An hour later, Matt’s on my doorstep. He’s sweaty and I wonder if it’s possible that he ran all the way here. I let him in and we go upstairs to my room. It’s exactly the same as when I went to his house, but in reverse.
Except it isn’t.
We don’t say a word to each other. I walk into my room first and he follows; halfway across the floor, he catches my hand and spins me around. He grabs my face in his hands and kisses me, unsure for a moment, then hard, aggressive, but nothing I don’t want him to do. I feel like I’m drawing out his pain like venom from a rattlesnake bite and, for a few minutes, it makes me forget my own misery.
We fall onto my bed and hold each other so tightly that our hands can’t really move to explore body parts or anything. Besides, this isn’t about moving through the bases. This is so much more than that.
Clothes are somehow undone, and we’re so close to…
Matt abruptly pushes back and stands. His jeans are unbuttoned and his T-shirt is rumpled and stretched out. His hair is wild, covering his left eye completely. I can only see the tears welling up in his right.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says with a voice so pained it burns me. “I don’t know whether to hold you or hate you.”
I’m stunned into silence. Matt turns toward the door. “I have to go.”
And he leaves like that, disheveled, but I don’t say anything. He might run into Mason on the way out—who knows when he’ll be back—or scare mothers pushing babies on the street. But I don’t care what Matt looks like right now, and I know he doesn’t, either. Because when someone dies—dies for real—things like how you look don’t matter anymore.
In fact, what no one ever told me is that nothing does.
thirty-one
I stare at the ceiling of my bedroom, thinking or not thinking, floating or just lying there. I might have been at Matt’s three days or three hours ago: Time passes in odd increments. The lamp on my nightstand buzzes so loudly I want to smash it but I’m numb all over. My arms are glued to the bed. I look at my phone and register the time; the instant I look away, it’s gone from my memory.
Mason’s back.
Cassie’s back.
Someone brings me food that I don’t eat. Instead, I examine it like a fossil, drawing conclusions from the plate’s contents. The dish contains breakfast: It must be morning. There are blueberry pancakes: Mason’s concerned. There’s a vitamin on the tray: He’s really concerned.
The second I start to feel amused by my archaeological approach, I remember that Audrey is dead. I’m sitting here counting the number of grapes on my plate like tree rings and Audrey will never eat breakfast again.
Suddenly blueberry pancakes are an insult.
I shove the tray to the end of my bed. I roll onto my side and clutch my torso and curl into the fetal position because it’s too much. She’s not going to pick me up for school. I’m not going to meet her for lunch. She’s not going to tease me about liking her brother or about my taste in music, or lend me clothes or talk about Bear or Jake or anyone else.
She’s dead.
My phone rings; it’s Megan’s tone. I don’t answer it. I don’t even look at it. Anger rolls through me: I shouldn’t have been in Seattle when Audrey was dying. I should have known something was up. I should have stayed.
My chest caves in; my heart is crushed. I try to psychically ask Matt to come over and lie next to me. But not to kiss me or anything. Just to lie here. I imagine him staring into my eyes like in Kansas City, but all I can see are his tears for his dead sister.
I cover my head with my pillow, but the thoughts are still there.
I wonder if they’ll ever go away.
I stay in bed until nighttime, then wander the house in the dark. For hours, I stare out the living room window at the desolate street, hoping to see Audrey’s ghost there, waving at me. I retreat into my sour, stale room before anyone wakes up in the morning. I listen to showers running. To breakfast being made. My phone buzzes so many times that I turn it off. Mason brings more food; the hunger strike continues.
“You need to get up,” Mason says. He walks across the room and throws open the curtains. He opens the window and the fresh outside air stings my nostrils.
“No,” I mutter.
“You’ll feel better after a shower,” he says.
I laugh bitterly. As if a shower could wash away the pain of losing Audrey. “Not likely.”
“Your choice,” Mason says, moving to the door again. “We’re leaving for her funeral in an hour.”