This is What Goodbye Looks Like (26 page)

“I don’t, obviously. But that’s the thing—I can say that I think both definitions might work, and no one gets upset about it. No one ever expects me to know exactly how I feel about colors.”

He reaches up to rub at the medal hanging from his neck. “I think it’d be a lot easier if everything was like that,” he murmurs. “If people didn’t expect you to have opinions on things you couldn’t possibly understand.”

I shut my eyes, but I can’t keep away images from the accident. The red of Parker’s blood dripping down his forehead. The red of the lipstick my mom wore throughout the trial, always so stark against the sickly paleness of her skin. The red of Mrs. Ashbury’s teary eyes as I recited my carefully prepared lies to the courtroom, ripping away Parker’s chance at justice.

“But some things are just bad, right?” I murmur. “Sometimes you can’t color it any other way.”

“Sometimes,” Seth agrees, reaching his arm back around me to give a comforting hug. His voice lightens to a teasing tone as he adds, “But that’s when you need to go read more poetry that’s not by Bukowski. I still can’t believe he’s your favorite. Seriously, could you pick someone more depressing?”

I nudge him gently in the side. “And what about you? Emerson? Could you have picked a more visual poet?”

“Yes. Tennyson.”

“Tennyson is nearly as bad as Emerson. Practically every word of his poems are describing how something looks.”

“Exactly,” he says, poking me gently in the side. “Contrary to your delusional belief, the point of poetry isn’t to make people sad. The point is to give someone an image, and what they do with it is totally up to them.”

I consider this for a moment. “I think I like that definition.”

“Of course you do,” he says smugly.

I look around at the rest of room, taking in the other pages on the wall. “Where are all your other souvenirs from?”

“The fall leaves are from Connecticut. I have an aunt there my family visits every September, so I used a page from one of Victoria Grand’s books as the frame. She grew up in the same town my aunt lives in.” He gestures to the other end of the wall. “The gravel is from a nature trail behind our old house. Parker and I spent practically an entire summer hiking around there, and I ended up using a page from one of Emerson’s books for that frame. And the pine needles are from California, so the frame is a poem by Francesca Acosta. She’s pretty much the only West Coast poet I like.”

“What about the page on the far wall, the one by the dresser?”

“That one’s from Wisconsin.”

I frown at the page, which is empty except for a small, type-set page number at the very bottom. “But there’s nothing there.”

Seth smirks. “Exactly.”

I can’t help it. I let out a small laugh, and my chest aches from it, but it hurts in a way that makes me feel stretched and not torn. Seth chuckles, too, and he sounds beautiful like this, his amusement full and deep and contagious.

Before I can stop myself, I reach up and cup his face in my hands. He flinches at first, surprised by my touch, but then his cheeks lift in a smile under my palms. I tilt his head down just a little, so he’s looking right at me, even if he doesn’t know it.

He raises his eyebrows and softly asks, “Can you do me a favor?”

“You ask me to do a lot of favors.”

“Just one more,” he says. “Please.”

“Yeah. I’ll do it.” The real challenge would be
not
doing it. At this point, he could probably convince me to do anything.

“Next time you’re in the library, check out some books by Emerson,” he says. “And stop reading Bukowski, at least for now.”

“Why?”

He reaches up and places his own hand over mine. “Because you have so many colors in you, and it makes you beautiful. But I hate to think of even one of them making you sad.”

I swallow hard and let my hands fall from his face. Concern draws his brows together, and I immediately feel bad. But how can I explain that I deserve every shade of sadness in me? How do I tell him that all my colors already bled together into a muddy brown, and nothing will ever change that?

I can’t tell him, not without making everything worse. So I just say, “I should go. We’re going to get caught if I stay in here much longer.”

A bewildered look flashes across his face. “Did I say something?”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” I tell him, and it might be the truest thing I’ve said all day.

He gives a small, curt nod and pulls away from me a bit, giving me space. “Okay. But I’m not letting you leave until you put on some gloves and a coat. You can borrow mine.”

“Thanks.” Then I clear my throat a little and add, “And thank you for letting me crash in here. And for talking to me. And...yeah.”

He bites at his lip. “Did you feel any better?”

“A little bit,” I admit. The pain isn’t drowning me anymore, although it still saturates my every breath, a dark, humid cloud filling my chest.

“So, yeah, thanks,” I mumble, pushing the quilt off me and standing from the bed. “You’re too good to me.”

“You’re the kind of person who deserves good things, Lea.”

“No. I’m really not.”

He shakes his head and sighs. “Then do me another favor and pick up a mirror when you get a chance. If you’re so interested in how things look, then you might as well start seeing yourself like everyone else does.”

I get up to leave, but before I reach the door, he asks, “Tonight or tomorrow?”

Despite the heaviness hanging over me, the familiarity of the either-or question makes me smile just a little. “How am I supposed to answer that?”

“Do I get to see you again later tonight or sometime tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, I think,” I say. “I need some time alone.”

“I get that,” he says. “But I’m not going to let you stay alone for too long. I’ll come check on you tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. “More than okay.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

The next morning is a blur of food that makes me nauseous, classrooms that are too loud, and teachers who won’t quit frowning at me. After I fail a pop-quiz in Chemistry, Mr. Bennet shoos me back to my dorm, insisting I’m sick and need rest.

Class is miserable, but the dorm is even worse. Late last night, I had Brie there, so I could cry on her shoulder and fall asleep to the sound of her muttering angry things about my parents. I skimmed over a lot of the details, but giving Brie the basics of the situation was enough to trigger her big-sister instinct and send her into a full-on raging session, which was strangely soothing. It was nice to hear I’m not the only one in the world still concerned about Camille, even if Brie has no idea who Camille really is, or why she’s “sick.”

Now Brie and everyone else is in class, and I’m not, and the silence of the dorm is suffocating. Every second is too long and too still, and the low exhale of the heater sounds eerily like a breathing machine.

I bury myself under my quilt and pull out my Chemistry textbook, going over the latest section. I already know it by heart, but Seth is struggling with this part, and I think I need to figure out a new way to explain it for the next time I tutor him.

I let the science soothe me, page after page, formula after formula, fact after fact. Even the most mind-boggling problems are always tidied up into neat little solutions on the “answers” page. It makes me desperate for a straightforward fix for my own problems, and before I realize what I’m doing, I find myself scribbling equations in the margins of my notebook.

Camille + Waking Up = Good

Mom + Dad + Lea + Jeremy + Camille + No One Dying = Better

Family — The Past Nine Months = Ideal

I tap my pen against the spine of the notebook, letting it dig into the little binder holes and mark up the edges. If only there was a way to apply these equations to real life, instead of just letting them clutter up my paper. I hesitate before scribbling down one more line:

Lea + Seth =

My pen hovers over the page, but no matter what angle I look at the problem from, I can’t figure out the answer. I finally give up and throw my notebook to the ground, and it lands with a dull thump that doesn’t seem nearly dramatic enough.

I don’t know how long I’ve been numbly staring at the ceiling when I hear a knock at my door, followed by a muffled voice I recognize as Seth’s.

I hesitate only a moment. “Come in.”

Seth opens the door, and I have one moment to see both him and Ms. Thorne framed in the entrance before he slips inside my room. Ms. Thorne pats him on the shoulder and then closes the door after him.

I raise my eyebrows. “Did I just see what I think I just saw?”

“Depends. Did you just see the world’s most awesome teacher sneak a student into an off-limits part of campus?”

“I think?”

“Then yeah.” He has his usual travel mug of tea in one hand, but he uses the other to hold up a bright blue thermos. “I brought you chicken noodle soup, and Ms. Thorne isn’t mean enough to deny a sick student a magic cure.”

“I’m not actually sick.”

He shrugs. “And I’m not actually a girl. But I’m still going to hang out in your dorm until you tell me to leave.”

I think I’m too desperate for comfort to reject his kindness, because for once, his sweetness doesn’t make me feel guilty. Or maybe I’m just too numb to feel anything right.

“Thanks,” I say. “Um, come sit down. If you walk forward a few steps, my bed is right there. And I’ll put my quilt on the ground for Koda.”

He follows my directions and sits on the end of my bed. He feels for my nightstand and sets his tea down there and then turns to Koda and unclips her vest. She shakes herself, ruffling up the fur that’s been pressed down, and I pull off my quilt and drop it on the floor. She takes it gently between her teeth, tugs it closer to Seth, then circles a few times and plops down for a nap. I stare at her enviously, wishing I could sleep that easily.

Seth holds out the thermos. “You should eat.” He shakes it a little, silently urging me to take it. I mumble some excuse about my stomach being too upset, but he doesn’t retract his hand, so I reluctantly take the thermos from him.

We there in awkward silence for a moment, him tapping his hand against his knee, and me tracing a finger along the lid of the thermos. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, seemingly unable to find anything to say, so I spare him by taking over our stunted conversation.

“I’ll close the blinds,” I say, and then get up to do just that. Brie always keeps our blinds wide open so sunshine fills our room in the afternoons. But, even with his sunglasses on, I can see the corner of Seth’s eyes squinting to avoid the brightness.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says.

I ignore him and yank the blinds closed on both windows, leaving the room cast in deep shadow. Seth sighs, although I can’t tell if it’s from relief or annoyance that I ignored him. Either way, he reaches up and pulls off his sunglasses, rubbing at his face with his palm. Even in the dim light, I’m struck by his eyes like I always am. Their color seems even more intense today than usual, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s because his eyes are rimmed with dark bags, just like mine.

“I’d ask you if you were doing okay,” Seth says. “But you’re obviously not after last night.”

I sit next to him and lean against his shoulder as I pick the thermos back up. “Nope.”

He places a comforting arm around me. “Have you talked to your family any more? I mean, since you got the, um, news?”

No. No, I never called Dad back, because I still don’t want it to be real. I dig my fingernail into my wrist, trying for the hundredth time to wake myself up, and failing for the hundredth time. This is a nightmare, but not the kind I get to face in my sleep.

“I’m kind of trying to keep my distance right now,” I mumble, twisting at the cap of the thermos. “I don’t think anyone in my family is really in the mood to talk.”

I give the thermos a small shake, making the soup inside slosh around. “Thanks for bringing this.”

“Of course.” He leans back on my bed, resting on his elbows, and I immediately miss having his warmth pressed against me.

I force myself to focus on the lunch he brought me, giving the thermos a sniff. It doesn’t smell like much, but I guess that’s good. I don’t think my stomach could handle anything rich without the food coming right back up.

I take a sip, and bitterness instantly fills my mouth. I choke on the taste, trying to spit it back into the thermos at the same time I swallow the sudden rush of bile in my throat. A coughing fit hits me then, and Seth’s eyes widen as he hears it.

“What’s the matter?” he demands, reaching out and grabbing my forearm. “Are you choking?”

I snatch my water bottle from my nightstand, gulping down a few mouthfuls in a desperate attempt to wash the taste out of my mouth.

“No,” I sputter. “Fine. I’m fine.” I cough one more time and take another gulp of water, swishing it around my mouth. “Seth, who gave you that soup?”

“Landon. I was going to get it, but I had to stay late after class, and I didn’t want the cafeteria to run out.”