Speechless(189)

                So…so maybe it’s time to make that happen.

                * * *

                I could drive to Kristen’s house with my eyes closed. Of                     course I wouldn’t—hello, dangerous!—but I’ve made the drive so many times before                     that it’s just ingrained in me. Her house is only blocks from mine. Go down                     Patterson, turn left on Woodcliff, third house on the right.

                I sit in the driveway and stare at her house for a while. I                     haven’t been here since New Year’s. Obviously. It’s so big and inviting, the                     hedges perfectly trimmed, Christmas lights still strewn in the tree in the front                     yard. Looking at it, you’d never know what happened here. How much my life                     changed right inside.

                Except that night didn’t change my life. I                     changed it. I have to stop acting like I have no control over these                     things. Like I’m letting them just happen to me. These are my choices. For                     better or worse.

                I ring the doorbell and wait, huddled in the cold, the                     folded-up sweater in my hands. Winter can be over any day now, thanks.

                While I’m waiting, I realize maybe this wasn’t the greatest                     idea. What if Kristen isn’t even home? What if she’s at—oh God—Brendon’s? What                     if—

                Before my thought process can go any further, the door opens                     and it’s Kristen.

                We stand there and stare at each other. She still has bobby                     pins stuck in her hair, some of last night’s makeup on her face and she’s                     wearing a too-big University of Michigan sweatshirt and grubby pajama pants. She                     looks out of her element. Even though she’s standing inside her own home.

                I wait for her to slam the door in my face, but she doesn’t.                     She just looks at me and says, “What do you want?” in this brittle voice, like                     she’s ready to crack.

                It’s so not what I was expecting.

                I extend the sweater toward her. “I found this in my room,” I                     explain. “I wanted to give it back. Sorry I didn’t wash it, I—”

                I stop, aware I’m rambling. It’s not like it matters if I                     washed it or not. Kristen frowns at the pink sweater like she doesn’t know what                     it is. Or if she wants to accept it.