Wicked Restless

His voice is broken. His spirit…broken. The sound of him is desperate, and I can’t say it isn’t anything different from the feelings within my own heart. But my best friend is staring at me, the smile on her face enormous. And it isn’t even the fact that she thinks Andrew is her one, or that she has deep feelings for him. It’s that she trusts this story we’ve given her, and if she finds out I was part of the lie, she will never smile at me like that again. And that smile—it’s the one that kept my heart beating after I buried my mom.

“If you tell Lindsey the truth, I will never forgive you,” I say, my chest burning as the words leave my mouth. How can the heart want two things that are so very far apart?

“Let’s go, racers,” the announcer calls.

Everyone stands but Andrew and me. I feel his stare burning the side of my face, but I keep my eyes fixed on my friend. I smile at her and raise my hand slowly, my fingers curling. She can’t know anything is wrong.

“You have no idea how important she’s been to me, Andrew. Do not betray me,” I say, feeling his breath shudder from his body. His head slings forward and his hand comes to cup the back of his neck as he nods slowly. My lips hang open, the words right there, waiting to come out. I want to tell him never mind. I want to tell him it will be okay and Lindsey will understand. I want to tell him I’m wrong, that he wouldn’t be betraying me at all. But I can’t. Our time was a few short weeks when we were sixteen. That time—it’s gone. And I have to let him go. He needs to let go too.

“Come on, let’s go win a goddamned gift card,” he says, placing his arm around my shoulder as we stand, our bodies tethered together, his fingers gentle along my shoulder.

We walk in sync to the starting line, and before the man blows the whistle to begin, Andrew’s fingers curl just enough to scratch against the fabric of my sweatshirt until his hand clutches the material into his fist before finally letting go.

He let go.

And I’ve never hurt more.

Chapter 15

Emma, Age 19

The truth is I was waiting for the phone call. I’d been waiting for nearly three years. From the moment both of my parents sat me down and told me Mom had pancreatic cancer, I’d been waiting for this call.

She hadn’t been well for months. Her body just couldn’t fight anymore. The rounds of chemo, the trials, the naturopathy—the prayers; eventually, cancer wins. All we can ask for is comfort and time.

My mother got three years. I should take comfort in that. My father should, too. And maybe one day we will. But for now, I want to be angry with the world.

“Em? You have to eat something,” Lindsey says from the other side of my bedroom door. I’ve lived with her for a year. I’ve known her for only a little more. The way she’s held me up since my dad called three weeks ago with the news that my mother died feels like more years should have been shared between us. She never signed up for this, and I’ve kept most of it to myself. Until…until the phone call that opened up my heart, split my body in two and took away that feeling of safety that comes along with knowing both of your parents are alive and well.

“I did,” I lie, my throat sore and dry. I can’t cry any more—but my mouth hangs open, wanting to. I want to all of the time.

“Em, I have been out there on that sofa all day. I’m binge-watching hot superhero movies. I’m on my fourth one, and you haven’t left this room. I would have known. I’m four feet away from the refrigerator. I would have seen you eat,” she says.

“You missed it; you were in the bathroom when I came out and made a sandwich.” I’m smiling a little. It hurts. This is the first time I’ve smiled in a week. It feels…unnatural.

“I haven’t peed once,” she says.

“Now you’re the one who’s lying,” I laugh. The sound of that hurts my chest.

“Ha, see! I knew you were lying,” she says, pointing a finger at me as she opens my door. I let my smile remain so she can see it; she’s earned this one. Hers falls though when she sees me. I know I look bad. And I’m sure…oh man, I’m pretty sure I smell bad. I haven’t really moved a lot lately. I’ve gotten most of my homework through home study and got a medical withdrawal from my language class. I picked German. I think I’m switching to Spanish the next time around. There’s one silver lining to this cloud of shit—I was failing German. “And for the record, I wasn’t lying,” Lindsey continues. “I really haven’t peed in eight hours—two Chris Evans movies in a row. You know how I feel about Captain America.”