This…this…has to happen. My only hope is somehow, in the end, she’ll come through her broken heart completely. And still want me.
I watch her wheel her luggage down the hall, and I stand several feet away from her in the foyer, just watching her pull her jacket tight from the chill. I would give anything to be able to close this gap, to put my arms around her and let her cry on me for hours. But I’m not the one she needs right now. And unfortunately, the person she does, is gone—forever.
Chapter 29
Rowe
Flying angry makes flying easier, too. Maybe it was because I hadn’t slept much, or because it was six in the morning when my plane took off. Whatever the reason, I barely even registered the five hours it took me to get to Phoenix from Baton Rouge. I charged the American Airlines ticket, and it was pricey. And my parents would pay it. They owe me that much.
I was ready to walk through this door and rip into them. I pushed my key in, my face showing everything I’m feeling. But then nobody was home, so I started looking around, and all of my verve completely deflated.
Boxes take up places where furniture used to sit. The walls are empty, dust and dirt on the walls outlining places that used to showcase family photos. Even the simple things are strange—like the fact that the cord from the lamp that used to sit behind our sofa is no longer taped along the floor to the other side of the wall. Everything—everything—is gone.
I take a trip upstairs, because I like torturing myself. It feels good, takes away the other things I’m trying not to let simmer to the top of my mind. I’ll be angry about this instead. My room is nothing more than a pile of boxes, stacked neatly in the middle, and labeled “North Room 2.” My parents’ room is pretty much the same, except there’s a tattered looking air mattress with a few rumpled blankets sitting in the middle of the room. The move, it seems, is happening very soon.
“Hello?” my mother’s voice calls from downstairs, and my heart starts thumping fast again, my hands naturally forming into angry fists.
“Rowe? Are you here?” my father calls out now, and I exit their room, charging down the stairs. “Oh, honey. You’re home,” he says, opening his arms, expecting me to hug him. I can’t come near him—I can’t come near anyone!
“What were you thinking?” I growl, rushing beyond their reach to the foyer, where my bags are still dropped by the door.
“Nate called us, told us you were coming home.” My dad’s voice is calm, and I don’t know why, but it only makes me angrier. I don’t like being coddled. This is coddling.
“Stop it! Just…just stop this! Both of you! Quit pretending this…this…is normal!” I shout, turning slowly in a circle, my hands gesturing to the packed house and the darkness that seems to be settled everywhere. “None of this is normal! And I don’t need you to feed me make-believe!”
“I told you. But you wouldn’t listen,” my mother says under her breath, walking away from my father and pushing through the kitchen door. My dad stares after her, his face pained. He’s upset that my mom is upset, that this situation is upsetting her. But what about me?
“Hey! Here!” I say, snapping at him and forcing his focus on nothing but my face. My dad is speechless, and all he can do is cover his mouth with his hand and shake his head. “You don’t get to feel bad that she’s angry. She’s right! This was a bad idea, keeping this from me. You stole everything from me! Everything! Josh is dead! And it should have been me! I get to live, but he died. And I didn’t even see him!”
My dad is still frozen, staring; I can feel my mom coming back behind me. Her fingers are on my shoulder, and I jerk, but she holds on, and I jerk again. “Rowe, honey…” she says, and somehow my cage cracks the tiniest bit, and my lungs stutter with one big cry, but I bite my lip quickly, doing my best to hold it in.
“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” I say, my voice softer now. “I didn’t get to say goodbye. He didn’t know I was there. He was alone. I left him…alone. And I didn’t even say goodbye…”
My eyes are flooded with tears now, and I can no longer stop myself from feeling. Anger can only carry you so far, and mine has run out. Now, I am only devastated. I collapse to the floor, and my mom collapses with me, pulling me to her body and rocking me in her arms while my dad still stands in front of us—his hand to his mouth, and his eyes crying just as hard as mine are.
I cried for a solid hour, and I don’t remember breathing. My mom managed to find a box with towels and pulled one free for me so I could take a shower. I feel like a zombie—not as ugly as the Walking Dead, but as animated. I pull a clean outfit from the top of my suitcase, a purple sweater and a pair of jeans, and then run a comb through my tangled hair.