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e home.
Even though my feet are throbbing, I don't move. "I'd rather stand."
"Please, honey." Mom motions to the dining chair. "How about I put on some tea?"
She's nervous. Scared. Which means it's bad.
I don't want to make it harder for her.
But my feet refuse to move toward the table.
I'm not ready for a blow. Any kind of blow. Things are finally good. College starts in a few weeks. I've got my school schedule and my work schedule ironed out. I've got a nice chunk of change in my savings account.
And I'm healthy enough I'm not thinking about how I'm healthy every three minutes.
Mom moves into the kitchen and turns on the electric kettle. She's the person who got me into tea. We still spend afternoons lingering in tea shops together, talking about books and movies and clothes and boys.
Or we did. Until last year.
My parents don't know much, really. Only that I wanted to see a shrink. But that's enough they treat me differently. Like I need to be handled carefully.
Like right now.
Mom fills the tea maker with four scoops of vanilla black. My favorite. Brendon never let me forget my favorite is vanilla.
Dad looks up at me with a sad smile. His hazel eyes are as streaked with regret as Mom's are.
This is something awful.
I tap my toes together. Then my heels. My non-skid shoes are special order Converse knock-offs. They're actually approaching fashionable.
They're a lot more comforting than the looks on my parents' faces.
I continue staring at my scuffed black shoes.
Mom strains the tea into two cups and brings both to the table. She lets out a heavy sigh as she takes her seat.
Again, she motions to the chair opposite hers.
This time, I sit.
I press my knees together.
My toes. My inner feet. My heels.
My shoes are still worn in all the same places.
"Kaylee, Grandma, she isn't doing well. Mike, I mean your dad, had an opportunity to take a promotion that will put us back in New Jersey." Mom's voice is steady, like she's talking about the taste of the tea and not our lives uprooting. "He's taking it."
I continue staring at my shoes.
"We talked to the Kanes."
Does she really see Brendon as another parent enough to call him by his last name? When we first moved here, and Emma and I became instant friends, she used to complain about him being a bad influence. That was before the accident. Before he became Emma's dad as much as her brother.
Still, he’s only twenty-six.
That’s young.
