I shrug with a smile.
She shakes her head. “You need a shower.”
“But—”
“You can’t look like that when Dad gets home.”
I want to protest more, but I don’t want to argue with her. “Okay.”
“Good.” Her face softens like she has one less thing to worry about. “Just put your clothes in the dirty clothes hamper, and I’ll grab them.”
I’m desperate to show her how I’ve changed. “I’ll put them in the laundry room for you.”
She pauses, hesitating before she says, “Thank you.”
I didn’t realize how badly I needed the shower until the water was over my head. All the tension I’ve felt over the last few days has me tightly wound, but my muscles relax in an instant.
I tear up when I pick up the bottle of shampoo—Mallory’s shampoo. After she died, I used it until it ran out of every drop, but I left the empty bottle on the ledge. Picking it up partly full again is surreal.
This is the reality I want, and I refuse to let it be ruined. Tomorrow is April 5th, the night Mallory is supposed to die, but I won’t let that happen.
I can’t handle living through it again.
But I push that idea out of my mind. She’s in the otherroom, and if I keep her in view, she won’t be able to leave me. I’ll hang on to her so tight, she’ll have to pry me off.
I finish my shower and step out. After I dry off and change, I twist my hair in my towel to keep it from soaking my clothes.
Then I leave the bathroom and wander down the hallway. Mallory’s door is propped open, and she sits hunched over a pile of books and papers, sprawled out over her bed. Her face is so focused, serious.
There’s an ache in my bones as I live one of my deepest wishes. How I longed to simply watch her study like she’d done every free minute of her life. It’s so familiar and comforting. It’s how the world is supposed to be.
Her eyes flick up, landing on me standing at her door. “What?”
I don’t want to leave. I want to keep staring like she’s one of the precious wonders of the world. “Nothing.”
“Are you sure nothing’s wrong?” she asks.
I lean on the doorframe. “Can I use your blow-dryer?” I don’t really need to use hers, but I want an excuse to stay in her room.
“Sure.” She points at the vanity. “It’s in the bottom drawer.”
I smile as I step into her room. It’s impeccably clean without a pile or wrinkle in sight. There isn’t even a speck of dust on her bookshelf. Her walls are lavender with white trim, and she has white curtains that reach the floor, making her room feel like a dream. It’s always reminded me of the way people stage houses to sell, so beautiful no one could possibly be living in them at the time.
I sit at the chair in front of her vanity and watch her through the mirror, waiting to see if she cares that I sat down.She doesn’t seem to mind. She puts her head back down and writes something.
At one point her phone buzzes and she pauses to look at the message. “Dad says he’s working late again.”
“Okay,” I say, still mesmerized by her.
I can’t help but think about all the memories in her room. All the times I sat in front of this mirror as she did my hair growing up. Mom never did my hair because she said I couldn’t stay put, but Mallory would gently brush my hair back. It didn’t matter that I moved around a lot. She was always patient and did my hair anyway because she didn’t want me to feel left out.
I never blow-dry my hair. I either let it air dry or occasionally put it in braids if I don’t want it to be too wild. Needless to say, I know I’m holding the blow-dryer and brush wrong. I can’t get my hair to wrap around the brush and keep it under the heat at the same time.
I twist the brush, trying to mimic the motion I’ve seen Mallory use, but instead of making the perfect wave, I create a tangled mess. The brush lodges its way into a snarled web of hair, and when I tug on it, my head jerks forward too.
“Ouch.”
Mallory’s eyes fly up and she gasps. In seconds she’s across the room, analyzing the rat’s nest on my head. “I swear I can’t leave you alone for two seconds.”
