In Her Wake (Ten Tiny Breaths 0.5)(20)
“Right.” I give him a half-smirk. It’s the best I can manage but he seems happy to see it, chuckling to himself. Though still strained, our relationship is better than it has been in a while.
“Okay, well . . . You keep your mom in line here. I know she was talking about maybe taking a vacation or something. Just,” his eyes drift to the walkway, to the front door, where Bonnie Reynolds leans against the door frame, her lips pressed into a firm line, watching, “keep up with your courses and work and . . . getting your life back on track.”
Back on track.
Do they really believe that that’s what I’m doing? I suppose I’ve been successful at making it look like I am. I’ve put up a good front, learning how to force smiles and appear reserved versus emotionally unstable. I ask polite questions. The trick is to ask open-ended ones that force others to talk. And then just keep asking questions. That way they think you’re having a conversation. It’s hard and tiring, because my mind keeps drifting.
I’ve also made myself look busy. I kill my mornings on mindless graphic design program courses, my afternoons on undemanding design projects from my mom, my evenings at the local gym, and long hours sleeping and thinking about the red-haired girl that I don’t have the guts to face, before I hit repeat. One never-ending stream.
I threw the rhythm off just twice: once, on the one-year anniversary of the car accident. That day I sat in the cemetery with a fifth of Jack Daniel’s, babbling to Sasha’s tombstone; the second time was to appease my mother and go on a blind date that Fitz set me up on. A friend of his sister’s. Nice enough girl, but I think she was going in with the impression that she could turn my life around. For about four minutes, while I f**ked her in the backseat of my car, I thought maybe she could too. Then reality came crashing down with a vengeance. I haven’t called her since.
I’m better off sticking to my simple schedule. A schedule that doesn’t allow me to let any of this go, but at least gives me something to focus on while I burn time. Just waiting for the knots in my stomach and the hollowness in my chest to go away.
Just waiting until I can be like everyone else, and move on.
Well, maybe not everyone.
Has Kacey moved on too, yet?
“A change of scenery may be good for you. You should come visit me sometime, Cole.”
I grit my teeth at the name. That’s one of the reasons I spend so much time at the gym. I’m only Trent Emerson there.
My dad must see my reaction. He opens his mouth but hesitates. He ends with, “Think about it.”
And then I watch my dad officially separate from my mom after twenty-five years of marriage.
Chapter 11
February 2010
“Come on! It’ll be a good time.” Rich slaps my back as we climb a set of stairs that I didn’t think I’d ever be climbing again. The big house looks exactly the same—colorful flags plastering the walls, kegs lining the entranceway, drunk freshmen looking to hook up. Sasha, Derek, and I experienced our first MSU frat party within these very walls. And the front lawn . . . well, Derek later painted that with too many shots of Fireball.
“We’re too old for this.” I pull my baseball cap down lower. Though there are a few upper years here, and of course the frat brothers, at twenty-two and with my solid frame, I stand out.
“No, I’m too old for this. You’re borderline.”
I can’t believe I’m back here. I can’t believe I’m crashing in my old room, now vacant again. It feels both like no time and an eternity have passed, the wounds that never healed somehow torn wide open. But I’m numb to the fresh wave of pain because I haven’t felt anything but that in almost two years.
Rich phoned me two weeks ago and begged me to come out to visit. My mom overheard and interpreted the conversation, and then prodded me until I agreed. I can see now that I should have just dug my heels in, but I do pretty much whatever my mother asks me to. It keeps her happy.
Thirty seconds in the door and I’m already exhausted. I’m used to solitude now. Not two hundred freshmen bumping into me from all sides. Something I would never have noticed when I was drunk but that irritates the shit out of me now that I’m sober. Luckily, I can see over the sea of heads.
That’s how I spot her.
There’s no doubt that it’s her; I’ve memorized her face.
Leaning against a wall on the opposite side, her lips wrapped around a clear bottle filled with clear liquor, her fiery red hair a wild mane against the stark white wall, a tight black T-shirt showing off toned arms. She’s in no rush to part with that bottle, guzzling back a good portion before she hands it off to someone, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
Her eyes at half-mast.
She’s wasted.
My heart starts racing. What the hell is Kacey Cleary doing here? By my calculation, she’s probably finishing her last year of high school, having lost at least half a year while recovering.
I tug my cap down even farther, though I doubt she can see two feet in front of her.
Shit. What if she does recognize me? How would she react? Does she know my real name? What I look like? I can’t say for sure that my face wasn’t printed in a newspaper somewhere. She could have Googled my name and found a dozen game shots with me in them. I have my helmet on in most of them, but you can find a profile picture of me easily enough if you’re looking.