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Thank God.
“You use my bathroom, I’ll use the one in the hall.”
And with that, I quickly make my exit, before he can stop me.
I just need a fucking moment.
In the bathroom, I quickly peel off my damp clothes, wrinkling my nose at the musty scent, and the way the tight denim chafes sliding down my legs. The chill brings goosebumps to my flesh, and I quickly shove my legs in black joggers that cinch around the ankles.
Shirtless, I brush my teeth and finger-comb my hair. I avoid meeting my gaze in the mirror, instead focusing on the minty paste foaming around my lips, and the tendons standing out glaringly bright from my neck.
When I’m done and I’ve washed my face, I roll on some deodorant, since I’m pretty sure I forgot to put some on earlier. Not that Mason would probably even notice or probably care if I stunk, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.
Tugging the clean shirt over my head, I curve an arm around my face, muffling a yawn. Awareness prickles along the back of my scalp as that searing pain from downstairs gives a pathetic little throb, reminding me it’s still there, even if it’s retreated to the background for the moment. Pacing like a caged tiger, hovering, waiting for a crack in the wall of ice encasing me.
Figuring I’ve stalled long enough, I grab my damp, discarded clothes, and bundle them in my arms to throw in the hamper. Flicking off the light, I step into the hall, and spare one long glance in the direction of my parents’ room at the end.
The door’s closed, as it always is anymore.
It’s dark inside, so I hope that means Mom’s sleeping. Unable to help myself, my ears strain, searching for any sign of life inside. Sometimes late at night, I hear her crying. Sometimes she’s praying. Sometimes she’s humming, just like Izzy always did when she was obsessing over some piano piece.
Maybe like Dad’s forums, music is Mom’s way of looking for her. Like maybe her whereabouts could be found buried somewhere in the melody, if only she could decipher what it is playing in her mind.
Shaking off the ridiculous thought, I rap my knuckles softly against my door. No response. I inhale deeply, and gently turn the knob, pushing it open.
At first I don’t see him. Like before, when he was standing there, he’s utterly still. Only now he’s not standing, but sitting on the edge of my bed. And he’s staring down at something cupped in his hands.
He’s changed, and I realize I never gave him any socks.
Before I can ask if he wants a pair, he says, “You still have it.”
I frown, closing the door behind me with a soft click.
Taking a step toward him, I follow his gaze down to where he strokes his thumb over a familiar gaudy ring laid out flat across his palm, the silver chain I put it on hanging from where it’s curled around his fingers.
My steps falter, the breath momentarily leaving me.
I open my mouth, only for nothing to come out.
Pale blue eyes lift up to my face, shining like little pained beacons. “You kept it.”
My swallow goes down like a jagged rock. I manage a short nod.
His face bunches and he shakes his head, his gaze dipping down to my neck. “It’s your birthday.”
I nod.
“It’s your birthday,” he says again, more desperately this time, and his hand trembles, the chain swinging.
He doesn’t say it, but I hear it nonetheless, woven within each pained syllable:
Too.
It’s your birthday too.
I shrug a shoulder, and finally get my feet to move.
He drops his gaze back to the ring and clenches it in his fist. His eyes are squeezed tight, half-hidden by the light brown curls falling over his face. “I’m sorry.” His voice is no louder than a whisper, breaking off completely before he even fully gets the words out.
