“I’m sorry,” Marlo said to Paige. “A younger or older sister?”
For a second it seemed as though Paige was unsure of her answer, which was odd.
“Twin sister, actually,” she said, making me feel like an idiot. And also feeling a pang for Paige that I easily recognized. Loss. Deep loss. “Technically older. By seven minutes.”
Marlo nodded. “A unique pain, I would imagine.”
Paige gave a shrug and studied her fingernails.
“How did your sister die?” Marlo asked.
“She was sick. For a while,” Paige said. I looked down, and from the corner of my eye I saw Logan’s feet shuffle. He was wearing grey joggers, shower shoes (Oofos, by the look at my angle), and white sweat socks. Typical jock-off-the-field (ice?) wear. His hands were in his lap and he ran the top of his index finger over the nail of his thumb.
Yeah, we were all nervous and uncomfortable.
“And when did she pass?” Marlo asked.
“Last December,” Paige said. “Between Christmas and New Year’s.”
Shit, that was rough. And then it hit me. Everyone here was going to tell a rough story. Mine would be as well. That was what we’d signed up for.
Maybe I could drop this and take some one-on-one counseling to keep my father happy. My own pain was about all I could handle.
“Oof,” Marlo said. It seemed out of place for an instructor, but maybe that was why she’d done it. She wanted this to be more than a class setting. “Twin. Lingering illness. Holidays. That’s like the perfect storm of grief,” she added.
Paige leaned back as a tiny half snort/half scoff escaped her. There were a few smothered snickers around the room. “Yeah. It really is,” she agreed.
“We’ll talk about navigating holidays and death anniversaries here, and in your case, when they converge. Thank you, Paige.”
Paige nodded. She stopped picking at her nails and rested her hands in her lap, more relaxed now that Marlo’s gaze had moved on to the girl to my left, who sat next to Paige. “And you?”
“I’m Bailey. I’m a junior, pre-med. My boyfriend died,” she said. Her hair was jet black and long, with the bulk of it brought over her shoulders in a look that was ubiquitous. Running her fingers through its length seemed to be her way of self-soothing, as she continued, “It was in June. An accident. Weird, freak accident.” Her look was much more similar to the majority of girls on campus. Bribury Basics, they called them.Us, I guess. Leggings and a tight tee with capped sleeves. Her matching jacket was laid over the thick arm of the chair. When she crossed her legs, I noticed she wore expensive running shoes that looked like they were never used for running.
We were all waiting to hear about the freak accident. Or at least I was. Marlo hesitated too, but when Bailey didn’t offer up any other details, she just said, “Sorry for your loss, Bailey. Thanks for sharing.”
And then she turned to me.
Chapter7
My throat wasdry and I wished I’d pulled my Stanley from my backpack before the class started, but didn’t want to do it now. Not when it was my turn.
“I’m Megan. I’m undeclared and a freshman.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Logan’s head jerk my way. I didn’t look directly at him, but saw his feet shuffle, and he took his hands from his lap and put them on the arms of his chair, palms down, fingers spread. I studied the hand nearest me. The chairs were close enough that if I wanted to, I could reach out and touch him. The memory of that hand beside my face on his bed just five nights ago flashed through my brain. He’d pushed up the sleeves of his hoodie, and the hair on his forearms was brown, in a shade darker than that on his head.
The clean scent of soap and detergent was subtle on him, and I guessed he’d probably just gotten done with hockey practice and a subsequent shower. It was like walking into a laundry room just after you’d finished a few loads, with the smell of fabric softener and detergent lingering in the air.
I was still staring at his hand, sensing him staring at me, when Marlo prodded, “And who did you lose, Megan?”
Right, we were still on me.
Brushing away thoughts of rolling in freshly laundered sheets with Logan Fields, I pulled myself back to the task at hand—baring my grief for my classmates.
“My mom. Car accident.”
“I’m sorry,” Marlo said. “And when was the accident?”
I knew the exact date, of course, but when I was about to mention it, I realized it was only a few days away from the first anniversary. Not news to me, but with all the drama at home leading up to my leaving, then settling in at Bribury, and the whirlwind of social and academic activities the past week (not to mention almost hooking up with the boy who was mere inches away from me), I hadn’t processed it.
Or remembered.
