The Falling (Brightest Stars, #1)(53)

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t rid myself of the habit of imagining what other people were thinking or saying about me. I did it all the time, even though I knew no good would come of it. It was like picking a cuticle, scratching and nipping at it until it started bleeding. I was doing that now, picturing everyone in the kitchen, wondering what they were saying or thinking. Even the ones who didn’t know my name, they’d think of me as that prissy chick who badmouthed sweet Katie. Someone would ask who I was, and they’d say, Oh, that’s Austin’s sister, and then they’d remember me as the girl who went around picking up empty bottles and pizza boxes as if she was working the night shift at Fridays.

Ugh.

I hated the way my brain worked. I tried to tell myself that I didn’t do anything too horrible, that people would understand I was mostly joking. I never would have talked like that had I known she was there, even if what I said was true.

I was grasping now.

Wasn’t it funny how people always demanded the truth, yet mostly couldn’t handle it when it came along? In all fairness, I was the same way. Demanding the truth, yet holding on to the lies. They came in handy when you wanted to guard yourself against the truth—lies, that is.

I paused in front of my room; I didn’t really think anyone would be inside. This get-together was way calmer than most of the parties Austin had thrown in the past, before he went to stay with our uncle. And I had to admit that Austin seemed a little different now, more stable. Or maybe I wanted him to have calmed down; thinking this way protected me from seeing the truth.

I knocked, then waited before opening the door into what turned out to be an empty room. I stood for a moment before entering, taking everything in. Even the smell. God, the air intoxicated me with a feeling of nostalgia, like the scent of my former life. I had been trying so hard to start a new chapter, turn a new page . . . whatever it was people did when they tried to move on. I stood there looking at my old bedroom while thinking of my new bedroom. Such a stark difference.

This room was the same as it ever was. The same purple bedspread with little white flowers all over it. The same matching curtains with a burn mark on the corner from my one day as a smoker. I got grounded for that. My parents didn’t notice the burnt curtain, lucky for me, but they had caught the cigarette smoke as it wafted down the hallway. After that I was forbidden to hang out with Neena Hobbs, the only girl in my grade who was allowed to shave her legs—and who had made me want to smoke like she did.

My dresser was cluttered with the usual teenage girl stuff. Old tubes of glittery lip gloss that had been expired for years. Bundles of headbands and hair elastics. Notes from my best friend, Sammy. Well, Sammy was my best friend until she married a soldier and getting a hold of her became impossible. Gel pens in every conceivable color. Everything had a memory attached. Some more than one. I couldn’t bring myself to toss a thing. Not the hair accessories I had worn for years through multiple hair colors and multiple bad haircuts. Not even the sticky lip gloss that my mom snuck me when my dad said I couldn’t wear makeup until high school. I picked them up now and rolled them around in my hand. They had names like Berry Beautiful, Pucker Pink, and Sweeter Than Sweet. Funny, though, once you got them on your lips, they all had pretty much the same rosy color, the same sugary and sticky shine that always caught in my hair.

I hadn’t been in my new place that long, but this room already seemed like a time capsule. Come to think of it, this was the first time I’d stepped into the room since I’d moved out. I wiped my finger in the dust on my dresser. Estelle made sure every room in the house was clean, except this one. What about Austin’s room?, I wondered. Did she do her Martha Stewart thing in there? Probably. She had different rules for the men in her life.

I realized that I hadn’t changed any of the furniture since seventh grade or so. I remembered sitting in that purple beanbag chair when Josh, the cornbread-gifter and the first boy who kissed me with tongue, broke up with me. I was fool enough to believe him when he made the excuse that his mom had told him he needed to work on his grades, keep his head clear, and stay away from girls if he wanted to pursue his supposed football career. But he started dating one of the popular girls the very next day. Word around school was that he had dumped me for her. Seventh grade really did a great job of inflating my insecurities. And, spoiler alert: Josh was now in and out of jail, not on a football field.

That beanbag chair was the indoor equivalent of the porch swing, full of drama and dreamy memories. There were a lot of teenage tears in that fabric—no wonder I have a visceral reaction today to the color purple.

The nightstand was stacked high with my old books. My econ textbook from senior year peeked out beneath a hardcover copy of You by Caroline Kepnes that was collecting dust. I had bought a second copy of You when I realized I’d left the original at my dad’s and didn’t want to go back there to retrieve it. Dad and Estelle hadn’t been married very long then, and I hated being around the newlyweds; I left every chance I got. That made two copies—three if you counted the audio. I bought that to hear the characters come to life in a voice other than my own. It was one of my favorite books and I was happy to keep a copy at both houses. It became one of the few stories that my dad and I both loved. I reached for it and cracked open the spine. I could use the distraction: YOU walk into the bookstore and you keep your hand on the door to make sure it doesn’t slam. You smile, embarrassed to be a nice girl...