“Hardly,” I say, relieved when his eyes stop dissecting me. Sometimes I find it hard to handle the intensity of his gaze, though I’d never admit that to him. “I wasn’t very popular in school. Things got weird after my mom’s death. I was pretty much excommunicated for a while. The whole family was.”
“Why’s that? She died of cancer, right?” I glance at him sharply, my heart slamming painfully against my rib cage, trying to make sure he’s not cracking some kind of sick joke. When there’s no lip twitch or laugh line or saccharine smirk in sight, my hurt turns to confusion.
“Did Mel tell you that?” I ask slowly, finding it difficult to force the question out.
His face shutters at the mention of my sister, and he nods carefully.
“My mom didn’t die of cancer, Landon,” I say softly. “She committed suicide.”
Landon opens his mouth and then closes it, his expression hardening. I’m sure my face has a similar appearance, a mixture of pain, disbelief, and anger that Mel would lie about that, too. I wonder how many more of her lies are going to keep appearing out of the blue. I wonder if Landon’s thinking the same, but before either of us can voice our thoughts, Parker appears in front of us.
“Hey, guys,” he says. “Thanks for coming.”
I plaster on a smile I don’t feel and pull Parker in for a hug. “Awesome party, Parker. I bet people at school are going to be talking about it for a long time.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
Parker glances at Landon, the hesitation clear. In a rare show of affection, Landon pulls Parker in for a hug as well, though one that’s admittedly much stiffer than mine.
We hang around for cake cutting and the lighting of the bonfire, but the vibe of the night is different now. I can’t stop thinking about my mom and Mel and all her lies. Was she really so ashamed to admit that our mother killed herself that she had to lie about it?
Mom was sick. Her depression was a disease that no one could see and no one understood after the fact. I remember the looks and the whispers that followed our family after her death. I remember the way people talked about her suicide, especially the religious zealots. Some of those parents stopped letting their kids hang out with me, and it wasn’t long before the rest followed suit. My friends abandoned me. Then Mel left, and I was truly alone.
No friends. No sister. No mom.
On my good days, I think of my mom as an abstract. Overall, she was a great mom. Overall, I miss her dearly. Overall, she loved me unconditionally. And I picture her silky brown hair blowing in the wind at the Fourth of July barbecue, her smile when I showed her a turtle I found in the pond, and the way she dropped everything to come and get a closer look.
And then I think,I wish I could talk to her. I wish I could ask her what her favorite movie was. Or her happiest memory. Or for advice on my current predicament, whatever that may be.
But sometimes it just…hits me. A striking moment of clarity, and I can’t help but see through the mirage of good memories to the dark ones. The bad ones.
The time she wouldn’t get out of bed, even though it was Mel’s fourteenth birthday.
The day I came home to find her curled up next to the toilet, vomiting from drinking an entire bottle of tequila instead of going to work.
One of the last moments I had with her, when she was crying on the floor of her bedroom, shoulders quaking, chest heaving.
I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.
Those were the times I understood why Mel told me to stay out of the way.
Dad was the one who found her on the day of her death. It’s selfish, but I’m glad I don’t have to live with that image in my head, haunting me for the rest of my days and tormenting me every night.
It’s selfish, but I’m glad it wasn’t me.
Maybe that makes me a bad person. I don’t know.
Once the bonfire flames are crackling at full force, I wander toward the ocean, staring out at the vast sea. My mom would have loved this view. She always wanted to live by the beach. Toes buried in the wet sand, I let the tide lap at my ankles and admire the sky’s vivid oranges and pinks as they fade to dark. I sense him beside me before I see him.
“Violet.”
I inhale and hold the breath hostage. I exhale a “yeah?” and turn to face him.
He’s got his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and his hair rustles with the evening breeze. The light from the bonfire casts a glow over his high cheekbones, dances across his smooth skin, and I try not to be mesmerized. I really, really try.
“I’m sorry. About your mom,” he says.
