Page 48

I slow as I pass the corner store where Dad used to buy me blue raspberry slushies. For a second, I can see him standing just inside the door, holding two enormous drinks and pretending they’re both for him until I whine and he hands me mine.

One blink, and he’s gone.

By the time our street comes into view, my legs ache, and I desperately need a drink.

Mom’s car sits in front of our duplex, but Wade’s truck is nowhere in sight.

Because he’s dead, my mind helpfully supplies.

As if I could forget.

The curtains in Mom’s room are drawn, but our upstairs neighbor’s aren’t, and I catch a glimpse of him watering the plants on his windowsill.

There’s nothing ominous, nothing unfamiliar, but I still hesitate to cross the street.

I stand there long enough that someone could reasonably think I’m casing my own house.

Then a whiff of cigarette smoke drifts past, and I turn to see a man in a parked car several houses down, an ember glowing in his hand.

He’s watching me, I’m sure of it, so I quickly look away. I try to remind myself that people are allowed to sit in parked cars, and even if he is watching me, it’s probably just because I’m a moving object in his field of vision.

That still doesn’t keep my skin from crawling, though.

I force myself to cross, my steps fast, my head down.

I can feel the man behind me.

Not literally, because I don’t know whether he’s even looking, but the space between my shoulder blades prickles as though there’s a target painted there.

My hands shake as I unlock the front door, frantically close it behind me, and lock the deadbolt. My shoulders press back against the wood as I stand there, breathing heavily.

“You gonna stand there all fucking day?” Mom’s voice comes from the living room.

I push off from the door, willing my hands to cease shaking so she doesn’t notice. “No, sorry.”

She’s sprawled across the couch in leggings and one of Wade’s T-shirts, scrolling her phone. Seeing it racks me with both grief and guilt.

Mom looks up, sneering at me. “What?”

“Nothing,” I answer, hanging my coat on the hook beside the door.

“You’re staring again.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” She stands from the couch and narrows her eyes as she looks me up and down. “What’s wrong with you lately?”

Nothing.

Everything.

“I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

I slip off my shoes. “It was a busy shift today.”

“Yeah, well, everyone gets tired from working. You have it easy in that little grocery store. Think about the people out there doing real work, and how tired they must feel getting home.”