“Just leave. I’m sorry I bothered you,” he says, working his feet until his shoes fall to the floor. He grabs a fistful of his pillow and lifts it over his head until it covers it, like he’s trying to hide.
I know the safe thing to do would be to leave. But I can’t seem to get my body to follow through with my mind’s orders. I’m wavering at the door, watching his back rise and fall with the heavy breaths he’s taking. Eventually, I close the door all the way and slip my own shoes off, kicking them to the corner. I pull my sweater off, too, since the rain nearly soaked through it when I ran outside. I wait at the foot of the bed, unsure of my next move. I know he can sense I’m still here. I see his hands grip at the sheets and squeeze, like he’s holding everything in just for my benefit.
“What did you mean?” I ask, not really knowing where to begin with him. He pushes his pillow from his eyes slowly and squints at me. “Before? What you just said to your mom. About Jim?”
I can’t seem to get myself to repeat it. His words were so harsh, so ugly. And as desperate as I am to understand why he’d lash out at his mother, part of me knows deep down that he was probably telling her the truth. I sit down on the bed and slide myself up to the headboard, closing the distance between us, hoping it will help him open up and slow down his breathing.
We sit there, looking at each other for a full minute before he answers. “Jim’s having an affair…some woman in Chicago. My mom knows all about it; she just lets him get away with it. Says she’s the one who gets the house and all this,” Cody says, rolling to his side and waving his hand in the air.
My heart sinks even more—every new fact I learn about the Appletons drives my opinion of them lower. I’m struggling with Trevor, trying not to paint him with the same disappointment I have for Jim and Shelly. I know it isn’t fair, and I know he doesn’t have the full story. He would be ashamed of his father if he knew everything.
“I’m sorry,” I say, not knowing what else I can say. Cody shrugs and pulls his pillow from above him, stuffing it behind his neck now so he can roll onto his back. I’m unable to avoid the glimpse I get of his bare stomach as his shirt raises up just enough to show the line of his boxers peering out from the top of his jeans. I’m flushed suddenly and start to chew on my fingernails as a distraction. I keep reminding myself I’m here because somewhere along the way I became Cody’s friend—or at least, I’m trying to.
“You and your mom…you seem kind of…distant?” I say, feeling him out.
Cody sighs heavily, rubbing his forehead and staring at his ceiling. His lips open with a breath, the words on the tip of his tongue in several false starts before he finally lets me in.
“My mom didn’t go to my father’s funeral,” he says, his words punching me in the gut. “Before he died, she was more interested in how she could move up in her social circle, and how she could drown her own f**king disappointment in herself with alcohol.”
I don’t know what to say to him. I want to make it better, to suddenly give his mom a cure—to make her be a mother. But I know, probably better than most, that there isn’t a magic pill for this. It’s something people have to decide to be on their own—and some never do.
“I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s okay?” Cody says, his eyes drifting off into a blank stare again. I just nod, focusing on the feeling of my teeth along my fingertips and the inside of my cheek—anything to keep the rising panic and thumping of my heart from overwhelming me.
“So, why were you having a picnic for one out in the first winter storm of the season?” Cody asks, turning all of his attention to me.
I’m no longer able to stop the whishing sounds of blood rushing across my ears. I don’t talk about Mac—ever. I won’t even talk about him with Caroline. And Trevor has learned not to ask. But there’s something about Cody’s directness, the way he peels away my layers, unafraid. I somehow sense that talking about Mac with him will maybe make it hurt less.
“I was visiting my dad,” I say, my voice weak. I can’t believe the sound of the words when I say them—they seem ridiculous, like the fantasies of a little girl. My palms are sweating, and I’m overwhelmed with the same feeling I get when I have to speak in front of a crowd. I slide down the bed, so I’m lying on my back now, too, and I pull the spare pillow to my front, clutching it like a teddy bear. I can feel Cody’s eyes on me. And I can tell he’s waiting for me to become comfortable with the broken parts of me I’m starting to share. It’s the same kind of patience he showed when he took care of my burned arm. It’s disarming.