Page 68 of Come As You Are

Too late

Went back to the mall

Chick with the blue hair tattooed it on my thigh

I do not need to think about Salem Grayson’s thighs. Or the way Salem looked at said chick with the blue hair at the Ink Spot.

My dad calls to me from the kitchen before I can think of a clever response, letting me know my mom’s pulling into the driveway and he’ll be putting dinner on the table in two minutes. Instinctively, I open my mouth to tell him I’ll come help, then remember that I can’t carry a damn thing. I use the two minutes to maneuver my way to the table on crutches instead.

“You do not make those look very comfortable, kiddo,” he says with a sympathetic smile as he puts a pitcher of water on the table, then returns to the cabinets for three glasses. I half expect him to grab four out of habit, the way I probably would, then remember he’s had two months now to get used to having only three people at dinner. And lately, it hasn’t even been that.

The urge to apologize for leaving is strong, and the words are on the tip of my tongue when the door opens and my mom swoops in, planting a quick kiss on my dad before giving me one of her lukewarm hugs. “It’s good to see you,sweetie,” she says, holding me at arm’s length as she sizes up my whole crutch situation. “I hope it doesn’t hurt too bad.”

“It’s okay.” Which is true, because they gave me painkillers at the infirmary just before I left. “Mostly, I’m hoping the doctor will tell me tomorrow that I don’t have to stay on these crutches. I suck at using them.”

She sets her bag down on the counter and puts her keys in the tray by the door—moves I could choreograph in my sleep, even after months away. “How have you been getting around campus?”

“A friend helped me out.” I feel a little warmth rise in my cheeks at the thought of wrapping myself around Salem, or vice versa, and hope it doesn’t show on my face.

“I’m so glad you’re making friends.” My parents are a well-oiled machine, bending around each other at just the right angles for salad, lasagna, grated parmesan from its same-old spot in the fridge. I don’t need anything more than the fact that the clear plastic cylinder is still nearly full to remind me that Sierra isn’t here; she could eat a leather shoe if you put enough cheese on it. “Did you tell Claire you were coming home? Or are you two still having trouble?”

“We’re okay now, Mom,” I say as we take our seats and start passing things around. “But no, I didn’t mention coming home. I don’t really feel like seeing anyone when I’m like this. Maybe over Thanksgiving.”

“That’d be nice.” She fills three-quarters of her plate with salad, then hands me the bowl. It’s kale, which I don’t think I’ve ever seen at the Beast, and haven’t been missing. But mymom thinks the dark leafy green is God’s gift; she consumes it almost as frequently as Salem eats green apples.

I take a little bit, just to show I’m making an effort.

My mom asks the same questions my dad already did, and I give the same answers. Finally, she broaches the one subject my dad didn’t. “Have you spoken to your sister at all?”

She has to know that I haven’t. Do they even allow you to keep your phone at rehab? But I just say “Nope” and push the kale around my plate, hoping that’ll be the end of it.

“I think she’d really like to hear from you.”

“Ithink she has enough on her plate already.” I let the tine of my fork scratch the dish, just enough to get a little screech out of the contact.

“Evie—”

Jesus.“No,Mom. Please, just stop.” I drop the fork onto the plate and meet her eyes with mine. They look tired, and sad, but even as it hurts my heart to look at her, I know I positively cannot do this. “You said if I left, I’d miss her. Let me tell you something—I don’t, okay? I don’t miss her, and I don’t want to talk to her, and I amlovingfinally having my own life that doesn’t have her in it. So stop trying to shove things back where they don’t belong.”

“Everett, don’t talk to your mother that way.”

Oh good, now they’re both mad. Well, turns out, so am I. And I may have been a sweet, doting daughter the last time I was home, but I’m the Rumson Girl now. “Then how exactly would you like me to get this message across, Dad? Because apparently begging to go toboardingschool didn’t do it. Straight-up telling you both that I don’t want to talk to herisn’t cutting it. So how about I tell you this: she slept with her own sister’s boyfriend.” The sharp inhale of my mother’s breath is only mildly satisfying. “And, by the way, she’s never once said she’s sorry. So if you can’t understandme,I hope you can understand that. Thank you for dinner, but I’m gonna go ice my ankle again.”

There’s no fight as I stand up and crutch-hop away.

After dropping that, it’s a little awkward to then ask my parents for help, and they’ve locked themselves away in their room for a conversation I’m clearly not meant to hear and don’t particularly want to, anyway. It’s too hard to handle making my own ice pack while I wait for the one I used before dinner to refreeze, so I settle for elevating my foot on my bed while I finish my GSA reading and glance at my phone every five minutes, willing it to light up.

I really, really hate missing Salem Grayson.

You don’tmisshim,I chastise myself, tossing the book onto my nightstand and collapsing back into my pillow.You’ve gotten used to him helping you. And you had an unfortunately timed shirtless run-in that’s scrambling your brain a little. That’sit.

Well, and the guitar playing. And singing. And returning your stolen goods for you. And buying you candy cigarettes.

Ugh, where didthoseeven come from?

And offering to walk you into class when Duncan was giving you shit. And being such a good brother that he got himself kickedout of school just to buy his sister some space to breathe. And taking incredible care of you when you got injured. And—

“Oh my God, shutup!” I yell at my own brain.

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