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I’m actually angry.
And it feels good.
I’m still here.
Noah breaks into a chuckle and comes forward, hooking an arm around my neck. “You’ve got spunk.”
I’m too spent to pull away and let him lead me around, walking us both into the house.
“Come on. Help me make breakfast,” he says.
I place the third plate on the table and drop a fork and butter knife next to it, moving to the cabinet to put that fourth plate away.
“No, no,” Noah says, kicking the fridge closed and dumping the butter and jam on the table. “Put the fourth plate down. Kaleb can show up anytime.”
I glance at the table and then turn back to the cabinet, slipping the extra plate back inside. “Kaleb has a plate on the table.”
“You’re not eating?”
“Yes, she is,” Jake suddenly says, walking into the kitchen.
He heads for the fridge and pulls out a pitcher of juice and places it in the center of the table, pouring himself a cup of coffee before he sits.
“I’m not hungry,” I tell him.
Moving to the sink, I rinse off the knife and spatula Noah just finished with.
“You didn’t have dinner,” Jake points outs. “Sit.”
“I’m not hungry.”
And before he says anything else, I stroll out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I feel his eyes on my back, and the farther I go away from them, the more I brace myself for a confrontation.
But he doesn’t chase after me.
He lets me go, and in a moment, I’m in my room, closing the door behind me.
The truth is I’m starving.
Pangs hit my stomach, and the scrambled eggs I made—while Noah was busy burning the bacon—looked amazing.
Luckily Noah didn’t press for much conversation while we were cooking, but if I eat with them, I’ll have to talk to them. I’ll wait until they’re back outside and then scrounge up something.
The green light on my phone flashes from where it lays on the bed, and I walk over and pick it up.
Unlocking the phone, I see my home screen with my email and social media apps, all dog-eared with dozens of notifications. Twitter alone has ninety-nine plus alerts.
A knot tightens in my stomach.
I rarely even use Facebook, Twitter seemed an efficient way to follow the news, and I got Instagram due to peer pressure to keep up with bunk-mates from summer camps whom I no longer remember.
My thumb hovers over Twitter, and I know I shouldn’t look. I’m not ready to face things.
But I tap the app on my screen anyway, the notification feed updating.
Condolences for your loss… says one person.
I scroll through the notifications, some of them direct tweets of sympathies and some of them where I’m tagged in the conversation.
