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This light forms in Martha’s eyes and air rushes out of my lungs when she rams her body into mine, both arms glued around me. “I love you, Jonah.”
I still, and I don’t like the surge of guilt crawling into my bloodstream. She tells me she loves me while I say nothing about her standing in front of an oncoming train because she’s worshipping the worst guy at school.
This affection thing—Martha and I don’t do it. Screw that. I don’t do affection with anyone. Girls I used to date would get pissed because I wouldn’t hug or kiss them in public. Even Mom and Dad have caught on that I won’t hold hands during prayers at church.
I lay my fingers on her shoulder to try to detach her from me, but she squeezes tighter.
“When the police showed at the house that night and said there had been an accident, I freaked. I thought...” her voice breaks. “I thought they were coming to tell us you were dead and I didn’t want that. I realized I didn’t want that.”
My eyes slam shut. I didn’t die that night. James Cohen did and somewhere he probably has a sister who can’t hug him. He’d hug her. Maybe he wasn’t the kind of guy who did before, but if he was here, he would now.
I wrap one arm around her and awkwardly hug her back. We’ve never done this before and while I should be grateful for it, I’m ready to be done.
I clear my throat. “Let’s go eat.”
We enter the kitchen through the garage and sweat breaks out along my hairline at the amount of people in the kitchen. I don’t usually have this type of reaction and I rub at my neck in an effort to force it away.
It’s my parents and my friends. More than Todd, Jeff, Brad and Cooper. Other guys I’ve hung with over the years are here, too. A couple of guys from Todd’s basketball team. A couple from Jeff’s football team. A few girls are mixed in. Some are girlfriends of the guys. Some people I’ve known since kindergarten. Crap—two exes skulk along the periphery. All of them are people I have spent time with, but not people I prefer to see today.
Or even tomorrow.
My mind jumps back to Stella, the cemetery and the brief few minutes of peace I had while sitting under the shade tree next to a dead girl named Lydia. I’d give everything to have those moments now.
Martha grabs my hand and shoots me a weird look, possibly because of the clammy condition of my skin. Instead of acknowledging it, she smiles and announces to the crowd, “He’s here!”
And they clap. All of them. Some shout my name. I step back and a hand slamming ont
o my shoulder blade keeps me from withdrawing into the garage. I spot Dad behind me. He’s the older spitting image of me, and he’s smiling from ear to ear. He pats me on the shoulder again. “You should have told us.”
“Told you?” I echo.
He holds balloons and they bob as he yanks them through the door. Then I notice the other helium balloons in the kitchen and the sign hanging from the archway into the dining room: We love you, Jonah!
I run a hand over my face. “It’s not my birthday.”
“Duh,” says Martha as she finally lets go of me and wanders over to Cooper. He cups his hands over his mouth and shouts my name, which brings on another round of applause. The sound thunders in my head like I’m being trampled in the middle of a stampede.
A wave of dizziness crashes into my head and it takes everything I have not to bend over and hold myself up by pressing my hands to my knees. What the hell is going on?
In her Sunday best, Mom walks through the crowded kitchen with a huge smile on her face. The type she reserves for the priest after service or for Martha when she gets straight As. “We are so proud of you, Jonah.”
“Proud?” It’s like I’ve morphed into a parrot, only able to repeat what’s been said.
Mom tosses her black hair over her shoulder before looping her arm through mine. She’s gesturing to someone I never wanted to meet again: a woman, mid-twenties, with golden hair in two thick braids. She abandoned James Cohen and me after she said the sight of blood made her queasy. Seeing her again makes me want to vomit.
She shifts under my glare and a refined woman with her hair slicked back into a bun whispers something to her.
“Who’s that?” I jerk my thumb toward the woman in the business suit.
“That’s Mrs. Sawyer. She’s a reporter,” answers Mom. “And you know the other woman, Sonya. She told us what happened at the accident scene. And she also told Mrs. Sawyer. They think, like we all do, that what you did that night was inspiring. The world should know what a great man you’ve become.”
Another round of cheers drain the blood from my body. I look down expecting to see a puddle of red on the floor.
“Everyone knows?” I whisper, but my mortification is easy to hear.
Mom’s eyebrows pull together. “Yes. Is that a problem?”
The world circles and I push past Dad and suck in air the moment I hit the garage. I grab on to the tool bench and sag, hoping this is a dream. I can’t do it. I can’t go in and discuss James Cohen. I can’t talk about how I did what he asked when no one else would—how I held the hand of a man and talked to him while he bled to death.
