I knew Mrs. Thompson was wrong—that I’d absolutely be grounded for having left—but I let it go. I was just so grateful to have somewhere to stay for a night that wasn’t marred by extreme volumes. My apartment was either too loud from shouting matches or too quiet from silent treatments. The quiet hum of a mom just making dinner for her family while the radio played in the background was a foreign, but welcome, sound.
By the time Matt and his dad got home from the birthday party, I felt much better. We had chicken parmigiana for dinner, and it was delicious. When it was time to go to sleep, Diana Thompson pulled out a trundle bed from underneath Matt’s twin. She made the bed with fresh sheets that smelled like springtime, a fluffy blanket, and a quilt that was handmade by Matt’s grandma. After Diana said goodnight and closed Matt’s door 90 percent of the way, Matt pushed our beds together so we could be side by side, and I snuggled up under the covers next to him. He took out a keychain flashlight from a toolbox in his closet, and we stayed up talking until after midnight.
Beside him in his bedroom, I was safe. And Matt’s mom, the gatekeeper to that happiness, had swung the door wide open for me.
Chapter eleven
Present
Matt looks at me across the kitchen table. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”
“Me too.”
“I would never have called you, you know.” He looks down, lost in thought. “I hate having you see me like this.”
“Like what? You look great, Matt,” I say, meaning it.
“I’m a mess,” he says, waving away the compliment.
“Stop it. You’re being monitored by doctors. You’re going to be just fine.” I reply, not convincing either of us.
“It’s hard at night.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like—what do they call it? The witching hour? That time at night where ghosts come back and haunt you?”
“Isn’t that supposed to be in the middle of the night?”
“For me, it starts as soon as the sun goes down. I don’t know. I get restless. I’m so used to taking breaks from life, you know? I don’t even know how to explain it.”
“Try me.” Unsure of where the movement comes from, I reach my hand across the table and open it, palm side up. Matt looks over at Brett, who appears to be either fully engrossed in her show or possiblyasleep on the couch. He slides his hand into mine. My heart races at his touch, even though his skin feels clammy.
“I just don’t understand how I got here. A few weeks ago, I had a routine. Get up, work, come home, hang with Brett, go to bed, repeat. Leyla was here. She handled the house, the homework. She works part-time, so she’d go to her job four days a week. And then, out of nowhere, all of a sudden everything’s different. I’m in the hospital, then Leyla’s gone, I can’t smoke anymore, I just…” His voice trails off.
“It’s an awful habit.”
“I know. But it used to give me these breaks in the day. Something good happened? Smoke a cigarette. Something bad happened? Have a cigarette. Finished dinner? Another cigarette. Arguing with Leyla? Definitely time for a cigarette. Driving somewhere? Cigarette. I know it’s a disgusting habit, but—”
“No. I understand. It’s consuming.”
“Like, obviously I understand that it’s awful and poisonous—I mean, look what it did to me—but I feel like my whole rhythm was just based on smoking, and even though I feel a noticeable difference without it, I honestly miss it. I don’t even know if that makes sense.”
“I get it. It’s almost like you need to grieve it because it was such a part of you and now it’s gone.”
“Yes. Exactly. But that sounds ridiculous when you say it out loud.”
“No it doesn’t. It’s perfectly normal. You’re human. You’ve been through a massive life-altering change. A shock to your system,” I agree. “Can I be boldly honest with you?”
“Sure,” he says.
“I think you might have PTSD.”
He doesn’t respond.
“I’ve been there. If anyone knows what it’s like to have your whole world change in a heartbeat, it’s me.”
He nods. “That’s fair.” He gently moves his thumb along the back of my hand. Goosebumps immediately form on my upper arms.
