that my sister was right: There’s no one left to pick up my pieces.
I drive aimlessly, looking for a distraction. The radio blasts music, but the words are only screeches of noise. I don’t realize where I am until I see the rows of cars outside the party house. I try Simone’s phone, but it goes to voice mail. Then I try again. Voice mail again. I can’t help it, but I resent her for it. I slam my phone down on the seat and search for her car among the others.
I didn’t get to say good-bye.
I want to replay the entire night, make a different choice. But I know there aren’t any second chances. I screwed up. I ruined everything.
Simone’s car is nowhere to be found and I feel the panic start to seep in, threatening me as it waits to take me over completely. I drive by the party once again, debating going inside—even though the thought of it turns my stomach. I see an open space right in front and go to swing in, but I have to brake fast before I nearly crush a guy sitting on the curb, hidden from view. He looks up, shielding his eyes from my headlights. It’s the blond guy from earlier, and he stands so I can pull into the space.
Once parked, I click off my lights and roll down the passenger window. “What are you doing?” I call to him. “I could have run over your foot or something.” He ducks down, looking in before smiling.
“You came back for me.” He grins, but when I don’t smile, his expression falters. “I got ditched,” he says. “My friend was parked here, but he left with some girl. I thought maybe he’d remember he brought me and swing back through. Guess not.”
I don’t care, I think. I don’t care about anything. I glance past the guy to the party house, people still on the lawn holding hands or holding cups as I sit in my car, wishing I never came here tonight.
“So . . .” the guy says. “Are you getting out?” He’s standing there in his white thermal shirt, his pulled-from-the-floor jeans. Everything about him looks easy and carefree. I can’t even imagine what that’s like anymore.
“I don’t think so,” I say quietly. He takes a step closer, resting his elbow on the top of the car as he stares in, getting a closer look at me. Then his mouth falls open.
“Oh my God,” he says. “Are you okay?”
I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and see that my mascara has run. I swipe under my eyes and then wipe the inky black on Simone’s skirt. When I’m done I turn to the guy, thinking he’s the only person who even cares how I am right now. “What’s your name?” I ask.
He seems caught off guard. “It’s Christopher . . . uh, Chris.”
“The answer is no, Christopher,” I tell him with a pathetic shrug. “I’m not okay. Not at all.”
He looks me over, confused, concerned. Rather than press me further about my disheveled state, he nods toward the house. “We should skip the party, then,” he says. “It’s lame anyway. Maybe we can go grab a coffee? I know a place still open.”
I lean my head back against the seat, utterly lost. I can’t go sit in a well-lit café talking to a stranger when I’m not even sure where I’ll sleep tonight. “I can’t,” I tell him. “I have to go.”
“Again?” he asks quickly. “Is it me? I can certainly tone it down.”
“It’s not you.” I debate telling him the rest and then opt not to. “And I’m sorry that . . .” I’m sorry for so many things that I can’t even finish the sentence. I switch the car into gear, but I haven’t even eased off the brake before Christopher is talking fast.
“Listen,” he says. “Is there any chance you could give me a ride to my friend’s house? He’s not coming back, and to be honest, the only reason I didn’t call a cab in the first place was because I was hoping I’d bump into you again.” He smiles sheepishly, maybe embarrassed for having admitted it. “And look,” he says softer. “We did. It’s kind of like fate, right?
I look doubtfully at Christopher, not sure if I should give him a lift. I’m eventually going to have to answer to my family; I’m just not brave enough yet. But I’m not brave enough to be alone either. So after a quick nod, I unlock the car door for him to get in.
The starless sky is unsettling as I drive through the darkened neighborhood toward the freeway. The houses pass in blurs of porch lights, and I’ve nearly forgotten where we’re headed when Christopher starts playing with the air vents.
“Christopher . . .” I start.
“It’s just Chris,” he interrupts. “Only my nana and my family physician call me Christopher anymore. Maybe a professor or two. I’m a freshman at Clinton State, in case you’re curious.”
I glance sideways. That’s the same college Teddy goes to in the next town over, a college I’ve visited at least a dozen times. “Do you know Teddy Cabot?” I ask, wondering if he’ll tell my brother he saw me at a party right after my grandmother died. And wondering if my brother would be sickened by the thought.
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Chris says. “Sounds handsome, though. Should I be jealous?”
“No,” I say, relieved and a little grossed out by the joke. “He’s my brother.”
“Interesting. Is he the overprotective type?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “He’s never needed to be.” Teddy has always stuck up for me. He’s never judged me—at least not yet. But what does he think now? How can he defend me after what I’ve done?
Chris grows restless and begins to tap his thumb on his thigh like a fidgety child. “Did you think the weather was weird today?” he asks. “I totally dorked out with a few friends and we”—finger quotes—“borrowed a telescope from the science building to watch the cloud patterns. It was pretty cool.”
When I don’t respond, Chris adjusts the passenger seat, sliding and reclining it until he’s almost in the backseat. He looks like he’s settling in for the night. “You’re not laughing at any of my jokes,” he says. “I’m debating whether or not you want me to shut up, but I feel wholly compelled to impress you.”
When I look over, he smiles broadly, and I think that he’s the exact kind of cute that I could fall for—if my heart wasn’t already broken. I turn away. We reach the stoplight of an intersection, and Chris reaches to turn down the music.
“I know it’s none of my business,” he says in a quiet voice, “but why were you crying earlier?”
The light turns green, but I don’t move. I’m frozen by the emotions flooding me, threatening to rip me to shreds in front of him. I can’t say it out loud. Finally I compose myself and drive a few blocks.
“You’ll need to make a right here,” he says, sounding defeated. I ease my foot on the gas, making the turn.
“My grandmother died,” I whisper. It feels like saying it can make it happen all over again.
“I’m so sorry,” Chris says. “When?”
“Tonight.”
“Oh.”
