Well, that’s on me for not taking the time to eat before leaving. Maybe I’ll sneak to the kitchen once I’m done with my much-needed moment alone.
I walk out of the ballroom, welcoming the stillness that fills the rest of the house. It’s as silent as ever while I make my way to the private wing, where my old room is. When I pass the door of Victoria’s room, I momentarily stop my course and lay a hand on the golden plate with her name engraved on it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, hoping that wherever she is now, she knows just how much I mean it.
A few steps later, there’s the same plate with my name this time, and I push the door open. The space still bears traces of my younger self, even though it isn’t as bad as it used to be. Something switched in me the day Vicky died, and I matured overnight. I still remember how I ripped my One Direction and Twilight posters. Now, all that’s left to testify for their existence are small pinholes in the wallpaper. On the shelves though, I still have the books I used to love, CDs, and trinkets.
With a sigh, I lie down on the bed, staring emptily at the white ceiling. Right there, I used to have a Jacob Black poster. A smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I realize I wouldn’t say no to a Jacob Clarke one.
I swear we must be connected because my phone vibrates in my back pocket, and I just know it’s him.
Wombat Guy
Should we set up an hourly check-up or something?
Me
Maybe. I already want to leave :(
Wombat Guy
That bad? You haven’t even been there for half an hour.
Me
You’d understand if you knew my mother.
Wombat Guy
As someone who lost his mum way too young, I tend to remind people to be grateful for having a mother at all.
My heart drops all the way to my guts, and I suddenly feel terrible for even complaining to him. He’s had it so much worse than me, and he doesn’t deserve my entitled ranting.
Me
Crap, right. I’m so sorry, Jake.
Wombat Guy
It’s alright. I finished mourning her a long time ago.
Me
Still, it was insensitive of me.
Wombat Guy
Are you still with her right now?
Me
No, I’m alone on my old bed. She sent me here to rest because I apparently look like a corpse.
I chew on my bottom lip, hoping he isn’t annoyed with me—which he would be entirely entitled to. Instead of a text coming in, it’s a call. I pick up and press the phone to my ear.
He opens with, “Alright, maybe I was wrong about your mother.”
I giggle, relieved. “She’s something, that’s for sure.”
