When We Collided(10)

I step into my room, then spin around to face her, my hand already steadied on the door to slam it. “Yes, okay? Yes, I am taking the stupid, f*cking pills.”

The door hits, heavy against its frame, and it echoes into the hallway. I burrow into my bed, angry enough to cry—which isn’t a shock, considering I’m angry enough to yell the f-word in my mom’s face. I don’t even care, because I’ve asked her eighty thousand times to just not bring it up, and honestly, how hard is that? Avoiding one single topic in the entire, ever-loving world?

I let myself cry for a while, pitiful and sprawled out on my comforter, and I bury my head into Tannest’s plush fur. Tannest has been my best stuffed-animal friend since I was little. My mom suggested that I name him Tanner because he is a tan-colored dog. But, since he is completely tan and I couldn’t imagine him being tanner, I named him Tannest. He lives at the head of my bed with a pink pony named Rosabelle and a stuffed turtle named Norman.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been sniffling when my phone beeps.

Hey. It’s Jonah. From this morning.

From this morning, like he had to remind me. Like I met another, more memorable Jonah in the past few hours. A smile sneaks across my face. How darling that he thinks I’d forget him inside of six hours. I roll over onto my stomach, holding my phone in both hands as I type.

Hi Jonah from this morning. Are you still making me dinner?

Pizza’s on around 6 if you’re interested.

Hmm. Detached, totally nonflirty. Jonah, Jonah, Jonah—you are only encouraging me. It’s like being at an animal shelter, where I want to be the one the most skittish dog takes a liking to.

Oh, I’m interested.

Cool. 404 Seaside Street. Leah’s excited.

Oh, Jonah. Silly boy. I will make you flirt back with me.

Just Leah? Not you?

I spin the phone in my hand, waiting and smiling to myself. This is exactly what I needed for the summer—the sunshine, the ocean, some seriously blatant flirtation. And a little bit of a challenge.

Finally, my phone beeps again. Of course me too.

Ha—got him! That’s all it takes to perk me up, and suddenly I can’t bear to stay in my room and not make up with my mom. I shuffle downstairs, nibbling on my lip as I go.

She’s sitting at the kitchen island when I turn the corner from the stairs. I cross my arms and lean against the door frame, sighing without really meaning to. I don’t want to be the first one to talk; I don’t know what to say, exactly. My mom senses my presence, and she gets up from the table to face me. Her eyes are a little red because she’s a very sensitive person, like I am.

“You know I don’t like bossing you around.” It’s true—she hates telling me what to do. My mom believes in the inherent worth of instincts, like self-reliance as a way of transcending. She encourages my creativity, my impulses, my me-ness. To a point, I guess. “I’m proud of the person you are, and I do trust you. But I have to watch over you because you are my baby, and I will always need to protect you, even when it makes you mad at me.”

“I know that.” My voice is quiet—the murmur of a child who apologizes to get out of the time-out chair. I tug my left sleeve instinctively, covering the long scar. “I’m sorry I yelled. I just hate to be reminded of it.”

“I know. But we have to communicate. Dr. Douglas said that we—”

“Can we not talk about it anymore? Please, I just . . . it physically hurts in my chest to think about, and—”

“Okay. Okay.” She pulls me into a hug, though I keep my arms across my chest, cradling myself even as she cradles me, too. I rest my head on her shoulder, and we stay this way for a little while, under Richard’s light fixtures, which probably cost more than my life.

When my mom pulls away, she keeps her hands on my arms. “I was thinking of ordering sushi for dinner. What do you think? Philly roll and a spider roll? Some sashimi?”

I love sushi more than any other food on the planet. This is her olive branch, and I’d normally take it in a hot second. “Sounds perfect, but can I get a rain check? I forgot to tell you I’m going over to a friend’s house for dinner.”

“Oh, that’s fun!” My mom claps her hands together. Just like that, she is my best friend again, not my nagging mom. She slides onto a nearby stool, and I resume my position leaning against the door. “At Whitney’s?”

“No, this is a brand-new friend. Two, actually. This little girl came into the store this morning—seemed shy but warmed up to me, and she invited me over for dinner, since we just moved here. She said the best place to eat in town is her house.”

My mom laughs. “That’s precious. So you’re dining with a kindergartner?”

“Yes . . . plus her much older brother, who has no idea how severely cute he is.”

“Aha.” She grins. “Well, that sounds great. Much better than sushi with your old mom.”

“Mom . . .” I roll my eyes because she knows I love hanging out with her, which is why I do almost all the time.

“I’m just teasing you,” she says. Then she reaches over to hold my hand in hers, looking a little sad again. “We’re okay, right? You’d tell me if we weren’t okay?”

She means: you’d tell me if you weren’t okay. I nod, squeezing her hand. “Yeah, we’re okay.”