Page 184 of A Little Complicated

My advisor switched my classes from in-person to online, and my parents moved me back to my childhood home so they can keep an eye on me while I heal. It feels weird being away from campus. The worst part is being away from my friends…myotherbrothers. They each take turns visiting me, but going from living together to weekly visits is a bitch.

Tatum hasn’t spoken to me since the night on the roof. She’s said a few words to her sister here and there, but we’re not the only ones who’ve noticed her not-so-subtle changes. Her long, auburn hair is now a sharp bob, her favorite color is black, and she’s already failing all her classes. Any chance of being accepted into Harvard will be long gone if she keeps this up, and I’ll be surprised if she winds up at LAU when she graduates in the spring.

No, the girl is spiraling and has no interest in anyone saving her, let alone herself.

I wonder if Ophelia knows her little sister was in love with Archer, but I doubt it. I also haven’t brought it up, and I’m not going to.

As for Ophelia? Well, she rearranged her entire school schedule, too, and she might not officially be living here, but she has a guest bedroom she stays in at least half the week. It was a little rocky at first, but once all the details about our relationship were ironed out, my mom, dad, and little sister accepted it with open arms. Then again, she’s always been part of the family. I just get to kiss the shit out of her now without caring who sees.

They say the first six weeks after a transplant are the hardest, but I feel pretty good. Dr. Scott tells us Archer’s heart is holding strong so far. I knew it would. Archer never half-assed anything, let alone a miracle. I’ve been seeing a therapist twice a week since the accident, and we’re working through survivor’s guilt. I’m not sure if I’ll ever really accept how everything played out, but I’m trying, and he’s assured me it’s all that matters. Ophelia usually comes along with me to my sessions. Therapy has been really good for both of us, but even so, I miss feeling happy. Feeling normal. And so, today, I’m taking a step toward exactly this. Normalcy. Just a taste of it. Even if it’s only for one night. Even if I have to fabricate it myself.

The garage door sounds as I grab the bouquet of daisies from the counter and tug at the top button on my dress shirt.

Seriously, I don’t know how Archer survived in these things.

The door opens a second later, and Opie steps into the house, freezing almost instantly when she sees me standing in front of her.

“What are you…?” Her curious gaze darts over me, taking in the suit, my freshly shaven jaw, and the flowers. When her attention finally lands on my face, she tilts her head. “Uh, why do I suddenly feel severely underdressed?” She smoothes out her LAU hoodie and wipes her palms on her jeans.

“You look beautiful,” I tell her.

“And you look…” She hesitates. “Well, gorgeous as always, but…” Her voice trails off, and she laughs. “Okay, seriously. Why are you standing in the middle of your mom and dad’s kitchen dressed in a suit?”

“I want to ask you something.”

Her breath stalls, and she slowly lowers her backpack to the ground. “Mav, I’m only eighteen—”

“I’m not asking you to marry me,” I clarify. “Yet.” With a wink, I stretch out my hand, urging her to come closer to me.

A quiet, relieved laugh slips past her lips as she strides closer, tangling our fingers together. “Yeah, thanks for the heart attack.” Eyes bulging, she rushes out, “Uh, no pun intended.”

With a laugh, I tug her closer to me. “That was a good one.”

“It was something,” she mutters.

Some might think it’s too early to joke about my transplant, but when we can either laugh or cry, it’s easier to do the first of the two. Easier to focus on the light instead of drowning in the darkness. And trust me, the darkness is thick as mud.

“So,” she starts. “If you’re not proposing, which don’t get me wrong, I’d probably say yes even though it would make me look like a crazy person, as long as we had like a ten-year engagement, but…” She drags out the last word, waiting for me to finally fill her in as she wraps her arms around my waist and gives me a look telling me I better start talking.

“Will you go to Homecoming with me?” I murmur.

She leans a little further away from me and tilts her head. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“You want to take me to Homecoming?”

“If you’ll have me.”

“I just said I’d marry you,” she reminds me. “Pretty sure I’ll have you any way I can. But are you sure you want to go to a school dance? Especially after everything that’s happened?”

“I just asked you, didn’t I?”

“I know, but”—she licks her lips—“the last time you asked me to a dance…”

“I fucked up,” I finish for her. “Yeah, I think I remember.”

A sad smile hovers at the edge of her mouth as if she’s replaying the last time I asked her to a dance and the fallout that followed.

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