Still, it feels petty to bring this up to anyone. Now isn’t the time to be dramatic or clingy. Not when Hayes is going through so much. So I try to ignore the ache in my chest and pretend not to hear Amber’s late-night calls with him echoing down the hallway. Even when it breaks my heart a little more each time it happens.
“Yes, of course I’ll go with you,” I hear her whisper into the phone one night while I’m cramming for midterms in the kitchen, hunched over a big pot of coffee. Her bedroom door is open down the hall, and she’s even louder than usual.
“Yeah, I get that. But you need me,” she says, then pauses, like she’s listening closely to whatever he’s saying on the other end. “We’ll figure it out.”
Then I hear her annoying, tinkling laughter.
“Duh, yes, of course. I know it’sfar, Hayes.” I can practically hear her rolling her eyes at the phone. “But I want this to work, too.”
My stomach knots.
I have a sickening hunch they’re talking about her traveling with him to Greece when he goes back. I don’t know if Hayes plans to finish the semester at LHU or take a leave of absence now, but with his father gone, a move to Greece feels like a foregone conclusion.
It’s not if.
It’s when.
But is he really bringing Amber with him?
How would that even work? She’s a senior. She still has to finish high school. Mom may be a pushover for Amber, but I can’t imagine her signing off on something that drastic. Not before graduation, at least.
Unless they’re just talking about a short trip during winter break. That would make more sense, though it’s hard to believe Mom would let Amber fly off to Europe, even with Hayes. Our family has never even left California. And I have no idea where she’d get the money for an international flight.
Amber laughs loudly again into the phone.
“No, I suppose the whole princess part doesn’t hurt either.”
I don’t even want to know what they’re talking about now.
I slam my textbook closed and storm down the hallway, shutting myself in my room and curling up in bed. I have to remind myself not to overreact and remember my mother’s advice. Hayes is hurting; he’s not thinking clearly. I need to be patient. Cuthim some slack. So even though what I really want to do is wring his neck, I bottle it up and keep it all inside.
The next day, I drive over with Mom to help her deliver the grief sachets she made for him and Kora. They’re filled with herbs like lavender and tiny chips of rose-red rhodonite that she says are supposed to “calm the spirit,” whatever that means.
I tell myself I’m doing this to be kind. To offer support. The truth is, I just want to see him and remind him I’m still here, even if he doesn’t seem to want me anymore.
But when we arrive, no one answers the door. We quietly leave the sachets on the porch, tucking them beneath the welcome mat, and that’s that.
When we get back home, I immediately head for my room and climb back into bed, where I’ve been wasting away for days.
Mom trails after me, her long, floral peasant skirt sweeping the floor. Her ponytail is tied back with a matching silken scarf covered in tiny butterflies. I catch her watching me with that firm, no-nonsense expression, the one she wears whenever she senses I’m slipping into that quiet, shadowy place inside myself.
“That’s it. Enough moping around, Alysander,” she says, planting herself in the doorway.
“I’m not moping.”
I quickly shove my song journal beneath my pillow before she can catch a glimpse. Heat prickles at my neck just thinking about what’s inside. In between studying for exams, I’ve been working out a new song—a messy, heartsick ballad about painful unrequited love. One that even I know is way too on the nose.
“Your sister says you haven’t gotten out of bed all week except for class,” Mom says, crossing her arms. “She’s worried about you. I am too.”
I groan. “Ambrosia needs to learn how to keep her mouth shut.”
Of course Amber told her.
I bet she couldn’t wait. I can practically see Amber’s smug little smirk as she told Mom how I’ve been holed up in my room, blasting sad-girl indie rock and plowing through an alarming amount of pizza and ice cream.
“This isn’t healthy. Your aura’s all black and blocked.” Mom sits beside me, tucking a greasy strand of hair behind my ear. “Come on, you’ve got to get out of this funk. Shake it off, sweetie.”
I snort.
