But she just stares at me, breathing hard and sweat glistening on her brow.
I don’t know what I want to say. Thank you? Are you okay?
I’m sorry, maybe? I want to say I’m sorry for so many things, because I look like shit in her eyes.
“Touch me,” she says.
And my heart leaps into my throat. I hesitate, because I’m afraid she’s fucking with me, but then I seize the chance offered and take her face in my hands.
She doesn’t pull away as I hover over her mouth, every inch of me warm under my skin. She covers my hands with hers, and whispers, “Take care of yourself, Clay.”
“What?”
But I don’t have time to figure out what she means when she pulls away and casts one last, long look before spinning around and running back into the forest, toward her house.
I take a step. The alligator is in there.
But coming just around the corner is Callum’s car, and I only consider running after her for another second before he’s on me, Amy and Krisjen calling out and opening the back door for me to climb in.
Take care of yourself, Clay.
What does that mean?
I SCROLL THOUGH Liv’s Twitter and TikTok, not seeing any new posts since the day of Night Tide. Nothing since our showdown. Nothing about the flag or the picture of me on Macon’s bed that had made the rounds in our friends’ text messages.
I draw in a deep breath, uneasy. Something’s up. I mean, it’s totally like her to refuse to acknowledge me, but she hasn’t posted anything. Not even trading a barb with a politician or calling out injustice in the Sudan.
Nothing. Not even a response to anyone posting for her birthday today.
It is today. She’s eighteen now, still off limits as a student, but otherwise perfectly legal for Martelle.
I grab the flag out from under my bed and stuff it in my backpack. Leaving my bedroom, I head down the hallway, touching Henry’s door as I go, and racing down the stairs.
I pass a long table with three small glass vases of calla lilies and take the bunch out of one, swiping the water off the stems.
But then I hear my mom. “Clay?”
I pause, hearing the elliptical going from our home gym beyond the kitchen, and sigh.
I head over and peek my head inside, seeing the sun barely up out of the window behind her. It’s Monday, and we have team workouts this morning. Olivia should be there. I tuck the flowers behind my back.
“We’ll be coming to your game this weekend,” she says, sweat glistening across her chest in her pink sports bra.
“Both of you?”
She smiles. “You don’t have to be nervous.”
I cock an eyebrow, looking away. It’s an away game about an hour from here. I’m surprised he’ll be home.
“You used to like us coming to your games,” she tells me.
“A lot of things were different then.” I shift on my feet. “Now, I’d just like you both to stop pretending you’re married for the cameras.”
I might like it if they pretended for me a little bit, but hey.
She stops moving, the elliptical sinking to a resting position and her body along with it as she looks at me.
I keep going. “I think we can agree the façade is downright painful anymore, isn’t it?”
The pain in her eyes feels good, and I hate that it feels good. I used to love my mom.
I know she’s alone. She’s suffered, and this week is especially hard, but no one is safe from me, I guess. I’ve started bullying my parents now.
How could my father not be here for us? After all we’ve lost? And did she really get an abortion like Macon said? How did he know that? Was it my father’s baby? I don’t know how it could’ve been. He’s never home.
My parents have even less figured out about life than I do, it seems, and I can’t trust anyone. Even my grandmother. What pieces of work they all are.
She says nothing, and I turn and walk out before she has a chance to. Squeezing the stems in my hand, I climb into my Bronco and drive to school with them in my fist the whole time, racing toward the one thing I don’t want to hurt anymore.
The hallways are empty, only a few cars in the parking lot yet, and I look around me, making sure no one is here. A pencil hangs off a string of yarn next to the carpool signup on the bulletin board, and I snatch it off its staple, keeping the pencil on one end as I tie the other around the flower stems.
I stick the pencil through a slit in the vent of Liv’s locker, the yellow paint on the wood scraping off as I shove it through. Hanging from the inside, the little bouquet dangles down the outside of her locker, a few of the pretty white petals floating to the ground.