Crash into You (Pushing the Limits #3)(44)

My lips fall into a frown and tremble. Gavin loves me and all I do is lie.

“Ah, Rach. I’m sorry.” He envelops me in a bone-breaking bear hug. “I’m sorry I yelled and I’m sorry that you don’t feel good. I’ve just got a lot on my plate right now.”

I rest my head on his shoulder. Gavin loves me. He always has, just in his big-brother way. Would Eric hurt them, my family? Or would Gavin be able to scare off this threat if I told him? “Have you ever been in trouble?” I ask.

Gavin releases me. “Are you scared Mom’s going to be upset that you came home from school without asking? Rach, I swear, you look like shit. She’s not going to care. Well, she’ll care, but in the obsessive way and not the pissed way.”

And I’m reminded that once more everything is about Mom’s reaction and that my brothers could never imagine me in trouble. “I’m going to go lie down.”

“I’ll stay if you want,” he says as I pick up my pack and turn for the stairs.

“I’m okay.” But I’m not. I’m not sure anything will be okay again. I’m slow on my way up the stairs. I’ve run this staircase a million times. Slid down the banister until Mom caught me at the age of seven. Today, my legs throb as if I’m climbing a mountain.

Five thousand dollars. How will Isaiah and I find five thousand dollars?

At the top of the stairs, I take a left, away from the four rooms that currently house West and Ethan and the two other rooms where Jack and Gavin used to live. I pass one of the guest bedrooms and a sickening nausea claws through my bloodstream at the sight of the cracked door of the room across from mine. There’s only one person who goes into Colleen’s room—Mom.

Leaving my backpack leaning against my door frame, I inhale slowly and peek into the room I wish would disappear. The walls are pink, Colleen’s favorite color. The canopy bed is perfectly made. One doll and one stuffed bear still wait on the pillow for their owner to return.

A dollhouse-sized perfect replica of our house sits on the floor. Like always, within the dollhouse, the figure meant to represent Mom lies next to the figurine meant to represent Colleen. My brothers told me that Mom slept with Colleen during the last weeks of her life and that Mom never stopped praying for a miracle.

“Rachel?” a small voice that hardly sounds like my mother whispers from the room. Gavin must not have realized she’d come home. I swallow to calm my nerves. I hate this room, and I hate entering it even more.

I nudge the door open and the hinges squeak painfully. With her legs curled underneath her, Mom slides her hand against the soft, shaggy white throw rug lying near the dollhouse. In her other hand, she clutches a baby-pink fleece blanket just the right size for a newborn. Her blue eyes are hollow as she regards me. “What are you doing home?”

The thumb of my left hand pushes against the sweating palm of my right. “I’m not feeling well.”

Worry consumes her face, and I force myself to enter the room to keep her from bolting off the floor. “I’m okay,” I say. “Just a headache.”

She gets on her knees. “You haven’t had a migraine in years.” Because a migraine is typically the aftermath of a panic attack.

“No, I haven’t.” Bold-faced lie. I step closer to the rug and flutter my hands in a downward movement to indicate she should stay where she is. “It’s a fluke. Probably my period.”

The conflict of whether to overanalyze my health or to stay where she feels a connection with Colleen wages war on her face. What I dread the most happens. Mom decides she can’t choose and wants both. She extends her hand to me and I notice that her long fingernails are a freshly painted pink. I kick off my shoes, accept her hand and join her on the rug. Does Mom know she still holds the blanket she brought Colleen home from the hospital in?

Mom surveys the room. Porcelain dolls perfectly dressed in ruffles and lace line several shelves. The only indication that Colleen made it anywhere near thirteen is the ancient Discman with headphones resting on the bedside table alongside of her diary and a book opened to the last page Colleen read.

“I dreamed of her last night.” Mom squeezes my hand. “She was calling to me and no matter how hard I tried, I could never find her.”

But I’m here. Right beside you. Look at me. See me. I exert pressure back. The gesture does nothing to rip her away from the nightmare imprisoning her mind.

“I always wonder if Colleen’s death was a punishment for my past sins,” she says.

My muscles tense with edginess, the same feeling as if I’m teetering on a ledge. Mom behaves like this sometimes. Her body here, but her mind far-off. She says things that make me unable to breathe. Mom’s hand tightens around mine and I suddenly feel claustrophobic.

“I made mistakes,” she says. “When I was younger. Before I met your father. Colleen was such a good girl. So good...”

Look at me, Mom. I’m your daughter and I’m right here. “Mom?”

She blinks and turns her head, the glow of life back in her blue eyes. I suck in a relieved breath. Mom tucks my hair over my shoulder. “You’re such a good girl, too.”

My eyes shut. I’m not. I defied curfew, drag raced and now owe five thousand dollars to a guy my mother would faint at the sight of. I’m in danger, I’m putting Isaiah in danger and I’m risking my mother’s—my family’s—happiness because I am not a good girl. I’m exactly who Gavin described: I’m selfish.