The Love That Split the World(84)

“Hi,” he mumbles.

I lower my voice. “Remember when I was the worst?”

His eyebrows flick up, and he struggles against a smile. “When was that?”

“At least all summer,” I say, “but possibly longer.”

He finally looks at me, and despite the way his chubby cheeks have started to hollow after his recent six-inch growth spurt, he is unmistakably a stretched-out version of my baby brother. Coco’s always been the more assertive leader of the two, and it surprises me to see goofy, laid-back, go-with-the-flow Jack looking so grown up and downtrodden.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

“For?”

I look over my shoulder to watch Mom slip into the laundry room. “Coco told me about the fight.”

He rolls his eyes and sighs in annoyance as he cranes his neck to look for Coco. “Jack, it’s fine. I won’t tell Mom and Dad. I just wanted you to know that . . . you’re wonderful, and I love you, and I don’t want you to pick or finish fights on my behalf, and I’m sorry I haven’t been around much, and also you were wrong about the carburetor, so there’s that.”

Jack snorts a laugh. “You’re weird.”

“Are you sure? Because no one’s ever told me that before.”

“And you’re not the worst.”

“Likewise,” I say. “You’re very not the worst.”

I stand to go, but when I walk behind the couch, a sharp lift in my abdomen doubles me over, and when I cut my eyes back to Jack, he’s gone. The house is dark, the windows along the deck a glare-ridden midnight blue, and a soft yellow circle glows on the kitchen table, just under the hanging stained glass lamp over its center. I feel swayed by a slow motion, like the world’s swirling around me at half-speed.

My mom sits at the end of the table alone, her face pressed into her hands and her shoulders shaking. She pulls her feet up onto the chair and hugs her legs to her chest, letting her forehead dip against her knees. She looks young, a lot younger really, or at least like she’s dyed her hair.

Oh, God. Why is she crying? Who is she crying for?

I don’t want to see this. I can’t. I stumble backward down the hall and run up the stairs, time jolting back into place as I push back my bedroom door to find my hideous Raider staring at me from behind one eye patch. The floor is bare, apart from the cardboard boxes stacked in the corner, but I still feel too crowded to breathe.

I try to focus on anything other than the pain in my chest and the multicolored dots popping across my vision: The nights Megan and I spent watching thunderstorms from the garage, searching the sky for shooting stars from the roof of the porch. The hours I slept in Beau’s arms on the floor in the closet. The stories Grandmother told from the rocking chair. The bus stop where I waited in the dark, in the sweltering heat and burning cold on school mornings.

Still can’t breathe, can’t calm down.

The sledding hill in the backyard, and the creek at the bottom that nearly gave me frostbite. The sprinklers we ran through in summertime. Sneaking downstairs with the twins on Christmas Eve to see whether Mom and Dad had put our presents out yet. The series of clues Mom spread throughout the house that led me to the garage, where my birthday present, a Saint Bernard puppy in a blue bow, waited for me.

And the night I climbed through the window and looked back to find that Beau had vanished. The slow passage of minutes ever since then that I’ve spent waiting.

I’m in a house full of ghosts. I can’t take the thought of adding another. I bring my hand to touch the wall. “Grandmother,” I whisper into the emptiness. “If you can hear me, find me.”



Megan’s mom is an anesthesiologist, and her dad’s an architect who loves hunting, so their house is not only enormous but remote, hidden down a long gravel road and a beautiful perimeter of forest. As a kid, its spaciousness and its white columns reminded me of the White House, but the floor plan is surprisingly open and modern.

Mr. and Mrs. Phillips escort us all down to Megan’s room, which takes up the majority of the basement, its sliding back doors stepping onto a big patio that overlooks a manmade fishing lake. The room has a distinct princessy feel that Megan neither had anything to do with nor ever worked to change or keep up. The floor, usually covered in clothes and paper and books, is now spotless, and I feel a twinge of sadness.

“Can’t believe we agreed to let you skip out on us,” Dad says from behind me.

“You guys thought it was a good idea,” I remind him. “Independence and mental health and all that.”

“No, your mom thought that,” he says. “She’s the fun, laid-back one. I’m the disciplinarian.”

I snort. “Yeah, that sounds like you. You should consider changing the title on your business cards from Horse Whisperer to Horse Fascist.”

“You know what, that has a ring to it. Not a bad idea, sugar cube.” He kisses the top of my head, and Mom releases a little whimper.

“We’ll give you a minute,” Mrs. Phillips says, then slips back up the stairs with Mr. Phillips.

Mom pulls me into a hug. “It’s only for a few weeks,” I remind her.

“And then you’ll go off to college,” she says. “You’re too grown up. Stop that.”

“Trust me, I tried.”