Page 156 of Suite 7

Marcel’s voice in my head.

Space.

Even though everything in me wants to reach out. To fix this. To hear her voice even if she’s yelling.

I’d take her anger over this silence.

But that’s not what she needs. So I sit with it. The wanting. The ache. The fear that this silence might not be temporary.

Tuesday evening, Vera comes back and finds me still at my desk, staring at a closed laptop.

“Talk to me,” she says, kneeling in front of my chair.

“I miss her.” My voice comes out rough. “I miss my sister. And I can’t do anything about it.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” It comes out sharper than I mean.

Silence. Vera doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull back. Just waits.

“She was your best friend, but she’s my sister. She’s been in my life for thirty years. She’s the only person who remembers when Dad taught us to ride bikes. When Mom burned Thanksgiving dinner that one year. When I broke my arm falling out of that tree and she ran three blocks to get help even though she was only seven.”

My voice breaks. “And I can’t talk to her.”

I keep thinking about that day. Seven years old. And she came back and held my hand the whole time we waited for the ambulance. Didn’t let go once.

And I looked her in the face and lied.

The sound that comes out of me isn’t dignified. My whole body shakes with it, and I stop trying to stop it.

“I know,” Vera says, against my hair. Not it’ll be okay. Not she’ll forgive you. Just I know, which is the only honest thing she can give me and exactly enough.

This is worse than Vanessa. Worse than any of it. Because this time the wreckage has my handwriting all over it.

On Thursday, I break.

Slowly, under the weight of waiting.

I’m in the car. Driving nowhere in particular. I end up outside Sloane’s apartment building.

I don’t remember deciding to come here. Don’t remember the turns I took or the lights I ran. Just: parked across the street. Staring up at her windows.

The lights are off. She’s probably at work.

But I sit there anyway. Engine idling. Hands gripping the steering wheel.

I could go up. Could wait in the hallway until she gets home. Force this conversation before she’s ready.

My hand reaches for the door handle.

She set a boundary. You going there now would be violating it.

Sometimes love means sitting in your own guilt instead of making the other person comfort you through it.

I pull my hand back. Put the car in drive, and leave.

But it takes everything I have.