“Ooh. Do tell,” Chelsea says, rubbing her hands together.
Taylor sits back and gives my friends the scoop on Evan Kokua. And, like that, we’re just four girls sitting on the beach, talking about boys, the same as we did last summer. I realize all is forgiven if I want it to be. Because that’s what real friends do. Even new friends like Taylor do that. And maybe we could be even better friends because of what happened. Because there’s an unspoken understanding between us, and that’s probably how it is with everyone who was at school the day Aaron Tiratore did what he did. I just haven’t been around my former classmates enough to know it. I’ve been living with this gripping fear that doesn’t ever really let go. But surely Taylor, Brianna, and Chelsea feel it, too.
“Do you guys ever get scared?” I blurt out.
“Are you kidding? Every day of my life, I remember I could’ve died,” Taylor says as she straightens out the straps on her bikini and shifts in the sand. “But what good does that do me or anyone else who survived that day? Or the ones who didn’t? Aren’t we doing everyone who died a disservice if we don’t say screw it and live? We have to live because they can’t. We have to live as hard as we can, not half-assed, but all the way. We owe them that.”
“Live, Morgan!” Chelsea hollers. “Say you’ll train with us!”
“I’ll think about it.”
Brianna hugs me to her. “Bullshit. You’re so in.”
I wish I could be as sure as she is.
*
Once we’ve rinsed off all the sand from the beach, I leave Evan and Ben in the pool to practice underwater somersaults and handstands in the shallow end.
“I’ve gotta make a phone call,” I say, scampering up the stairs.
I settle on the top step and dial a number I know by heart. Sage answers on the first ring. I can tell she doesn’t recognize Evan’s random Hawaii number because she says hello with a question mark at the end of it.
“It’s me,” I say.
“Where are you?”
“Pacific Palms. Someone else’s phone.”
“Ah.”
“I miss you.”
She pauses. Quiet. Contemplating.
“I just wanted to get right to it,” I say.
“It’s okay. I miss you, too.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know. Me too.”
“I was just trying to deal, you know? And I realize I was really selfish in my dealing—”
“Morgan,” she cuts me off. “I understand. We all had to get through it in our own way. I’m still working on it.”
“Me too.”
“Tell me how.”
So I do. I settle sideways on the top stair, lean my back against the wall, and tell Sage everything. I tell her about Brenda and my apartment. I tell her about Ben’s play and the backpack fiasco. And then I tell her how I gave Aaron a ride to school. She sucks in a breath when I get to that part.
“You could’ve told me,” she says. “You could’ve trusted me.”
I try to explain. “I didn’t trust myself.”
“But you know it’s not your fault, right?”
“I know that now.”
“God, I’m so sorry, Morgan. I wish you would’ve let me be there for you.”
“I didn’t deserve to have you there for me. I failed you as a friend. I wasn’t there for you when you needed me.”
“I’d be lying if I didn’t say it hurt. But I get it now.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“So we’re okay?”
She laughs like I told her a joke. “Of course! I was just waiting for you to call. I’ve been sitting by the phone in the most pathetic way possible.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I knew I needed to let you make the first move.”
“Always playing hard to get.”
The two of us trail off into peals of laughter. I can picture her on the other end of the line, trying to catch her breath. Sage has the best laugh. I’ve missed it.
chapter forty-five
Brenda and I decided to make our once-a-week meetings on Tuesdays, so almost a whole week of summer passes before our first session. Evan offers to watch Ben so I can drive to Brenda’s two-story office building in the middle of town. As I make my way up the stairs, I remember the last time I was here. It took every ounce of energy I had to get through the front door, even with my mom right next to me.
Today, I push through the entrance and, when I step onto the plush green carpet of the waiting room, I feel relief. There are two chairs and a sign on another closed door in front of me that says Brenda’s with a patient. I settle into a chair to wait, listening to the whir of the air conditioner and thumbing through an outdated travel magazine.
Five minutes later, when the door swings open, a girl who looks my age walks out with Brenda right behind her. Brenda smiles hello to me as the girl hustles out of the front door, like she’s in a hurry to leave.
I get it. This stuff is private. She doesn’t need to make small talk with me.
“Shall we?” Brenda asks.
I nod and follow her inside her office.
“So,” Brenda says as we settle into chairs across from each other. “We’re here. How do you feel?”