The corner of his mouth tugged, but the smile didn’t meet his eyes. “I know, Kensington.” He disappeared down the hall and into his room.
In that moment, I realized I didn’t know my best friend quite as well as I thought I did, and my chest tightened, wondering what the hell he was up to.
CHAPTER 17
The Bucket
SARAFINA
A full semester behind, I finally returned to school, but I was just going through the motions. My grades were passing,barely,but I had zero inspiration to paint. I just couldn’t seem to start, couldn’t seem to even pick up a brush.
If I didn’t figure something out soon, I was going to flunk out of my classes, and there would be no way for me to graduate on time.
I just felt so behind, like I was already supposed to be bouncing back, but I wasn’t. I wasn’t even remotely close. The world was moving on, but I was impossibly stuck.
After Carter’s parents had died, he’d handled it so well, kept it together. Even as a teenager. Only, it had slowly been dawning on me that he’d been insomuch more pain all those years than he’d ever really let on. Carter had been all alone in that big house of his for all those years. I wondered how many nights he’d woken up screaming… with no one there to hear him.
Over these last few months, I’d experienced a depth of grief that I didn’t even know was possible, and I couldn’t possibly fathom doubling it.
My phone buzzed, and I reluctantly opened my texts.
Liam
Did you eat today?
Yes
A lie. I lied most days. To my credit, I really was trying. There had been a few days where I’d forced myself to eat something substantial, but I’d immediately thrown up. I literally could not stomach anything. My body had an appetite for one thing. Grief. Heaps and heaps of it. My phone buzzed again.
What did you eat?
Have you been drinking your shakes?
I silenced my phone, not bothering to answer it. I knew he meant well, but he was pestering me day in and day out, and I just didn’t have the energy. He wasn’t the only one either. Everyone had come out of the woodwork to badger me. I supposed I should be grateful that I had anyone at all to check in on me, but truthfully, it was really just wearing me out even more. Everyone had these expectations of where I was supposed to be in the process of all of this, and letting everyone down—it was just too much to deal with. Everything and everyone was practically moving at the speed of light, and I doubted I’d ever catch up.
So I sat in my art studio in the dark and just waited. For what? I had no idea. My eyes flitted to the canvas I’d at least wrapped for Carter. It was leaning against the wall by the door, but I still hadn’t gotten around to actually mailing it. He’d already paid me, despite my best efforts, so I knew Ireallyshould mail it, but I just couldn’t muster the willpower to actually get it done.
Day in and day out, anger pulsed through me as I stared at the bright, colorful canvases around the studio. I hated them. Resented that I’d ever been so happy when that emotion felt so faraway now. I’d been so oblivious to how good my life had been, taking it all for granted.
I wasbarelymaking it through my classes, the numerous extensions, and my professor’s patience was running thin. I’d permanently stepped down as a teacher’s assistant, unable to juggle all my responsibilities. I still could hardly eat, and I still hadn’t mailed Carter’s painting. I just needed to get the damn thing out of my sight for my own sanity, at least, but I couldn’t, for reasons I couldn’t exactly explain. It was just too damn hard.
Carter had texted me dozens of times, even sent me an exorbitant amount of money to cover the shipping. We’d sent the balance back and forth several times, with him increasing it every time he sent it back, before I finally gave up and just stopped responding altogether. I didn’t have the energy to fight him. So the balance just sat in my account, looming over me like an anvil ready to crush me. Part of me wished it would.
Over the last several weeks, Carter had tried a dozen different tactics to get me to respond to his texts, but I just didn’t have the energy to care. What would I even say? There was nothing to say. It was taking everything I had just to get out of bed in the morning, and many mornings I didn’t even accomplish that.
I was stuck. I knew it, but what I didn’t know was what to do about it.
I’d lay in the studio for hours, wearing my painting clothes, waiting for inspiration to strike, but it just wouldn’t. What I really wanted to do wasdestroyeverything.
Last week, I’d finally picked up a paintbrush for the first time and found myself just wanting to stab it straight through the canvas—punch a gaping hole to match the one in my heart.
I checked the time and groaned. I was going to be late.Again.Apparently, this is who I was now, and I couldn’t find it in me to care.
I dragged myself up, wondering if I should just drop out of class, because what was even the point? I didn’t want to be here anyway, but I didn’t want to be at home either.
So I went to class. For some reason, I went. I didn’t bother taking notes, didn’t even bother bringing a notebook with me, and when the lecture was over, my professor pulled me aside before I could escape.
“Sara, can I talk to you?” She asked, concern lighting her expression, and I could tell whatever she was going to say was gonna suck.
