know, but that won’t fix how I look, not really.” Tears start falling again. I don’t have to ask for a tissue before she holds out the box of softer ones she brought for me. I dab at my tears because rubbing would hurt, and then continue, “I feel stupid for caring about this. I could’ve died. I get it. I’m lucky to be okay. I get that, too. But I hate that I look like this. I hate that even after these heal, I’ll always look like something slashed up my face.”
I take a deep breath, and then another one, and then a couple more.
Grace is quiet as I grab her hand and squeeze before saying, “I’m afraid to ask Robert why he hasn’t been here because I don’t want him to ditch me. We’re more convenience than anything, and I knew we’d break up eventually, but I like having a boyfriend.”
She holds my hand in silence for a few moments. Then she points out, “If he isn’t here anyhow, does it matter?”
“He texts.”
Grace holds my gaze. “If he were my boyfriend, what would you tell me?”
“He’s an asshat,” I say with a small smile.
“And?”
“You deserve better than an asshat,” I add.
“And I’d listen because you’re smart,” Grace says. She taps her chin with one finger. “Wait? Who else is smart? Hmmm. I know this answer. Who is it?”
“Grace Yeung. Maybe I should listen if she offers me advice.”
Grace’s expression is serious, as if she’s considering the matter, and then she nods. “You’re right. I am pretty freaking awesome.” She grows slightly more serious as she adds, “And I don’t see any practical use for an asshat.”
My laugh is watery, but it’s there. Like so many other times in my life the past two years, Grace is the voice of reason in my life, the one who has my back.
“Eva, do the doctors know about whatever just—”
“Yes,” I interrupt her with a lie. “I told them the first time it happened.”
THE NEXT MORNING, I’M sitting in the common room reading. When I look up, I find Nate standing in front of me and let out a surprised squeak.
“You didn’t see me.” His voice lifts slightly as if this could be a question.
“True.”
He pulls a rocking chair over toward me. It’s one of the chairs that I’ve only ever seen moms with babies use, but he doesn’t seem to care if it’s unusual for him to use a rocking chair. He leans back and rocks in silence for a moment, so I dog-ear the page and close my book.
“Good book?” He nods toward the book I’m holding with both hands now.
“I like it,” I say cautiously. It’s an older book called Story of a Girl that I found on one of the shelves here. I’ve never read anything else by Sara Zarr, but I’ll be looking to see if they have anything else of hers.
Nate folds his arms over his chest. “You used to read those Andrew Lost books and then the Warriors ones when we were in elementary school. I never got the cat ones.”
I frown. It’s hard to believe that Nate remembers my reading habits that clearly. It’s been a long time. “The Warriors were good books!”
“I don’t know about that. Andrew Lost was good though. I ended up borrowing some of those more than once.” He nods as if he’s said something profound. “So it’s chick books now?”
“This isn’t a ‘chick book.’ ”
He leans forward and pushes the book flat so he can look at the cover. On it, a girl is staring out of a window, and the title is written in what could be lipstick or crayon maybe. “Story of a girl,” he reads. “So it’s … a story about a girl with a girl on the cover. Looks like a chick book to me.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve moved on since elementary school.”
“It happens.” He rocks a little. “I’m rereading the Andrew Lost series, actually. I dug them out after I saw you.”
I frown, before realizing that he’s watching me for a reaction. I don’t know if he’s joking or not. His expression hasn’t changed, but I’m not sure why he’d be serious about reading a book series for eight-year-olds.
“My brother likes them,” he says after a pause that’s almost too long. “I’ve read the first three to him so far.”
“Your brother?” I prompt in confusion. I know he didn’t have a brother when we were friends. I don’t think any of us knew or heard much about his family since then.
“Room 423.” He gestures to the corridor on the opposite side of the common area. “I try to come most every night when he’s in here. Aaron’s mom works nights so she can be with him days. He has a sitter who’s there when he sleeps. I try to go over to their house some, but when he’s in here, I am here every night I can be.”
“When does his mom sleep?”
“When Aaron naps, when I’m there, and she’s usually home to catch a few hours before he wakes up in the morning.” Nate shrugs like it’s not a big deal, but his lips press tightly together and his gaze drops. “I try to go more, but my mom bitches about the drive and nags about my grades. Nora, she’s Aaron’s mom, gives me gas money so my mom can’t bitch about that, too.”
I stare at him, not knowing what to say. I remember his parents splitting up, but I had no idea his dad had another kid—or remarried. Whatever the case, Nate hasn’t mentioned his father helping out. I debate briefly whether or not to ask, before deciding that since he’s the one who brought it all up I might as well. We’ve gone from not talking at all to him sharing things that are extremely personal. I don’t know how to make sense of it, but I figure that continuing talking is the only thing that I can do.
“What about your dad?” I ask.
Nate meets my gaze, and I resist the urge to shiver at the fury in his expression. “Aaron has CF, cystic fibrosis. The sperm donor couldn’t handle Aaron being sick, so he walked.”
I shake my head because there’s nothing to say here that isn’t harsh. I remember liking Nate’s dad. He laughed and played with Nate like my parents never did with me. Mine were more of the “why don’t you go play quietly or read, dear?” sort. I liked reading; I still do. But I think I would’ve liked wrestling on the floor, too.
It hits me as I’m staring at Nate that in my hallucination he thought about Nora and Aaron. He was concerned about worrying them. I gasp.
“Are you okay?” He leans forward
