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I walked back toward Monroe’s car and let the darkness slide over me.
Chapter Eleven
Monroe
I dreamt about Malcolm, which was something I hadn’t done in months.
And sure, I should have seen it coming after my hospital visit—I didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to know it would trigger all the bad things I’d been trying to forget—but still…I wasn’t ready.
I wasn’t ready to see his wavy blond hair touching tanned skin, or that one long piece that always fell over his eyebrow. I wasn’t ready for the freckles along the bridge of his nose, so light they appeared to be sprinkles of cinnamon. Or his long lashes and the way they licked the tops of his cheeks when his eyes were closed. It hurt to see his dimple, the birthmark just under his collarbone, and the way it felt as if I was his entire world when he looked at me.
I wasn’t ready for any of it, and that’s why I woke up with screams in my throat, wiping sweat from my brow, my teeth clenched so tightly I was sure I’d ground them down another layer.
The ache in my heart felt like it was crushing me from the inside out, and for a few moments, I lay there shaking, sobbing quietly. I stuffed my fist into my mouth because it was late, or rather it was early in the morning, and I didn’t want to wake Gram.
She didn’t need to see me like this. Weak and broken. I knew she had hope. Hope that I’d come out of this summer ahead, maybe partway whole.
I also knew that her hope was false, but I didn’t want to crush it.
The panic, though, was real, and I knew the drill, so I counted backward, starting at twenty. I had to do
it more than once or twice even, and when I was finally calm—when the breath didn’t catch in my chest and the pain had eased up a bit—sunlight was creeping into my room.
But it was hours before I left it.
***
“Monroe, have you talked to your parents today?”
We were on the porch, and I had just sat down beside Gram, sliding my feet beneath me as I curled into the white wicker chair. I stared down at my pink-and-white checker pajama shorts, noticing syrup had dripped from my morning pancakes onto the white T-shirt. I scraped it off with my finger, sucked it from the tip, and waited a few seconds to answer. Not because it was a trick question or anything, but because I hadn’t called home and I didn’t particularly want to call home, and I knew Gram was going to make me.
I focused on the honeysuckle climbing the trellis at the side of the house and the bees buzzing among them.
“I tried earlier but got Mom’s voicemail, so I left a message.” The white lie slipped out and I kept my gaze on the honeysuckle.
Gram’s eyes rested on me for a few seconds, and I knew she wasn’t fooled. “Well, if she hasn’t returned your call in a few hours, try again. I know your mother doesn’t always check her voicemail. You’ve been here over a week now. You need to talk to them. They’ll worry.”
“I emailed Mom yesterday.”
“Bah,” Gram said. “That email will be the death of society as we know it. It’s not the same, Monroe.”
“I know,” I mumbled. “I’ll call them tonight.”
The truth of it was, talking to my parents was hard. So freaking hard. And right now, I liked not having anything hard in my day-to-day business. I hadn’t realized how difficult it was for me to breathe in New York until I’d come to Louisiana.
“So,” I said, chewing on my bottom lip, “Nate told me about Trevor.”
I didn’t volunteer that we had actually gone to the hospital—I figured that wasn’t mine to share—but I was curious to see what Gram would say.
She settled back in her wicker chair, sipped her tea, and said, “Good, that boy needs to talk to someone. What happened that night was an awful shame, but it’s in the past.” She glanced at me sharply. “And the past can’t be undone, but we can surely do our best to move forward and learn from our mistakes.”
My cheeks smarted at her meaning because I knew she was talking about me as well. I tucked a long piece of hair behind my ear and tried to think of something else besides the pathetic past I’d left in New York.
“Nathan’s a good boy who made a bad decision, but he’ll be fine. He’s just hit a rough patch.”
Huh. I thought of the scene I’d witnessed the night before, and in my mind, Nathan Everets had hit more than just a rough patch.
For a moment, the only sound I heard was the faraway drone of a plane crossing the sky above me. I glanced up and saw a trail of white cotton, but I couldn’t see its source. The sun was too bright. Too hot.
