Did I black out? I don't remember any of it. Just the poolhouse door and the rain and my feet moving and now Rosalie's hands on my chest and her face searching mine in the dark.
"Michael, where is Blaire? Why are you out here alone? Come get in the car."
Something about hearing her name out loud caves my chest in in a way I wasn't prepared for. I look past Rosalie at the street behind her, at the headlights of her car idling at the curb, and I make a decision that feels less like a choice and more like the only possible next thing.
"I'm leaving," I say. "I can't live here anymore."
Rosalie goes very still. "What are you talking about?"
"Houston. I can't." The wind is getting stronger, and I'm so cold I've stopped feeling it. "I'm done here, Rose. I'm not doing this anymore."
"Michael." She steps closer, gets both hands on my face, and forces me to look at her. Her eyes search mine, and whatever she finds there changes her expression entirely. "Get in the car," she says. "Right now, we go home, get you warm, and you tell me everything."
"Rose—"
"Everything, Michael. Then you can climb into a warm bed and get some rest. I’ll even heat your sheets like I used to when you were younger." Her hands tighten on my jaw. "But first, you get in the car."
Images of Blaire in my bedroom flood in all at once. Her laugh when she watchedSpaceballsfor the first time. Her throwing popcorn at me across the room. Her falling asleep in my bed.
My face crumples.
My knees hit the wet pavement before I can stop them, and the sound that comes out of me doesn't feel like something I made. I’ve been quietly breaking since I left that party and I’ve officially run out of road.
"God, Michael! Please talk to me!"
I can't. I can't even form words. I press my fist into the ground and hit it, and then again, and again. The pain in my knuckles is the only thing that feels real right now, the only thing I can locate, and I can't stop.
Rosalie steps back. I can hear her sobbing somewhere behind me, not knowing what to do, and I hate myself for that too, for making her stand in the rain at three in the morning watching her little brother come apart on the pavement, and I still can't stop.
I scream into the rain until my throat is raw.
***
The paper on the exam table crinkles every time I shift, which is often, because there’s no position where my hand doesn’t feel like it’s throbbing in its own language. It’s swollen enough that it doesn’t look like mine anymore, like someone swapped it out while I wasn’t paying attention.
Once my emotions settled, Rosalie was finally able to get me into the car. The adrenaline drop let the pain in my hand and arm finally register, and she detoured to the closest emergencyroom. On the way, I filled her in on everything. I don't think I've ever seen such a murderous look on her face as I did in that car.
Both of us running on impulse, we made a plan. Pull me out of school and finish the last couple of weeks remote. Pack. Leave Houston immediately. She said she goes where I go, that she can practice law anywhere. I've already been accepted to UCLA and Caltech. The move to LA was always the plan — I'm just making it sooner, and with Rosalie in tow. I don't know if she's fully serious about coming with me, but it's been me and her for four years and I can't imagine doing this part without her.
Once we checked in, I told her I'd see the doctor alone. I'm officially an adult and have been for six months, so I don't need her hovering like a mother hen. But mostly I'm too embarrassed to have her beside me while I hear the full damage report on what I did to myself by punching concrete like that was going to solve anything.
The doctor rolls back on his stool, eyes moving from the X-rays to me.
“Alright,” he says. “Good news first, nothing’s displaced. You didn’t shatter anything.”
I let out a breath, but he’s not finished.
“But you’ve got a couple of hairline fractures across the metacarpals.” He taps the screen. “Here... and here. Fourth and fifth.”
My ring finger and pinky.
I stare at the image, trying to make sense of the thin, pale lines he’s pointing at. They don’t look like much. They don’t look like the kind of thing that should hurt this bad.
“It doesn’t look like much,” I say.
“This type of fracture typically doesn’t,” he replies.
His gaze drops to my hand again, taking in the swelling, the raw skin across my knuckles.
