Page 118 of All the way home

“All of it.” Sahar gestures wide. “The way I handled things the night we—you know. And . . .”

Rena stares, disbelieving.

“And I should have been there,” Sahar continues at last, voice a scraping whisper. “I’ve been kicking myself for the last year for not reaching out when I knew you weren’t okay.”

“I’m sorry. I overreacted, and I said awful things,” Rena urges. “I told you that you weren’t a good friend, when—”

When you were the only person who saw me and ever asked.

“You were nothing but a good friend.”

Sahar lets out a little groan and a disbelieving laugh. “So, what—we’ve both just been hating ourselves for the last year and a half?”

“I guess we have,” Rena says. It’s as though an unbelievable weight has been lifted. Cautiously, she asks, “You knew I wasn’t okay?”

Sahar’s expression is even and serious. “Even if we weren’t friends, I was still around people who care about you. And even from a distance . . . you just disappeared.”

Rena stares down at her hands, stomach churning, heart racing.

“What . . . happened?” Sahar asks. “If you want to talk about it.”

It’s a well-kept secret.

Of course it is.

They don’t talk about it. Mum and Dad pretend it never happened, even with Rena. The idea that they’d tell anyone else is laughable.

Rena takes a breath, and then she tells the truth. “Kieran almost died.”

In an instant, she’s back there. Back in the Uber on her way home from Siobhan’s Christmas party. The one Kieran had said he was too tired to attend.

Soft snow had drifted through the intermittent glow of streetlights, as the car wound its way through familiar streets, and Rena tilted her head back, weary. Then she’d texted Kieran.

Fun party but would have been better with you there

Grant did an Elvis impression that was SO bad

Yours is better

I hope your head is better

Also I think Oscar and Siobhan are getting engaged soon

Isn’t that crazy

She paused for a moment, then added another text before pocketing her phone.

Love you

When the Uber finally pulled up to the curb, Rena was nearly asleep. She’d jolted awake and made the dash up her front steps with her coat held over her head so she wouldn’t get snow in her nicely curled hair.

The house was very, very quiet, except for a soft strain of jazz from the living room. “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” on vinyl; Rena would know it anywhere.

The hallway lights were off. The basement door was shut.

Toeing out of her shoes, Rena frowned.

Kieran was not the sort to put records on by himself, and if he did, Frank Sinatra would not be his first choice.