This is What Goodbye Looks Like (31 page)

“I’m not strong.”

I trail my fingertips across his cheek, tracing the tear marks there. “I’d try convincing you that you don’t see yourself clearly, but I think that might be a bit pointless.”

A ghost of a smile drifts across his lips. “Blind jokes now? Really?”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Never be sorry for talking to me. I feel like you’re the only one who I can do that with lately. Just talk.” Seth squeezes his eyes closed and breathes in deeply. “I didn’t think it’d get any worse. I thought it’d just get better from here.” He lets out a strangled laugh. “I guess I should just learn to always expect disaster.”

“Yeah,” I say. “You probably should. But you haven’t given up on good things happening, and that’s why you’re strong.”

He smiles a little, although it’s a feeble and pained expression. “Thanks for that.” He softly kisses my neck, right where his tears fell just moments ago. “And thanks for just being here.”

I don’t know how to respond to that, so I just let myself stay in this embrace, his arms firm around me and his breath warm against my skin. I know I shouldn’t be enjoying this—he’s in pain, and nothing about this situation should be good. But having Seth this close
does
feel good, in a thoroughly screwed up sort of way.

Is anything about our relationship ever going to be simple?

“Lea?” he says after a long moment. His voice is soft, but it seems abnormally loud as it breaks the silence.

“Hmm?”

“Did you start that book yet? The poetry we got from the library?”

“No, not yet.”

“Landon has a copy of it over in the corner bookshelf.”

“Seriously?” I say, trying not to sound too skeptical. Landon is many things, but a poetry nerd is not one of them.

Seth shrugs. “There’s a reason Landon’s at Harting. He’s smarter than he lets on.”

“Or did you make him get a copy?”

“He got me a collection of silent movies for my last birthday,” Seth admits, smirking just a little. “I had to get him a gift he’d hate just as much.”

“You two are ridiculous,” I say, but I’m smiling a bit as I limp over to the bookshelf and search for the Walt Whitman collection. It only takes me a moment to find the untouched book, and then I return with it to the bed. Seth’s rolled over so he takes up one half of the mattress, and as soon as he feels me sit next to him, he puts his head in my lap. I brush a few stray strands of hair away from his forehead.

I notice the familiar scent of Earl Grey and glance over at his nightstand. Sure enough, there’s a full mug of tea there. “You do realize you’re supposed to
drink
tea after you make it, right?” I say lightly. “Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen you take a single sip of the stuff.”

He scoffs. “Of course not. I hate the taste of tea.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s way too bitter.”

“So why in the world do you carry it around all the time?”

He shrugs. “I like the smell.”

“Is that supposed to make some sort of hipster statement?” I tease, nudging him gently in the side. “You’re a sophisticated dude who likes poetry and the scent of tea?”

I wait for him to crack a smile, but all he does is reach up and trace along the edge of the medal hanging from his neck. “Parker used to drink it all the time,” he finally murmurs.

My gut drops as I watch lines of anguish spread over his expression. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

He forces a small, broken smile that lasts only a second before dropping from his face. “All my favorite memories include the smell of tea. It’s nothing to be sorry for.” Before I can reply, he says, “There’s a poem in Whitman’s book called ‘To Think of Time.’ I think it’s toward the end. Can you read that one?”

“Of course,” I say, cracking open the book. It’s just as tiny as the copy from the library, but I realize there are more poems in here than I first thought. The font is super small, the lines cramped, and the pages thin.

I flip through the smooth pages until I find the right poem, and then I start reading, hoping I’m doing it right. Poetry has always been a quiet and lonely thing for me, and reading it out loud to someone just feels weird. But soon Seth smiles just the faintest bit, and as soon as I flip the page to read the rest of the poem, he starts reciting it with me.

He handles the words confidently but delicately, like they’re old friends he knows everything about. The poem goes on for another three pages, and I let Seth take over. I keep expecting him to stumble over a word or forget a line, but his recitation is perfect, and he doesn’t even seem to be trying.

Listening to him, it’s pretty obvious my attempt at reading the poem was a failure. He lets the words glide out in a smooth flow, not giving any line too much emphasis, which is where I apparently went wrong. It sounds so much better this way, the words simple and clear, the lines short and flawless. But if I listen closely, I can hear the true complexity, the way the words twine with each other, playing off each other’s sounds and strengths.

It’s only when Seth gets to the last line that he hesitates. I think he’s having the same issue I am—he doesn’t want the poem to end, doesn’t want this little bubble of peace we’ve created to burst. But he mumbles the last few words, and it’s over.

I lean over and kiss him softly on the forehead. “That was beautiful,” I say. “But you lied. It’s not happy.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Not that poem, no. But it says everything will always go on, so it’s better than happy. It’s hopeful.”

I lace my fingers with his and press the back of his hand to my cheek. He lets out a long, slow breath and closes his eyes, and I barely hear him as he murmurs, “Sometimes, I think it’d be better if I’d never been happy.”

“Why’s that?”

He considers his answer for a long moment, absently biting at his lip. “Because it must be easier for people who don’t think happiness is real,” he finally says. “You can’t miss it if you’ve never had it in the first place. You know?”

“Maybe it’d be easier,” I admit. “But what would be the point of it being easy if you can’t be happy about the easiness?”

“You’d get to be numb.”

“And miserable.”

He chuckles a little, but it’s a hoarse sound with no humor. “I already am miserable.”

“But it’s like that poem says—you know you don’t always have to be that way.”

He sighs. “Why do you have to keep being reasonable?” he grumbles, although he reaches up and brushes his thumb affectionately against my cheek, so I know he’s just teasing. “Can’t you just let me be unhappy?”

“No. Because I hate seeing you unhappy, and I’m a very selfish person.”

He smiles faintly, and it’s that genuine look I’m coming to adore. But his expression quickly falls back into one of despair, and he seems so lost and hopeless, his sadness is almost tangible.

I pull away from him as gently as I can and slip my phone out of the pocket of my hoodie. Before I can second guess myself, I snap a picture of him like that, lounging on the bed with only his pain for company. He frowns at the sound of the digital shutter, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

“Did you just take a picture?” he asks, and there’s a slight edge of anger in his voice that makes me immediately regret what I did.

“Yeah,” I admit. “I’m sorry. It’s just, we still need a photo for the eighth step of the Hero’s Journey...”

“The ordeal,” he says, reciting the step we’ve taken so many notes on. “When the hero faces his greatest fear or challenge.”

“I can’t go back to the day Parker died,” I say softly. “But I think this is as close as I can get.”

A long sigh slips past his lips, and he nods. “Well, then. How’d it turn out?”

I glance down at my phone’s screen, zooming in and out a little to test the quality of the image. “I think it’ll work.” I bite my lip and add, “You look handsome even when you’re in pain.”

My words have the intended effect, and he smiles a little at the compliment. Then he sits up and pulls me back into an embrace. I softly cup his face in my hands and lean in to kiss him.

I’m only millimeters away when I pause, my lips hovering over his. But Seth doesn’t give me the chance to think better of what I’m doing, and he kisses me, threading one hand in my hair while the other holds me close. I can taste the salt of his tears on his lips, but it just makes my heart beat faster.

He keeps the kiss surprisingly chaste. Something simple. Something pure. Something that’s the opposite of this horror story both our lives have become.

When he breaks away, my heart is pounding impossibly fast. He leans forward and rests his forehead against mine, giving me a close look at his eyes. I trail a finger along the dark bags under them, taking in their intense hazel coloring. It’s amazing how he can see so much of me when he doesn’t see me at all.

“Will you stay here for a while?” he asks, and he suddenly sounds years younger, like a scared kid. “Everything’s better when I can just hold you.”

I kiss him softly on the lips. “I’ll stay as long as you want me.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Brie rushes into the room only a few minutes after my call with Jeremy ends. I open my mouth to ask her details about tonight, hoping she’ll blabber about our plans in town and distract me from my chaotic thoughts. But my words freeze in my throat when I see the tears in her eyes and the way her hand shakes as she clutches her cell phone.

“What happened?” I demand.

Brie swipes away a tear and jogs over to the closet in the corner of our room. She doesn’t answer me until she’s yanked out her bright purple suitcase and flung it on her bed.

“I’ve got to get home,” she says in a shaky voice. “I just called and booked a plane ticket, and Nathan’s picking me up in the taxi in—” She glances around wildly until she finds the clock on her nightstand. “—fifteen minutes. So I should be able to make it back home in less than six hours.”

I cringe at the hysterical edge in her voice. “Brie, what’s going on?”

She chokes back a sob. “It’s Bailey. He’s had that fever all week, and my mom thought it was just the flu, but now he’s in the hospital, and—” She shakes her head frantically and yanks open the suitcase. “The doctors are saying his appendix burst. He’s in surgery right now.”

“Is he...?”

Brie wipes away some more tears. “I don’t know. I just talked with my mom, and she says his fever spiked really high. They can’t get it to go down.”

She starts yanking clothes off hangers in the closet and stuffing them in her suitcase. “If I’d just been at home instead of here, this wouldn’t have happened,” she says, her voice growing even higher and shakier.

“Brie, you can’t blame yourself,” I say. “Appendicitis happens to lots of kids. It’s no one’s fault.”

“But I would have known it wasn’t just the flu,” she insists. “If I’d just been there for him, I wouldn’t have let it get this bad.”

“He’s going to be okay,” I blurt out, desperately searching for something to comfort her. “I know he will. He’s your brother, so that means he has to be a strong kid.”

She stares down at her suitcase for a long moment, her hand clenched around a polka-dot sweater. Then she quietly says, “He’s not my brother.”

“What...” I take a deep breath and try to corral my spinning thoughts. “Brie, what’s that supposed to mean?”

She just goes silent and grips her forearms to keep her hands from shaking. Tears stream down her cheeks, smearing her eyeliner and making the blue of her irises seem duller.

Blue. Her eyes are blue.

The beginning of a realization scratches at my brain, and I glance at the family photo on Brie’s nightstand. It’s just like I remember: Her parents, pale-eyed and smiling, Brie in front of them, and little Bailey in her arms. Bailey with his happy little grin and dark brown eyes.

“He’s yours.”

The words just slip out, but I know they’re true the second I say them. It’d be impossible for her blue-eyed parents to have a kid with dark eyes, and Bailey is such the spitting image of Brie.

“Yeah,” she whispers, staring at the ground. “He’s my kid.”

I try not to show my shock, but I can feel my eyes get wide. Although, I have to admit that it makes sense in a way. Why Brie is so incredibly attached to Bailey, why she seems to feel so responsible for him, why he looks just a little different from everyone else in her family.

But Bailey’s two. So Brie would have been about fourteen when she got pregnant. And she might be outgoing, but she doesn’t strike me as the type who would be fooling around at that age. Unless...

Other pieces of the puzzle click into place in my mind. Brie’s refusal to date, her weird hot-and-cold behavior with Nathan, the way she shuts down sometimes when we talk about guys.

Brie glances up at me, and the haunted look in her eyes confirms my suspicions. My stomach does a barrel roll as I take in the pain and self-loathing in her expression.

“Oh god,” I murmur. “Brie...I’m—”

“Don’t apologize,” she says, cutting me off. “Bailey isn’t anything to be sorry for. That’s why I always want him to think he’s my brother. He might be the result of the worst event of my life, but he’s also the one thing I love the most. And I don’t want him to ever think for even a second that I resent him.”