Here’s the thing: This wasn’t the first bus ride I’d spent crying.
That kind of thing happened when you lived with depression. Some days you just had to cry.
It was good to cry. It excreted stress hormones.
And here’s another thing: Everyone leaves you alone if you’re crying on a bus. Most humans are averse to other people’s stress hormones, as if they were a communicable disease.
I don’t think I had ever hurt anyone in my life the way I hurt Landon.
I hated myself for that.
And I hated myself for not regretting it.
There was probably something wrong with me.
There were a lot of things wrong with me.
When I opened the garage door, Dad’s car was in its spot.
I had never been so happy to see Dad’s Audi in my entire life.
I kicked off my Sambas without untying them and ran through the door.
“Dad?”
But the kitchen was empty. Laleh was in the living room, curled up against the side of the couch, with a huge book in her lap.
“Hey, Laleh. I saw Dad’s car in the garage.”
“He’s upstairs,” she whispered.
I knelt down and whispered back, “Why are we whispering?”
Laleh didn’t look up at me. Her lip turned down and quivered a bit.
“I don’t know.”
It wasn’t like Laleh not to say what was bothering her.
Not to me, anyway.
“I’ll go check on him. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I padded up the stairs. Mom and Dad’s door was shut.
I knocked. “Hello?”
After a moment, Mom opened the door wide enough for her face. “Darius?”
“Hey. Is Dad here?”
“He’s in the shower.”
As soon as she said that, the water turned on.
“Oh. Okay.”
