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No moreRachel.
Fuck.
I clench my jaw, swallowing hard, refusing to give in to the stinging in my eyes. If I start crying now, I’ll likely cry forever. I won’t be able to stop. I’ll drown in my sorrow, and my friend won’t be here to drag me out of my depression.
Staring down at my worn leather ankle boots, I try not to think about Rachel. I try not to think about anything at all.
“Jesus, Sorrell. I can’t tell if the black cloud hanging over your head is just normal Washington weather or if you manifested it with your crappy mood.” Gaynor thrusts a to-go cup at me, steam rising out of the little hole in the plastic lid; the coffee she’s procured for me is piping hot but I don’t give a fuck. I take a giant swig and embrace the pain of the searing hot liquid, scalding my tongue and throat. It hurts like a bitch, but this is a quantifiable sort of pain. My mouth is burned because I gulped down extremely hot coffee. Great. Makes total sense. I’ve experienced this kind of pain before. I know approximately how long it will last for. I know that I shouldn’t suffer any serious lasting damage, and by tomorrow I’ll probably have forgotten all about it.
This other pain I’m experiencing—the pain of losing my friend—is new. I can’t quantify it. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t know when orifit will go away, or if it will leave me unscathed. I feel like I’m being crushed to death by it. That any second I won’t be able to stand the awful pressure and I’ll succumb to it, and that will be the end of Sorrell Voss.
Frowning, Gaynortsks at me, slapping a hand at my boots, wordlessly requesting that I remove my shitkickers from her fender. She rolls her eyes, giving up, when I blatantly ignore her, though. Sighing, she hops up beside me onto the hood of the car, positioning herself next to me, then takes a sip of her own coffee. She’s a tiny woman. The top of her sandy blonde head barely grazes the top of my shoulder. She looks like she’s being slowly eaten by the puffy, two-sizes-too-big blue coat that she’s wearing. The woman’s mascara is always a little smudged, always a little clumped together. In her late forties, she normally looks good for her age, but the grim, overcast day today makes her look washed out, her skin pallid.
“You look like shit,” I tell her pleasantly.
Her response is immediate. “Cheeky mare! You’re one to talk. You look like Casper the not-so-friendly ghost. Your face is the color of curdled milk. Your hair’s too black. You should get some highlights or something. Soften it up a bit. You look like you’ve gone full dark side. What color would your light saber be if you were a Jedi?”
“What do you think?” I ask, laughing.
“Red!” she replies. “It’d bered!Sith Lord in the making. Where the hell’s your tan, huh? You spent enough time at the beach this summer.”
My smile fades at the mention of the beach.
Life is an obstacle course these days. One minute I’m doing really well, navigating the challenges I’m presented with. I’ve jumped the gap. Grabbed the rope. Swung across the water. Scrambled up the vertical wall. And then someone says something small and inane that shouldn’t matter, and I’m falling flat on my face. The rope is ripping through my bare hands. I’m falling into deep and treacherous water.
I spent the summer at the beach with Rachel.
I will never spend a summer at the beach with her again.
Gaynor notices me deflate and shrinks in on herself a little with me. “You’ve seen him, then, I take it,” she says.
I know whichhimshe’s referring to, naturally. I clear my throat. “Yeah.” My voice cracks. I clear my throat again. “Yes.” I say it more firmly this time. “I studied the file Ruth put together before we left. He looks like a real piece of shit.”
Gaynor chuckles, hiding her face in her own coffee cup. She stops laughing pretty quickly, covering her mouth with her hand. “Ohhh. Ahh! Ow! Hot, hot, hot!”
She’ll live. I squint at her a little. “What? What’s funny?”
She grimaces, eyes watering. “Well, he’s not too bad to look at, is he? Very handsome. Rich. Plays the violin—”
“Cello,” I say, correcting her.
She rolls her eyes again. “He’s on the lacrosse team. He was voted most popular kid in the school or something—”
“No, he wasn’t,” I scoff.
Gaynor shoots me an annoyed sidelong look. “Whatever. He’s one of the popular ones. Privileged. People like Theo Merchant don’t take too kindly to strangers fucking with them and causing trouble—”
I sip my coffee, not tasting it, my tongue far too scorched. “I’m not gonna cause trouble. I’m gonna be very, very nice—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. And then you’re going to poison him in his sleep or something?”
I shrug noncommittally. “Haven’t decided yet.”
“Well, don’t expect me to come visit you in prison, sweetheart. Not up here anyway. Too cold,” she grumbles, hiding her chin inside the collar of her jacket. “If you do plan on murdering him, at least do it back in California. San Quentin’s no fun but at least it’ll be warmer—”
“San Quentin’s a men’s prison,” I tell her. “And you’re forgetting something.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
