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smooth all the sharp edges away.

The balcony door opens and closes. “There you are,” Trev says.

“Mina’s looking for you.”

“It’s nice out here,” I say.

Trev walks up next to me and leans against the railing. “It’s freez-

ing.” Taking off his coat, he drapes it over my shoulders. The smell of

pine and wood glue curls around me.

“Thanks,” I say, but I don’t gather the edges of his coat against me.

I can’t envelop myself in him like I am in her.

“You two fi ghting?” Trev asks.

“A little.”

“You know, it’s easiest to forgive her for whatever she did. She’ll

just bug you until you do.”

“Why do you think it’s her fault?”

Trev smiles. “Come on, Soph. It’s you. You don’t do anything

wrong.”

I shiver, thinking about the extra drugs stashed all over my room.

About the lines I snorted this morning before we drove here. About

the pills I just took. About all the pills I pop, off schedule, like secret

candy. “It’s not her fault. It’s nothing. It’ll be fi ne.”

I hug myself. The Oxy is starting to kick in, that numb, fl oaty feel-

ing mixing with the buzz of the alcohol, and I nearly drop the cup.

Trev frowns and takes it from me, setting it on the ground. “Maybe

this wasn’t a good idea, bringing you two. I don’t want to give your

mom more reasons to hate me.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” I mutter, even though we both know it’s a

token, that I’m lying. “And I can hold my own. Mina’s the bad drunk.”

“Oh, trust me, I know.” Trev’s easy smile unravels the tightness in

T E S S S H A R P E

111

my chest that’s been there since Mina confronted me in the car. He’s

only trying to help, he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t see me the way Mina does.

I face him and lean back against the balcony railing. The move-

ment makes his coat slip off my shoulders, and the light from the

apartment illuminates my skin. I’m wearing a shirt cut so low you can

see the edge of my scar if you’re at the right angle. I tug at the neckline,

automatic, but useless. Trev’s eyes fl icker down, turning serious and

studying, blatantly staring.

His smile disappears and he closes the space between us in a step.

His hand cups my shoulder, pulling me forward. I feel, rather than see,

his coat puddle to the ground. The fabric hits the back of my legs on

the way down, and I wish that I’d wrapped myself in it.

“Trev?” I question, and my voice wavers. I’ve mixed too many pills

with vodka; this isn’t a good idea. He’s way too close.

“Soph.” His thumb presses over the line of the scar that cuts my

chest in uneven halves, physical in a way he’s never, ever been with

me. He has to be drunk—he’d never do this sober; he’s always so care-

ful about touching me.

“God, Sophie.” He sucks his cheeks in, biting at them. “This is

where . . .”

His hand fl attens against me, covering the worst of it. His palm

curves in the space between my breasts, his callused fi ngertips resting

lightly on the scar, rising and falling with each breath I take.

My heart thuds, pounding beneath my skin, greedy for the contact.

“I don’t know why you forgave me,” he says, words thick with

emotion and beer.

“I was the moron who didn’t put on my seat belt,” I say, like I’ve

said every time he’s brought this up.

“I was so scared when you didn’t wake up,” Trev says. “I should’ve

112

F A R F R O M Y O U

known better. Mina did. She kept saying you were too stubborn to

leave us.”

He looks up, all that pain out in the open, and when I meet his

gaze, his fi ngers twitch, like he wants to curl them, to drag them

across my skin, make something beautiful out of the wreckage.

I know suddenly, surely, that if I don’t look away, he’s going to kiss

me. It’s in the way he holds himself, the way he shift s from foot to

foot and rubs the hem of my top between the fi ngers of his free hand

like he’s trying to memorize the feel of it. It’s something intrinsically

Trev: focused, honest, safe. It splits me in two: one part wants to kiss

him—the other wants to run.

I almost wish he’d do it. It’s not like I haven’t wondered. Haven’t

caught him looking at me.

It’s not like I don’t know how he feels about me.

But that last thought makes me look down. I step away, and for a

second I’m afraid he won’t let go, but then he does; of course he does.

“I need some water,” I say, and I hurry inside as a part of me, the

honest part, breathes a sigh of relief.

23

NOW (JUNE)

The second I get home, I tear open the envelope I’d found

hidden in Mina’s room. It’s lumpy in one corner, and I shake

out a thumb drive just as Mom walks down the hall. One

hand snaps over the drive—it’s shaped like a tiny purple

Hello Kitty—and the other shoves the envelope into my

back pocket.

Mom frowns. “What are you doing standing here in the

hall?” she asks.

“Just putting my keys back.” I dig in my purse, dropping

the thumb drive in it before coming up with my key chain.

I smile at her while I hang it on the wall hook. “Something

smells good.”

“I made roast chicken. Come sit down and eat.”

I follow her into the dining room, where Dad’s already

waiting. Mom’s used the good china.

The envelope in my pocket crinkles as I walk up to the

table. I want to get up to my room, barricade the door, plug

that drive into my laptop.

I have to choke back a sigh as my mother sits down. Why

did they have to choose tonight for family togetherness?

I take my place on the left, my mother at one end, my

father on the other.

114

F A R F R O M Y O U

“How did your appointment go?” Mom asks.

“Fine,” I say.

“Do you like Dr. Hughes?” Dad asks. I wonder if they’ve

made some prearranged agreement to go back and forth

with their questions.

“He’s okay.”

“I realize you’ve never had a male therapist,” Mom says.

“If that’s a problem . . .”

“No,” I reply. “Dr. Hughes is fi ne. I like him. Really.” I

take a bite of roast chicken, chewing it for an unnecessarily

long time.

“We should talk about college soon,” Dad says. “Make a

list of universities you’re interested in.”

I put my fork down, my appetite lost. I’d hoped to have

a few more weeks before we got into this. After all, school

doesn’t even start for two more months.

“You’re on track to start senior year in August,” Mom

assures me, mistaking the look on my face.

I push my peas across my plate, afraid to swallow any-

thing. There’s a lump in my throat the size of Texas. I don’t

have time to think about this. I have to concentrate on fi nd-

ing Mina’s killer.

What’s on that thumb drive?

“And the independent study you completed at Seaside

was all very good work; your teachers were impressed,”

Mom continues, a rare smile on her face.

“I’m not worried about that,” I begin.

“Is it the applications? We can fi nd some way to explain

those months you spent away. And if you center your

T E S S S H A R P E

115

personal essay around the accident, and overcoming all

that you had to just to walk again, I’m sure—”

“You want me to play the gimp card?” I cut in, and she

fl inches like I’ve slapped her.

“Don’t call yourself that!” she snaps.

I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Mom is the

one who took the accident the hardest. Dad had driven me

to physical therapy and done all the research on my sur-

geries. He’d carried me up and down the stairs that fi rst

month, and when I was still in the hospital, he’d read me

a story every night, like I was still in second grade. He got

to take care of me all over again just when I was supposed

to be taking care of myself. And Dad is good at taking care

of people.

Mom is good at fi xing things, but she can’t fi x me, and

she can’t handle that.

“It’s the truth.” The words are harsh, aimed to shatter her

ice-queen armor. Make her fi nally stop longing for the girl

I was to return. “I am a gimp. And a junkie. And you think

it’s partly my fault Mina got shot, so I guess we should add

accidental killer
to that list, too. Hey, maybe I can write my

personal essay on
that
.”

She goes red, then white, and then almost purple. I’m

fascinated, arrested in her anger as the expression in her

eyes melts from concerned to enraged. Even my father puts

down his fork and puts his hand on her arm, like he’s won-

dering if he’s going to need to stop her from lunging at me

across the table.

“Sophie Grace, you will show respect in this house,” she

116

F A R F R O M Y O U

fi nally spits out. “To me and your father and, most impor-

tantly, to yourself.”

I toss my napkin onto my plate. “I’m done.” I push myself

up, but my leg shakes and I have to hold on to the table for

longer than I’d like. Limping, I make my way out of the

dining room. I can feel her watching me, the way her gaze

absorbs each uneven step, each moment of clumsiness.

When I get upstairs, I almost drop my bag, I’m in such

a hurry to get at the thumb drive. I grab it, fl ip open my

laptop, and plug the drive into the port, tapping my fi ngers

against my desk.

The folder appears on my desktop, and I double-click it,

my heart thumping in my ears.

The alert
Enter password
fl ashes onscreen. I type in her

birthday fi rst. Next I try Trev’s, then mine, then her dad’s,

but no use. I try names of old pets, even the turtle she

got when we were in third grade that died the week she

brought it home, but nothing works. For over an hour, I

type in every word I can think of, but none of them will

open the drive.

Frustrated, I get up, passing by my dresser, where I’ve

set Mina’s ring next to mine. I pick it up, tilting it, the word

winking at me in the lamplight.

I whirl back around, heart thumping, type
forever
into

the dialog box, and press Enter.

Incorrect Password.

Bottled-up anger, twined with the lingering hurt of my

mother’s words, fl oods through me. “Goddammit, Mina,” I

mutter. I throw the ring, hard. It bounces off the wall and

onto the carpet near my bed.

T E S S S H A R P E

117

Almost as soon as it falls, I’m on my knees, wincing at

the pain, but scrambling to scoop it up. My hands shake as

I slip it on.

They don’t stop until I go over to my dresser and the

second ring—mine—joins hers on my thumb.

24

A YEAR AND A HALF AGO (SIXTEEN YEARS OLD)

Aft er the party, I’m drunk and still high, lying on the fl oor of Trev’s

living room next to Mina, each of us tucked into a sleeping bag. I can

hear his roommates’ snores all the way down the hall.

The fl oor is hard, with thin carpet that has mysterious stains I

don’t want to think about, in this apartment full of boys. I’m restless,

shift ing back and forth, staring at the ceiling that has beer caps stuck

in the plaster. My eyes are heavy, but I don’t let them shut.

Mina’s awake, but she’s pretending not to be. She can’t fool me,