Page 71

“But—”

“Then there’s taxes, Kamden. Insurance. Credit cards. Wade left me hanging.”

“Wade is dead!” The words fly out before I can stop them. Silence hits us like a physical blow. Mom’s pupils shrink. My breath catches in my throat. No. Oh God, no.

Her face slowly reshapes itself, like a mask tightening. “What?”

I shake my head, lips trembling. “No—”

Her gaze bores into me. “What did you just say?”

“I didn’t—”

“You said Wade is dead.”

My heart hammers against my ribs. My vision blurs with hot tears. Think. “I meant he might as well be.”

“He left.”

“I know.”

“So why’d you say dead?”

The words hiccup out. “I don’t know.” My knees feel wobbly; I glance at the floor, willing gravity to steady me. My fists clench and unclench at my sides, skin splitting under my nails. I brace for her to press harder—tear me down like she tore down Dad’s memory—but she only scoffs.

“You’re fucking weird lately.” She pivots and strides away. “Whatever. I’m not arguing about this anymore.”

Her footsteps thunder down the hall, each thud a punch to my chest. Then I hear the muted click of the TV turning on and the harsh voices from whatever reality TV show that’s on.

That’s it.

I lower myself to the floor, back against the bed’s edge. The empty shoebox sits by my leg, its lid discarded like my trust.

I look down at my hands—palms up, unmoving—and realize I can’t feel them. My tears stop, not because I’m okay, but because everything inside has gone numb.

Minutes slip by—or maybe hours; time doesn’t matter. The future I’d been building, inch by inch, has collapsed. That fact should feel catastrophic, but I feel nothing. The emptiness terrifies me more than yelling at Mom did.

My eyes drift to the closet. Dad’s tote box rests beneath folded blankets. Without thinking, I push to my feet, cross the room, and fling the door completely open. On top of the box sits the ragged old rabbit Dad gave me, his fur matted and belly threadbare and scruffy.

I lift him up and press his worn fur to my cheek; it’s the same comforting weight it was when I was little, yet different—hollowed out by years of longing. As my fingers close around his floppy ear, a spark flickers inside me.

I can’t stay here any longer.

Gingerly, I trace the delicate seam I stitched along his back years ago. My thumbnail catches on the frayed threads, and I pull it open. A stack of bills, folded just so, greets me—$182.

The Kammie fund.

Pretty clothes, lace, skirts—all the things I promised myself I could buy after I finally got out.

I stare at the bills, then shove them into my pocket.

I grab Dad’s box, full of the pieces of him Mom couldn’t destroy because I hid them.

I tuck the rabbit under one arm, box firm against my ribs, and leave. I don’t pack clothes, toiletries, anything—I don’t think. If I think, I might stay.

In the living room, Mom lounges on the sagging couch, the TV’s glow reflecting in her eyes as she glances up at me, frowning. “Where’re you going?”

I keep walking.