I keep thinking about his face in the hallway that morning—the panic in his eyes, the way he saidit’s not we, it’s me,like the words hurt to get out. And maybe they did. Maybe they broke something in him, too.
I tell myself to give him time. Space. Whatever he needs. But the silence is starting to sound a lot like goodbye.
On New Year’s Eve, the house is full of warmth and light and noise, but it all feels far away. My mom and Tom are dancing in the living room, music turned up too loud, counting down the minutes before midnight. I slip upstairs, phone in hand, and sit on the edge of my bed.
The window’s fogged over from the cold. Outside, the neighborhood’s dotted with Christmas lights that never got taken down. The whole world feels like it’s holding its breath.
I open our text thread, still on Prism, just because I thought it was funny. The last message is from him, days before everything fell apart. A photo of us at practice. Melaughing. Him captioning it,stop being cute, you’re distracting.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard for a long time.
There’s nothing I can say that fixes this. Nothing big enough to cross the distance between us. So I don’t try to fix it.
I just type what’s true.
Me: I miss you.
I stare at the words for another minute before hitting send. The message bubbles out into the void, green against gray. No response.
Just silence.
Downstairs, Tom counts down from ten. I can hear laughter, the pop of champagne, fireworks somewhere down the block.
I press the phone to my chest and close my eyes, letting the sound of the world moving on fill the space where he should be.
Happy New Year.
It doesn’t feel like one.
THIRTY-TWO
TODD
Peter’s voiceis the first real sound I’ve heard in days. With the exception of the voicemails my sisters left me, which I didn’t return. They just followed them up with text messages, both of them clearly on my side and pissed at Dad. But I didn’t want to mess up my whole family, so I didn’t reply. I can’t.
“Jesus, Shawsy.”
I blink up from where I’ve been sitting on the edge of my bed, hoodie pulled over my head, a week’s worth of takeout boxes cluttering the desk. My laptop’s open to the same paused hockey replay I’ve been staring at for an hour, though I couldn’t tell him who’s winning if I tried.
Peter’s standing in the doorway, duffel still slung over his shoulder, his eyes sweeping the room like he’s not sure what he’s walked into.
“You look like you fought the flu and lost,” he says finally, setting the bag down on his bed.
“Something like that,” I mutter, rubbing my palms overmy face. I know what I look like—unshaven, hollow-eyed, still wearing the same sweats I threw on days ago.
He crosses his arms. “You haven’t been answering your phone. We all thought you were dead or in a ditch.”
I shrug. “Didn’t really feel like talking.”
He studies me for a long moment, then sighs. “Yeah, no shit.”
The mattress dips when he sits beside me. “You gonna shower, or do I need to call in backup?”
“Backup?”
He pulls his phone out, thumb already hovering over the screen.
“Peter,” I warn, but he’s already typing.
