In my closet, I scanned my choices, settling on black jeans and a hooded gray sweater. The sweater was thin, so I slipped on over it a black military-style jacket, reaching back to pull out the hood of my sweater. Tying up a pair of Dr. Martens, I was ready for school at five-fifty in the morning. Sunrise wouldn’t be for an hour.
I didn’t bother much with styling my hair anymore and wore minimal makeup, but with time to kill I decided to brush on some blush to hide my paleness and coat my eyelashes with mascara. There, now I appeared the healthy, happy teenager.
When I got downstairs just after six, my dad stood in front of the coffee pot, wearing a robe and pajama pants. Obviously just woken up, his wavy hair lay untamed. He gazed at me with a worried expression. “You need to dry your hair, Gianna. It’s cold outside.”
I dropped my backpack on the floor and hopped up onto a barstool. “By the time I leave for school it’ll be dry, Dr. Thorpe.”
He let out a sound reflecting something between amusement and annoyance. On his way out of the kitchen he walked past carrying a cup of coffee, pausing to kiss me on the forehead. My dad had never been a morning person and I suspected he drank coffee until noon most days.
I’d had little appetite in the weeks following leaving the hospital but I finally gained back the weight I’d lost. Taking my instant oatmeal into the living room, I picked up the remote to put it on a channel airing a music documentary. The program was about a band from the ‘90s which Caleb loved.
I started crying.
It was a good thing I hadn’t put on eyeliner. My unstable emotions often surprised me like this. Bringing my feet up onto the couch, I set my bowl onto an end table. My therapist advised me not to hold back tears, to let it all out. Sometimes I supremely disliked her.
The idea of being on antidepressants scared me. I’d already lost so much of myself and I was afraid of losing more. As horrible as I felt, I refused to let my emotions be controlled by drugs. I’d rather be strong enough to heal on my own. My dad remained undecided and my mom was horrified at the thought of her daughter being medicated for mental problems.
I understood that prescribed drugs were a godsend to some people, but I couldn’t help thinking it would be like giving up. As if Josh had defeated me more than just physically and I’d be waving a white flag of mental surrender.
The shower shut off upstairs in my dad’s bathroom. I turned off the TV and raced up the stairs to my room before he could notice my blotchy face. I closed my bedroom door and sat down at my desk, pulling Caleb’s last letter from the bottom drawer.
I’d read the letter four times since receiving it two days ago. It was written on binder paper in pencil. His handwriting had a slight forward slant and he must push down hard when writing because the pencil marks were thick and dark. My fingers ran over the word I liked most, love.
I missed him so much it was like a physical ache. I realized he sensed the distance I put between us now, but I couldn’t help it. It was as if a glass jar trapped the tender words and openness I used to share with him. The emotions were there inside the glass jar, clear to see and trying to flutter out, but unable to escape.
My love for him had only grown in our time apart. The problem was my belief that Caleb deserved to love someone more worthy. I’d ruined his life, got him sentenced to confinement. Loving me had only brought him trouble.
If Caleb got to know me as I existed now, he probably wouldn’t want anything to do with me. Being stuck in juvie, he didn’t understand how pathetic I’d become, afraid of my own shadow and on my way to being labeled the weird girl at school.
Returning his letter to the bottom drawer, I slammed it shut and logged onto my laptop. My email contained another new message alert from Facebook. Impulsively, I clicked on the link, going onto Facebook for the first time in months. My inbox was full of messages from people at my old school, three alone from Seth. I was ashamed of them knowing what happened to me.
As I deleted the messages without reading them, I pretended I’d also erased their knowledge of the attack. Urgency coursing through me, I then moved on to my friends list, deleting almost everyone. Cece would notice and ask me what was going on. I’d probably lie to her again.
I reached Caleb Morrison on my friend list and tears formed again.
It was twisted how I could talk to him on the phone every Saturday, putting on a strong front, but totally lose it when I was alone in my room looking at his name on a computer screen. While speaking on the phone we verbally tiptoed around each other, making a conscious effort not to upset the other person. My I love yous were heartfelt but guilt ridden.