Flower(72)

I should feel some relief, hearing the explanation I didn’t get before the concert—he has always worried about keeping me safe, protecting me, even if it means breaking my heart. But instead, I just feel anger—overwhelming rage that once again, his fear of hurting me is driving us apart. “So you’re making the decision for me. It doesn’t matter what I want, what I need, or what I’ve told you I can handle. You get to decide, just like always.”

His shoulders straighten back, his arm falls to his side. He’s so gorgeous, I think. Even now, even though every word he says is breaking me apart, I can’t help but admire how achingly handsome he is. It makes this hurt even more.

“I wish it could be different,” he says, looking away from me now, unable to meet my gaze. “But it’s easier if—” He bites down on his lip.

“If we end this,” I finish for him, pain dancing across my temples.

He nods. “I can’t live with watching you sideline your future for me. And you’re right, you deserve more than the occasional weekend visit. There’s no middle ground here, Charlotte.”

For a moment I can’t respond. The tears I’ve held at bay are biting at my eyes, my lips threatening to quiver. “There’s never been middle ground with you. It’s always all or nothing.” My fingers clench the sheet, holding tight to steady myself. “I think you should go now.”

He makes a soft sound—part protest, part sigh. “I’m sorry, Charlotte. For everything.”

His fingers slide along the edge of the bed, so close he could touch me, run his hands up my bare arm and kiss me. But he doesn’t. He pulls his hand away and turns for the door. He pauses once, his back a rigid line. And I think he’s going to turn around, say something else—just one more thing to make everything okay, to make this not hurt so, so much—but instead he steps out into the hall, disappearing from my life.

And I am undone.





TWENTY-FOUR

GRANDMA AND MIA TAKE ME home from the hospital the following day. I ride in the front seat, silent. Everything feels muted: watercolors bleeding across a white page. At home, I brush through the living room and down the hall. Even this house feels foreign to me, the old Charlotte who used to live here someone I no longer recognize.

“You all right?” Mia asks behind me. I hear Grandma across the hall, putting Leo down for his nap.

“No,” I say, sinking onto the bed and turning away from her. I can hear her breathing, sense that she’s there, but I don’t turn back to look at her. Eventually, she moves away, closing the door behind her.

I spend three days in my bed. Mia brings me food, asks me how I am, tries to get me up—but I just don’t have the strength. She brings Leo into my room to cheer me up; he grabs my finger and smiles and makes me feel a tiny bit better. Grandma is surprisingly understanding. She hasn’t mentioned Tate once.

Carlos comes by every day after school, and just sits with me, not making me talk. He doesn’t try to cheer me up like he might normally do. Just sits there.

Slowly, I find my way back to who I used to be. I pull my favorite novels off my bookshelf, reading passages, comforting myself with the words. I open my laptop, paging through photos from old Banner assignments, trying to imagine who I was when I took them, figure out if I’m different now. I open my e-mail, go through the assignments my teachers have sent, get a little work done here or there. I’m still behind, but my counselor says that Stanford will understand, that they won’t fault me for any grades that slip after a hospital stay. I tell myself that it’s good I didn’t fill out any deferral paperwork yet—that everything can just get back to normal now. Stanford next year, med school after, the future I so purposefully planned.

I tell myself I should be glad, that it could have been much worse.

That at least I didn’t ruin my life.

On Thursday night, Mia comes again to my door, knocking softly to see if I’m awake. She sits on the end of my bed and touches my hair, pulling it away from my shoulders. I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes; I squeeze them shut, trying to hold it back.

“Does your head still hurt?”

“No. It’s not that,” I say.

“I know,” she says gently. “He broke your heart, didn’t he?”

I nod and cover my eyes with my hands, a whimper shuddering from my lips.

“They’re not all bad,” she says, touching my shoulder. But I laugh: a short, painful laugh.

“I’m sorry, Mia,” I say, looking up at her, this girl I used to idolize when we were kids.

“For what?”

“I haven’t been a good sister. Not since Leo. I think... I didn’t understand...” I remember all the ways I judged her. I didn’t want to help her, even when I could have.

“We’ve each made our own mistakes,” she says. And the forgiveness in her eyes almost makes me break down all over again.

I look down at my hand, at our mother’s ring. It used to remind me not to be like her, but I fell in love just as hard as she always did.

“I don’t think I need this anymore,” I say, sliding it from my ring finger.

Without looking at me, she slides it onto her own. It fits perfectly—maybe even better than it fit me. Her skin is darker, closer to the shade of our mother’s, and it looks just how I remember.