He leans over and kisses me, and I kiss him back, but I barely feel it, my lips numb.
I say goodbye and cross the snowy driveway into my house, and the headlights ofTed’s car swing across the front door in an arc before he heads down the street. I go into my warm house and shed my coat, gloves, and hat. I can hear theTV in the family room and my little sister practicing her flute from her bedroom.
“Maya?” Mom says, walking out from the family room. “You’re back early, honey. Are you feeling tired?” I can barely answer before she bustles around me, hanging up my coat and putting away my snow-covered shoes in the front closet, as if doing so myself will break me in my fragile condition.
“Mom, you don’t have to—”
“Nonsense. You go lie down. I got you one of those Himalayan sea salt lamps. It’s in your room.They’re supposed to be wonderful for getting more restful sleep.”
“It’s not the quality of the sleep that’s the problem, Mom,” I say with a sigh. About a half-dozen different types of sleep studies have told us that over the years.
“Well, it can’t hurt,” she says, patting me on the cheek. “You need to take care of yourself.”
“I know.” I give her a smile and then hustle off to my room. She can think I’m dying to crawl into bed—god knows that’s been true for way too many days recently—but really I need to gather my courage to call Kevin.
Which is crazy. It’s not a big deal that I have a boyfriend. Maybe this will break the ice on talking about our dating lives—something that shouldn’t be weird, not anymore. Maybe he’ll feel okay telling me about the girls he’s dating.
I try to ignore the queasy feeling that gives me. I try to ignore my own fear, brittle like a thin sheet of ice, that Kevin will be hurt and upset that I didn’t tell him sooner, that this will change something between us.
I get up to my room, and yep, there’s this big-ass rock lamp glowing orange on my dresser and supposedly emitting . . . I don’t know, special sleep ions? Salt-crystal angel prayers?
Until I see some serious, research-based studies, I don’t believe it’s going to do shit for my fatigue.
But a little part of me can’t help but wish it would help make this phone call easier.
Eight
Kevin
I’m in the middle of scrolling through the latest streaming service offerings in the horror genre when Maya Skypes me. I answer mid-scroll. “Hey gorgeous,” I say, glancing at the screen. “Looks like we finally have some new movies to add to our list.”
“That’s cool,” Maya says. Something in her voice makes me put down my remote. She’s looking off to the side, not quite paying attention to the screen, but also not fully focused on something else, like homework.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, sure,” she says.
But it isn’t. I can tell. I wonder if she’s gotten some bad news about her health. She’s been available fewer nights lately, which I assume means she’s needing to get more rest. I know she says that her illness comes and goes, and sometimes she needs more sleep and that’s just how it is.
But I still worry about her.
“So,” she says, sounding like she’s trying to bring something up casually but doing exactly the opposite. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”
“Yeah?” I say. I can already tell it isn’t something good. “What’s that?”
“Um, about this guy.” She bites her lip and looks up at the ceiling before continuing, all in one breath. “MyboyfriendTed.”
It takes me a second to parse that.
Herboyfriend.
Her boyfriend,Ted?
“Uh, okay,” I say. I manage not to blurt out any of the things I’m thinking, which go in this order:
You have a boyfriend?
And you didn’ttellme?
