Page 56 of What You Left Me

That’s not how this is supposed to work.

It’s supposed to go like this. I fall asleep. Martin appears. We talk, and everything’s better. I wake up with a swell in my chest. For a moment, I believe it’s all real. The high wears off, and I take from the dream any vital information that applies to the real world. But I went back to before, when my dreams meant nothing outside of reminding me what happened last year.

Just when I think I’m getting my head above water, I go back to drowning. Sinking to the bottom of the ocean. The anchor, fixed around my legs and heavy as concrete, is Ryan Hales. His positioning—head below my thighs, arms gripped around my kneecaps—prevents me from so much as a kick. I flail my arms to no avail, rapidly descending but looking up, watching as the world above me slips away.

When will he ever leave me alone? When will I ever stop remembering?

Cameron appears. “You all right?” she asks.

“I’m fine.”

“We made some food. And coffee.” She nestles onto the corner of Daniel’s mattress, expectant. Her eyes have a familiar redness. It’s the look of complete exhaustion she wore all junior year, through the slog of ACTs and SATs and APs and every other random assortment of letters meaning too much in the moment and not enough afterward.

“It didn’t work. I didn’t get to talk to Martin,” I tell her, needing her to be as crushed as I am. Wanting her to rip off her Art Garfunkel shirt and surrender hope.

“Skip the coffee then,” she says, tucking her hands underneath my armpits to lift me up and drag me down to the kitchen. For both her benefit and mine, I lean into her.

“You just missed my parents,” Daniel says as we appear, eyes as red as Cameron’s. “They send their love.”

“What time is it?” We’ve done so much today, and the sunlight still won’t relent. “I had to have slept for a few hours.”

Daniel places an omelet in front of me. “It’s time for second breakfast.” The plate is garnished with flower petals from the garden.

“It has to be later than that.”

“It’s never too late for breakfast.”

“Thanks.” I slice through my eggs, preparing to make absentminded conversation, disappointment still stirring in my head. “Heard anything?”

Aminah turns from the couch to look at Daniel. Daniel looks at Cameron. Cameron looks at me. “You should finish your food.”

“Do you want any coffee?”

“What is it?”

“Toast should be up in—”

“What is it?”

The three of them stalk me like I’m prey.

“The other car,” Aminah starts.

“Don’t,” Cameron interrupts.

“If not now, when?”

“The driver died,” Cameron says quickly.

They wait for my reaction, but I don’t have one. I don’t know what to do, who to be, what’s appropriate.

“We saw it on the news after you went upstairs to nap,” Cameron continues. “Daniel randomly turned the TV on. It’s the top story right now.”

Aminah rewinds the DVR for me. The voices of familiar newscasters drone on, hitting all the details I already know but speaking them with a clarity and perspective that makes my heart still. Two high school seniors taking a joy ride post graduation, alcohol in their system—Spencer above .08—blowing a red light and colliding with a man on his way back from the grocery store. Spencer’s senior picture is juxtaposed against the man, a retired widower who neighbors described as “friendly but quiet.” They use a photo of Martin from prom in that white tux with the orange vest. I recognize Brooke’s dark hair in the corner of the frame, her face cropped out. The newscaster says Martin’s in critical condition. And that’s that.

I’ve been neglecting my phone all weekend. I’ve missed this news as a result. Twitter is lit up with opinions. Most people don’t have kind things to say about Spencer. And why would they? What he did—

And Martin—