Page 153 of From Now On

“I’m not the one who did something stupid.”

Hart’s grip doesn’t loosen.

“I’m fine. I mean, I’m not. And I’ll explain why later. But right now, I just really need to get the hell out of here. I’ll be back later tonight.”

His hand finally drops. “Okay. Call me if you need anything, all right?”

I nod, then pound down the stairs.

My keys were already in my pocket in case Conor wanted me to drive. I reverse out of my usual spot, a little of the tightness in my chest easing as I accelerate down the road.

Ten minutes later, I’m doing eighty along I-5.

If Sean isn’t okay, I’m going to blame myself. I’m going to wonder if he didn’t call because I told him not to. I’m going to wonder whether he’d be okay if he’d called.

I’m sick with the possibility. There’s no anger or resentment, how I normally feel after one of Sean’s relapses. None of the exhaustion either. I’m so jacked up my hands are trembling.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, making sure the wheels stay straight in my lane.

As I drive, I let myself think about the memories I usually avoid.

Sean and I were inseparable as kids. That changed a little as we got older. I became the annoying little brother tagging along. But he was always there when I needed him. For girl advice, for a ride to a party, for a trip to the rink. Even after all the distance his addiction created, I can’t imagine my life without him.

I didn’t think he’d show up for the championship game, but I hoped.

I didn’t think he’d come to graduation with my parents, but I hoped.

And hope is really dangerous. Because it assumes anything can be fixed, and some things are too final to be resuscitated.

I didn’t realize how much I relied on hope—on the belief Sean would be okay one day—until now.

You can’thopesomeone comes back from the dead.

I’ve always kept it together after Sean called. I swallowed my disappointment and resentment and fear, and I kept going.

But I’m realizing I never considered how badly it could end. I’d rather Sean call me in the middle of the night for the rest of my life than never call again.

I told him not to call.

That guilt is suffocating.

A torturous hour later, my mom calls. The car swerves a little as I rush to answer.

“He’s awake.”

The flood of relief is like a first breath after being held underwater. I’m gasping. Reeling. But so,sorelieved it’s staggering.

“They’re running a bunch of tests, and we’re waiting to talk to another doctor. But the nurse said he’s stable. Out of the woods. Oh, honey, here’s the doctor now. I’ll give you another update as soon as I can.”

“Okay,” I say before she hangs up.

My voice sounds hoarse, like I was screaming.

I kind of want to. The relief is mixing with all the other chaotic emotions churning inside of me, and I need some sort of outlet.

I take the next exit, then merge back onto the highway headed in the direction I came from. Toward Somerville. The dinner is more than halfway over, so showing up now will just be a distraction.

And I feel better than when my mom first called, but not by much. Attending a celebration is one of the last things I feel like doing right now.

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