When We Collided(31)

“Oh man, do I know that feeling. But the medicine made me feel enough to get angry,” I say. I don’t add that the anger makes you powerful. I stood up and sickled myself the hell out of there, hack by hack, slicing through the vines. I screamed until my face turned purple because, by then, I was a fearsome beast, too. I had lived through the blackness and solitude and emerged roaring at everything in my way.

She stays quiet for a few beats. “I only feel angry at myself.”

“Well, maybe that’s a start.” The room is silent except for the hum of the refrigerator as background noise, and I realize there’s something important she needs to hear. “By the way, I think your kids are the definition of marvelousness, and I’ve been wanting to tell you that. Based on my own mother’s experience, it seems hard enough to raise even one semi-normal child, and you made six truly magnificent ones.”

“Yeah,” she says, voice bitter. “Some mother I am.”

“Hey.” We both look up to find Jonah in the doorway. He’s winded still, though I can tell his breathing is slower than it would have been after running here. I wonder how long he’s been in the doorway.

His mom goes repentant immediately, as if his mere presence is accusing her of something. The tears form again in a blink. “I told Jim I could drive myself home, but he wanted me to sit here. I’m so sorry, kid; I don’t know what happened—I was fine one minute, then my chest felt so tight, and I couldn’t breathe. I just wanted to make cookies for you all, and—”

“Mom, hey. Hey.” Jonah crouches down to her as I clear out of the way. “Don’t apologize. You’re fine. We’re all fine. Let’s go home, okay?”

“But . . . the cart . . .”

“I’ll get cookie supplies later.” He guides her up and out the door, his hand hovering by her lower back. In the parking lot, we walk on either side of her like bodyguards protecting a star from the paparazzi. Jonah opens the passenger door and shuts it after his mom slides in.

“I’m sorry for asking you to come here.” He says this under his breath as we walk around the car, and the wind whips my cardigan enough that I pull it closer.

“Don’t be. I told you, Jonah: I’m not intimidated by other people’s pain.”

He runs his fingers along his brow, pressing hard enough to leave red marks for a moment. “I think I need to tell Felix.”

“I think you should ask your mom what she needs. Talk to her.”

Jonah looks up at the sky like the answers will rain down on his face, clearing away the dusty pollen of grief. But it never rains in Verona Cove. “I think I should have told him a long time ago.”

“Fine. Whatever, Jonah.” I snap my fingers. Maybe he heard me, but he’s not listening to me. “I’ve gotta go to work.”

“Hey!” he calls. “What did I say?”

“Did you not even hear me? Stop acting like she has no agency! Holy Mother Earth, Jonah! Just . . . ask her questions.”

His hands rise, a backing-off motion. “Okay . . . God.”

As I storm off, I can hear his arms slap against his sides, and I’m sure he’s tossed them up in frustration. Then I hear the car start, but I don’t look up as they drive off, because he doesn’t deserve it.

To the deepest, most cellular level of my being, I resent people who believe that depression is the same as weakness, that “sad” people must be coddled like helpless toddlers. So to think that Jonah—my own boyfriend, my friend, my lover, whatever he is—would believe that he knows what his mom needs better than she does? That her grief makes her unaskable, voiceless, unreliable? This is very hurtful.

My dark days made me strong. Or maybe I already was strong, and they made me prove it. Jonah Daniels has his own grief, but he doesn’t understand what it feels like to waste away in a castle dungeon where you have been chained to crumbling walls. And, when the dragons close in, you only think: Good. Let this be over.

I’m so worked up that my hands are trembling a bit, so, clearly, I’m in no condition to work at a pottery shop. Imagine the shards, the precious handiwork mishandled by a shakingly indignant former sad girl.

Instead, I need to focus on me, on my joy, on my goals. I need a Vividay, which is like a holiday, only better. As long as I can think of a good excuse, my mom will let me borrow the car and then I can drive to San Jose. It’s three hours south of here, but I’ll tell her I’m in desperate need of decent shopping. Which is sort of true. San Jose is home to a Vespa store, and that’s what I need right now. I can already feel it, my body pressed into the California wind at forty-five miles an hour and rising, and I’ll wear a scarf around my hair like beautiful women in convertibles in old movies. I’ll drive the one that goes the fastest, so fast that I outrun every dirty memory scattered like litter behind me. I’ll drive it all the way back to Verona Cove, and I will speed past Jonah Daniels, as living proof that sad people can do anything. Living proof that we can ride again, better than before.





CHAPTER TEN

Jonah

I was lying on my bed when my phone rang. My eyes were closed, but I wasn’t asleep or trying to be. After the grocery store disaster, I got my mom home and into her room. Then I sprawled facedown on my bed and tried to think of nothing. I wished my bed could come to life and transport me to another world. Like in kids’ books.