“And since you won’t take your medication,” my dad cut in, because neither of them in the history of ever had been able to let anyone else finish an actual sentence before they had to butt in with their two cents.
“Ugh, you know that stuff makes me feel gross,” I said, my stomach going even squirrelier at the thought of how gross I’d felt on all those they’d cycled me through years ago, after some school counselor had stuck the ADHD label on me as a kid.
“And we’ve respected your choice not to take it,” Mom said. “But between your own brain’s shortcomings, the distractions of college life, and—”
“And yourfriend,” Dad interrupted, almost flinging the bite of hash browns he’d speared on his fork at me when he used the utensil to point at me in emphasis. “Who you know we’ve always had our concerns about in terms of the kind of influence he is on you.”
My spine stiffened. “Gage is thebestinfluence,” I said, instantly feeling prickly and defensive, the way I always got whenever they brought him up. Seriously, he’d been my best friend for my whole life and the best thinginmy life, even before last night, but for some reason, they’d always treated him like he was about to lead me over to the dark side or something.
I didn’t get it. I mean, sure, Gage could be a bit, um… outspoken at times, and yeah, he wasn’t always as nice to other people as he was to me, but he was the one solid, good thing I’d always been able to count on in my life. And now, if my parents actually followed through with pulling me out of school here and making me enroll in the state university back near home in the fall, I’d—oh God—I’d never see him again.
I sniffled, swiping at my cheeks.
I mean, probably notnever, but not… not enough.
“Oh, honey, there’s no need to get emotional,” Mom said, shaking her head at me with a look of pity that just made my eyes tear up even more. She patted my hand again. “I think you’ll do very well in your classes once we get you settled back in your old room at home. Maybe we can look at giving you a lighter academic load next year, too, so that you don’t have to try to absorb so many things at once, hm?”
“Who cares about theclasses?” I mumbled under my breath.
“What was that?” Mom asked sharply as I swiped at my cheeks again.
I shook my head. If she’d missed it the first time, I wasn’t dumb enough to repeat it.
She gave an exasperated-sounding sigh, sharing a look with my dad, and I let my hand sneak up under my scarf for a second. The feel of the rough collar against my fingers gave me a moment of comfort. I had no way of predicting how long Gage would actually let me wear it, but it was nice—beyond nice—to feel like we were still a little bit connected even though he wasn’t actually with me. As long as I had it on, I was his in a way that I’d never let myself hope to be before. (Lies; I’d totally hoped for it. But I’d never believed it could actuallyhappen, so the hoping didn’t count.)
“Are you cold, son?” Dad asked, frowning at me.
Mom frowned, too, leaning across the table to feel my forehead. “You’re not coming down with something, are you, Noah? You do feel a little warm.”
“I’m fine,” I said, jerking away from her touch.
Shealwaysbabied me, and I mean, I guess Gage kind of did, too, but his version of it made me feel like he was doing it because I was… waspreciousto him or something, not because I was incompetent, the way my parents seemed to think.
“You may be fine, but you are a bit warm, Noah,” Mom said, pinning me with an I-know-what’s-best look that made me feel about eight years old. “You should take off that scarf.”
“No,” I said stubbornly, crossing my arms over my chest and, ugh, probablysoundinglike an eight-year-old.
“Leave him be, Lisa,” Dad said when Mom opened her mouth again, putting a restraining hand on her arm when she reached for me anyway. He winked at me, like we were supposed to be best buds or something despite the fact that they’d driven all the way up here to tell me that they wereruining my life. “Probably a fashion statement, right, son?”
A fashion statement? Seriously? Did they know me atall?
“Gage wanted me to wear it,” I said, because I was an idiot and angry and wanted to push their buttons.
Mom’s lips instantly squeezed into a thin white line and Dad’s jaw clenched.
Mission accomplished. Yay, me.
“Well,” Mom said, using her napkin and then placing it oh-so-carefully back on the table. She gave me a totally fake smile. “Maybe once you’re back home, you’ll be able to start making your own choices.”
But I didn’t want to.
I wantedGageto make my choices.
I just wanted… Gage.
And then my eyes were tearing up all over again, because how was it that I hated hatedhatedit when my parents insisted on making all my choices for me, but felt safe and settled and happy and free when Gage did? What waswrongwith me? And… and how was I supposed to ever be able to fix whatever was wrong if Gage wasn’t around to tell me how?
But instead of asking my parents any of those questions—because that would just give them even more ammunition when it came to saying judgmental things about my best friend in the whole world and telling me why I’d be better off stuck back at home with them instead of staying here with him, where I actuallywantedto be—I excused myself to the bathroom and couldn’t make myself reply when Gage texted to ask if things were good, because they weren’t and… and evenhecouldn’t fix it this time, because he wasn’t even going to be in my life anymore a couple of months from now. So really, what was the point in answering him when all it would do was make me cry?
