November 9

I don’t nod again, because he walks away, turning out the lights as he goes.

I stand in the dark for several minutes. Quiet . . . still . . . alone.

I should probably be worried that I’ll get caught. I should probably be upset that from this point forward, I’ll always feel a sense of guilt whenever Kyle looks at me. I should probably be worried that this night—coupled with this morning and finding my mother—will screw me up in some way. If maybe I’ll suffer from PTSD or depression.

But none of that matters.

Because as I run up the stairs, swing open my bathroom door and expel all the contents of my stomach into the toilet, the only thing my thoughts surround is that girl and how I’ve just completely ruined her life.

I drop my forehead to my arm as I sit here with a death grip on porcelain.

I don’t deserve to live.

I don’t deserve to live.

I wonder if my bloodstain will look like Gary Busey.

Fallon

I barely make it to the toilet before I throw up.

Beads of sweat trickle down my forehead.

I can’t do this.

I can’t read anymore.

There’s too much. Too much and it’s too hard and I’m too sick now to keep reading.

I somehow pull myself off the floor and make it to the sink. I wash my hands. I cup them under the stream of water and bring my hands to my mouth, swishing the water around. I do this several times, washing the taste of bile out of my mouth.

I look in the mirror at the scars that run from my cheek to my neck. I pull my shirt off and look at the scars on my arm, my breast, my waist. I run the fingers of my right hand up my arm and neck, over my cheek, and back down again. I run them over my breast and down my waist.

I lean forward until I’m flush against the counter . . . as close to the mirror as I can get. And I really look at them. I look at them with more concentration than I’ve ever looked at them before, because what I’m feeling is confusing me.

It’s the first time I’ve ever looked at them without at least a trace of anger following close behind.

Until I read Ben’s words, I never knew how much I blamed my father for what happened to me. For so long, I’ve hated him. I made it difficult for him to grieve with me over what happened. I found fault in everything he said. Every conversation we had turned into a fight.

I’m not excusing that he can be an insensitive jerk. He’s always been an insensitive jerk. But he’s also always loved me, and now that I have a clearer picture of what happened that night, I shouldn’t blame him for forgetting about me anymore.

I only stayed at his house once a week, and he had just found out someone he loved had died. His mind must have been wrecked. And then for me to expect him to react with perfect precision when he sees his house is on fire is way more than I should expect of him. In a matter of minutes, he was grieving and then angry and then panicking because of the fire. To expect him to immediately remember that I had texted him twelve hours earlier to let him know I was sleeping at his house that night is completely unrealistic. I didn’t live there. It wasn’t like living at home with my mom and me being the first thing she would think about in a panic. My father’s situation was completely different, and I should treat it as such. And even though we’ve kept in touch over the past few years, our relationship isn’t what it used to be. I take half the blame for that. We don’t get to choose our parents, and parents don’t get to choose their children. But we do get to choose how hard we’re willing to work in order to make the best of what we’re given.

I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and open a text to my father.

Me: Hey, Dad. Want to have breakfast tomorrow? Miss you.

After I hit send, I pull my shirt back on and walk back into the living room. I stare down at the manuscript, wondering how much more I’ll be able to endure. It’s so hard to read, I can’t imagine Ben and his brothers having to live through this.

I say a quick prayer for the Kessler boys, as if what I’m reading is happening now and Kyle is even still around to be prayed for.

And then I pick up right where I left off.

Ben’s novel—CHAPTER THREE

Age 16

“Great is the hand that holds dominion over man by a scribbled name.”

—Dylan Thomas

You know what’s worse than the day your mother kills herself?

The day after your mother kills herself.

When a person is in a lot of physical pain—say they accidentally slice off their hand—the human body produces endorphins. These endorphins act similarly to drugs such as morphine or codeine. So it’s normal not to feel very much pain right after an accident.

Emotional pain must work in a similar way, because today hurts so much worse than yesterday did. Yesterday I was in some kind of dreamlike state, as if my conscience wouldn’t fully allow me to believe she was actually gone. In my mind, I was holding on to that thin thread of hope that somehow, the entire day wasn’t really happening.

That thread isn’t there anymore, no matter how hard I try to grasp it.

She’s dead.

And if I had money and connections, I’d numb this pain with whatever drugs I could find.

I refused to get out of bed this morning. Ian and Kyle both tried to fight me into going to the funeral home with them, but I won. I’ve been winning all day, actually.

Eat something, Kyle said at lunch.

I didn’t eat. I won.

Aunt Chele and Uncle Andrew are here, Ian said around two o’clock this afternoon.

But they’re gone now and I’m still in bed, so I won.

Ben, come eat dinner. There’s lots to eat, people have been bringing food by all day, Kyle said when he stuck his head in my bedroom around six o’clock.

But I chose to stay in bed and not touch those sympathetic casseroles, making me the winner yet again.

Talk to me, Ian said.

I’d like to say I won this round, but he’s still sitting on my bed, refusing to leave.

I pull the covers over my head. He pulls them back down. “Ben. If you don’t get out of bed I’ll start overreacting. You don’t want to force me to call a psychiatrist, do you?”

Jesus Fucking Christ!

I sit up in bed and punch the pillow. “Just let me fucking sleep, Ian! Dammit!”

He doesn’t react to the fact that I’m yelling. He just stares at me complacently. “I have been letting you sleep. For almost twenty-four hours now. You need to get out of bed and brush your teeth or shower or eat or something.”