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Now it's time to lie in it.
Light peeks through the dark curtains. First a deep shade of blue. Then lighter. Some mix of red, pink, and orange. Then enough to keep the stars from shining.
I give up on sleep and crawl out of bed.
All the downstairs lights are on. Brendon is on the couch in his jeans and t-shirt, his head on a pillow, his eyes closed. A bright, colorful infomercial flashes on the TV. Some sponge. It's a happy face that makes it easier to clean. So you can drag happiness over dirt until it's as grimy as everything else.
I let him sleep. Brush my teeth. Wash my face. Shower. The water is hot, but I don't feel it. The release of last night is gone. It keeps replaying through my head.
Emma is never going to forgive you.
I press my eyelids together, tilt my head back to rinse my hair. Water streams down my face, off my chin. Still it screams in my head.
Emma isn't going to forgive you. And whatever's happening with Grandma—you're going to have to get through that alone.
I know I have my parents.
But I still can't get over them keeping this from me. And I know how awful it feels—someone keeping a secret to protect you. Only I don't know the reality. I don't know how much of their words are sugar coating and how much are straight up lies.
I guess it runs in the Hart family.
After I towel dry, I finish packing. There. That's everything. Meds. Clothes. Kindle. Laptop. Toiletries. It's still hot here. But what about in New Jersey? I check the weather report, pack a few sweaters just in case.
I find my phone and text Emma for the hundredth time.
Kaylee: I'm sorry. Can we talk? Please.
Nothing.
I stare until my eyes are dry.
Nothing.
It's still early. She's probably not even up. Brendon's here. That must mean she's still at Walkers. That she's still okay.
It means more. I don't know. My head is fuzzy. Full. My thoughts are going in circles. They're fast but they're slow. I need sleep. And tea. In that order.
It's not an option.
I lug my stuff downstairs and put the kettle on.
Brendon stirs. I can't see him from here but I can hear him.
"Fuck. What time is it?" he asks.
"Early." I grab a mug from the cabinet. The one I made at that paint it yourself pottery place. With Emma. A million years ago. It has a mermaid on it. Well, it's supposed to be a mermaid. It looks more like a blur of beige, green, purple, and red on a blue background. "You can go back to sleep."
"No. We should go soon. There's always traffic."
That's true enough. I stare at the shiny silver kettle, willing it to work faster. I need comfort. Tea. And his arms around me. But when I open my lips to request it, I can't force any words out.
"I better get ready."
"Okay. You want coffee?"
"Thanks." His footsteps move closer. Closer. He steps into the kitchen, wraps his arms around me, pulls my body against his. "I'm sorry, Kay. This is my fault."
No. It's not. He said no. He said this couldn't happen. And I begged him.
