All This Time(25)

I want to tell him that it’s not that simple.

“All right,” I say instead, agreeing with him. I can’t lose him, too. “Come on.” I fix a smile on my face and nod to the track. “These laps aren’t going to run themselves.”



* * *




Later, in the shower, it happens again. In the streaming water, I’m brought back to the drenching downpour the night of the accident. I see Kimberly’s face right in front of me, like in the parking lot at the hotel, her hair soaked completely through.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and when I open them, she’s gone. But the memory of that night lingers.

When I step out of the shower and wipe the steam from the bathroom mirror, I flash back again to the car, to my hand rubbing the fog from the windshield.

Chill out. It’s not really happening.

I say it over and over until the pain in my head subsides, just like Dr. Benefield told me to. I push back my long hair to see my scar in the mirror, the skin healing nicely, the color still a fragile pink. I trace it, trying to convince myself that the brain and the heart aren’t like skin. They take a little longer to heal.

But it won’t ever heal if I keep thinking what I’m seeing is real. I think about my conversation with Marley. How for the first time in months I was able to talk about Kim. The real Kim, not what my broken brain keeps conjuring. So how can I get my brain to stay on the real Kim instead of imagining her ghost around every corner? My reflection doesn’t have an answer for me.

I know one thing I can fix, though.

I tug at my hair. Time for a haircut. I look like I’m about to be cast in some kind of Revolutionary War reenactment as George Washington’s cousin.

Now, that would be a nightmare.





13


Marley leans in closer to me, studying the scar, a full three days after my last vision and my first haircut in three months. It’s super visible now, and as she leans forward, I try to distract myself by staring at the grass, or the trees, or the people out for a stroll around the park. Then… she reaches up to touch it, her fingertips barely skimming my skin. She does it so gently that it leaves behind an electric feeling.

It feels strange, like my body is waking up.

“What happened?” She pulls her hand away, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath this whole time.

“I don’t tell sad stories,” I say, teasing her.

She raises her eyebrows, challenging me. “Oh, is that how this works? I give, then you give?”

I pause, realizing that that’s 100 percent not how I want this to work. I want to tell her. About the accident. About Kim. She’s the first person I’ve wanted to talk to about any of it.

“I guess…,” I say, shifting my position to rest my back against the cherry tree, my voice trailing off. “I just don’t really tell stories.”

“Yes, you do. We all do,” Marley says as she crosses her legs underneath her. “We’re telling a story right now. Deciding how to be, what to say, what to do.” She pushes her hair behind her ear. “That’s… telling a story.”

“That’s living.”

“Okay, so someone’s life story isn’t really a story?”

She has me there and she knows it.

“Can you stop being right?” I ask her, because it sure as hell seems she’s been right about nearly everything. “Please?”

She rolls her eyes and nudges me, a faint red appearing on her cheeks. “You know the best thing about telling stories?” she asks.

I shake my head, my eyes still on the flush of her cheeks.

“The audience,” she says. “Without an audience, a storyteller is just talking to the air, but when someone’s listening…”

“Ah,” I say. “So you’re saying you’re a good listener.”

She tilts her head and shrugs like it’s a no-brainer. “I am. And I’d love to hear your story. If you want to tell me.”

For the first time, I think maybe I can.

“God.” I exhale, trying to find a good jumping-off point. “Where do I even start?”

“Start at the beginning,” she says as she leans back against the tree, her shoulder brushing mine.

I give her a look. The beginning? Does she want to be here until Christmas? Though I guess I don’t really have any plans between now and then.

“Okay,” she says, arching an eyebrow. “How about the middle? Two-thirds?”

I laugh, trying to think of a good place. The right place. “How about…?” I say, picturing the way Kimberly’s lower lip would jut out when she wanted something from me. “How about I start with Kim?”

So I tell her. About the two of us fighting over the same swing at recess and Sam giving up his so we’d stop fighting. About getting up the nerve to write “I U” in her diary in middle school. I tell her about how Kim and I would ditch school on our anniversary every year and take a small road trip to a surprise location she chose in advance. The beach, the aquarium, a national park. She’d always pack the best snacks and put together the perfect playlist for the drive.

All the firsts. All the plans. All the little fights and makeups.

“I mean, we were perfect. I know we were a cliché—head cheerleader and the quarterback. But we were the couple everyone wanted to be.” I look out at the fallen cherry blossoms scattered around us in the grass. “And even when we weren’t, after my shoulder got wrecked, everything was okay because I still had Kim.”