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After a moment, Nate asks, "Does he know?"
He. Rhys.
"No."
"I see." His disapproving tone surprises me.
"Can you do one more thing for me?"
He seems to understand the seriousness of the second request and simply replies with, "Yes."
"I need to be able to get a message to Rhys and my family."
"Okay." He doesn’t ask why or what. He simply says, "Send me what you want to say from the burner."
Then the line goes dead.
I wrap my arms around my stomach and bend forward. Biting the inside of my cheek, I rock back and forth, letting the tears stream down my face but refusing to make a sound. A metallic taste fills my mouth, and I swallow several times, forcing the coppery taste down my throat. I count to 193 before my body stops shaking and I trust my legs to carry my weight.
Heading back to my room and into the walk-in closet, I move slowly, not to make any sound. I pull out the small duffel bag I stashed in the back of it on the second day after coming home. For some reason, I had a feeling this day would come.
Dropping the bag again, I cover my face with my hands and breathe in slowly. I can still back out. Tell George that I changed my mind.
No. Before I can talk myself out of it, I drop my hands from my face, pick up the bag, and walk back into my bedroom.
The duffel contains everything I need, which is not much. The only thing I add on top of the pile of clothes is the ten-year-old framed photo of Rhys and me from my desk. I can’t bear to leave it behind.
I gingerly pull Rhys’s old hoodie over my head, wincing as the movement makes the healing skin on my back stretch. I slip into my Adidas Superstars and tighten my hand around the handle of the bag. My vision turns blurry once again as I take one last look at the sleeping boy in my bed.
