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“Nicole has class that afternoon.” Once again, David jumps to her rescue and hangs me out to fry. “We’ll meet you inside the gates.” Turning, he heads toward his car.
Coley gets into the Mustang with me.
I drive in silence behind David’s sedan to the entrance where he passes his access card through the small guardhouse window.
“Cancel the Realtor.” Coley’s small voice draws my gaze.
I grip the gearshift. “It’s not like I want to sell.” Our house in Highland Park is the only real home I have. The North Carolina condo I share with guys from the show doesn’t count. It’s a frat house minus the college education.
She picks at ragged fingernails that used to be perfectly painted. “Then don’t,” she says, as if any of this is a choice either of us gets to make.
Coley sounds so much like Mom, I’m sucked back to the gritty replay of the day we brought her here. The day we left her here.
The wild panic that flooded her eyes still shoots adrenaline through my veins, her screams pierce my ears, and the claw marks she gouged down my arm sting—every single second of that day carved into my memory in angry, puckered scars. Shaking my head in a silentno, No, NO,I shift into reverse and back the Mustang into the street.
“Don’t do this to me.” The anxiety in Coley’s voice scrapes my skin like razor blades.
I rev the engine and focus on the floor, her sandals, the flowery design of her dress. Everything and anything but her eyes. “I’m not ready.”
“Do you think I was ready?” Instead of yelling, which would be so much better, she’s crying. “Do you think I want to see Mom like this?” Mascara streaks down her cheeks. “She’s not even supposed to be here.”
“I’m sorry.” That Momishere, that Coley can go inside when I can’t, that it’s a crapshoot that even if I force myself through those gates that Mom and I will be able to have a conversation.
Coley touches my hand, her fingers trembling. “I can’t do this alone anymore.”
That semi rolling over my chest doubles its cargo. Triples its weight. I want to be there for her. I do. But when I think about what happened the last time I saw Mom...
I.
Can’t.
Breathe.
Reaching across Coley, I push open her door, then slump into my seat. “I’m sorry,” I say again.
“Then I’m sorry too.” She stumbles out of the car, shaking so much her legs look seconds from giving out. “Don’t call me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t come see me.” Tears track down her face. “Not until you see Mom.”
“Coley—”
“I mean it.”
The ache in her eyes presses those razor blades deep. “Don’t do this. I need you.”
“And I needed you.” She wraps her arms around her almost nonexistent waist. “Be there for me, or I can’t be there for you.”
Her ultimatum locks my lungs. When I finally take in air, it burns worse than my last escape—a giant-ass bottle of Fireball.
I wait until my sister reaches the sidewalk and clears the car. Then I pop the Mustang into gear, fishtail hard enough to swing the passenger door shut, and race down the street, Coley’s mandate and memories of Mom the way she used to be chasing me long after I check into the hotel.
chapter 3
Jess
I’m the only junior in senior physics. Guess who sits across the row? I wore my red, off-the-shoulder shirt today. Allie said T looked, but his eyes didn’t leave my face!!! Figuring him out gave me something else to think about when Dad blew up at dinner, and Mom threw our food into the garbage along with the plates.
~ from the diary of Elizabeth Sara Thorne (age16)
IfFake It to Make Itwere a class, I’d be getting an F. My failure litters my hotel room bed. Six dresses. Four skirts. Nine shirts. Three hours of my Monday morning wasted.
