “Do you need any help?”
“No.”
Something twinges in my chest and I have to force myself to swallow the juice in my mouth. Tobias doesn’t even answer when I tell him to stay put for a few minutes while I go take a shower.
We don’t speak again until lunchtime, and only because we have to figure out what we want to eat. Tobias decides on grilled cheese and I make one for each of us, piling on the cheese the way I know he likes. We eat at the table amid the diorama mess and awkwardly try to make conversation. I ask him about school, and then he asks me something that almost makes me spit out my sandwich.
“Are you better now?”
I clear my throat and wipe my buttery fingers on a napkin. “What?”
“Mom and Dad keep saying you’ll be better soon.” He picks up a pair of scissors and starts cutting out a kidney-shaped body of water he’s drawn on a sheet of blue construction paper. “Are you better yet?”