“This is your out,” I force past my lips. “I don’t expect you to want to stick around or?—”
Ozzy turns on his heels then and marches toward the front door, leaving the last bit of my out for him behind.
I don’t know if he’s pissed off, upset, shocked, or annoyed, but the soft click of the door behind him doesn’t explain much.
Nothing at all.
And I feel like a dick.
TWENTY
bay
“What else?”
Ellie and Mae are sitting on the stools at the kitchen island while I stand across from it on the other side. Ellie’s eyes are bloodshot red from crying all day, and Mae doesn’t quite get it yet.
Ellie and I have tried to explain it to her a million times, but I gave up after today. What’s the point? Levi isn’t dead, and I’m chilling with relief that he’s not, while Ellie is dying inside like I was less than forty-eight hours ago.
This can’t go on for much longer. I can’t watch her like this.
“Ice cream,” Mae pipes in, kicking her legs excitedly. “Superman.”
That’s fitting since Levi survived several gunshot wounds and earned superhero status. We’ve decided to eat all of Levi’s favorite foods in memory of him, and I’m on grocery list duty.
“That wasn’t his favorite,” Ellie mutters. “It was cookie dough.”
Mae snaps her neck defensively to our sister. “No, it wasn’t.”
“Yes, it was.” Ellie’s lack of energy shows how many times she’s had to speak or answer a question today. It’s weak and desolate, as if she doesn’t want to be anywhere but in her room alone.
“No,” Mae argues. “He wants Superman.”
“We’ll get both,” I reply to shut her up. “And pizza, right?”
Mae beams. “Right. When is he coming home?”
The million-dollar question.
Ellie’s shoulders slump a bit more—if that’s even possible—and another wave of guilt slams through me.
“Why don’t you go take a bath before dinner?” I suggest. “And then we’ll pick out a movie together, okay?”
Mae slides off the stool excitedly and chimesokaya hundred times as she scurries down the hallway to get ready.
Meanwhile, Ellie doesn’t move an inch, too stricken by grief to even breathe, and I’m on the edge of telling her the truth to give her some comfort.
Except, I’m not sure she won’t tell Peter. And with the whole Nessa thing, I don’t know if Matteo planted the kid here. This is one of the many reasons why Juice and Hot Rod won’t let him anywhere near the house.
“Have you talked to Peter today?” I ask. “I’m sure he’s worried about you.”
“Yes,” she deadpans, focusing on her folded hands.
“Did you want to clean up before?—”
“No.”
Okay, then.
