Page 86 of Undone

He cuts me off with the quick shake of his head. “You need to move past this, Lillian.” His voice is louder now, ratcheting louder by the minute. “I’m tired of playing this stupid game. You’re not a child—”

My vision blurs for a moment, as I hear a similar sound but years in the past.

“Stop acting like a child, Lillian.”

“You’re behaving like a child, Dahlia.”

“Such childish behavior.”

My father snakes his hand down into his trouser pocket, opening his phone and typing slowly before pocketing it again.

“You need to focus on school. Not drawing or being around Toren. If anything, you should be spending more time with Carson. I’ll have him take you out again.”

All my protests—I’m an adult, not a child. I don’t need you to do this. Please don’t make me be with him. Please just love me as I am, exactly this—form and die on my tongue.

“Yes, sir.”

“This weekend is the away game. So you’ll be with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

My dad nods, satisfied, before checking his watch. “It’s late, Lillian. Why don’t you stay here tonight.”

It’s not a request, more a demand, but I nod and excuse myself to the hauntingly empty room upstairs. It’s not laid out the same way I’m used to, which irks me anyway, but I lie down on my side on the bed, facing the window where the moonlight seeps in.

I should get up and close it.

I don’t.

My pencil and sketchbook are at my side. There’s a piece of me that believes drawing would help, but I’m already too deep. There’s no turning it around; my limbs so tired I don’t want to lift them.

I don’t change clothes. I don’t do my routine. I just lie there, staring at the window, willing my brain to use every memory of Toren Kane slipping through to pull me out, until it’s quiet enough in my screaming head to sleep.

• • •

“Are you okay?”

The words make my chest hurt. I shouldn’t be surprised she’s asking, considering the sight that greeted Paloma when she came home.

Me, lying on the sofa huddled into a fetal position in the corner, Mystic Pizza playing quietly on my laptop on the coffee table. None of the lights are on, the volume is a little too low, but I’m not sleeping. I’m just kind of staring.

Floating, maybe.

That’s sort of what it feels like.

If an anchor could float.

“Lily?”

“Sorry,” I croak out. “I just . . .”

How do I explain it? I got home and sat on the sofa and just never moved again? Even moving my body up the stairs felt like it was too hard, so I figured I’d just wait it out here?

I’m pretty sure I’m having a depressive episode but I can’t stop it or fix it, and usually I just sleep until it eventually gets better, and then I start to convince myself it didn’t happen; I tell myself that I’m just lazy and a bad person and trying to get out of the guilt.

A vicious cycle in my brain.

“Do you want company?” she asks when I don’t say anything else.