Page 67 of Nobody in Particular

Or it would have been, if it hadn’t been quite so devastating.

“You were there physically, but you werenotright there,” Molly says, looking straight ahead. “You never checked in on me. If I checked in on you, you changed the subject. If I tried to talk about Oscar, you changed the subject. If I tried to talk about how I was doing, you changed thesubject. And you were fine. He was supposed to be your friend, and you watched him die, and you didn’t care even a little. The only thing you cared about was making sure you looked good in the public eye. Ineededyou,” she chokes. “I tried to come to you so many times. And I might as well have been telling you about a foreign news story or something for all you cared. Our frienddied,Rose. And you and I were there when it happened. You should’ve been the person I could speak to the most about it. But you completely shut me out. I was crumbling, and you just watched me.”

I remember the day after Oscar died as clearly as if I were living it now. We all left the lodge that night, and I flew back home. Here. There was a flurry of activity as my parents spoke to me, together then individually, as well as meetings with William. My bodyguard, Elizabeth, was fired early that afternoon, because of me. Adults flew from room to room talking in urgent voices, concocting plans, composing statements. I remember walking to my bathroom, staring at my reflection in the mirror and urging myself to cry. It felt as though Ishouldcry—both because of the ache in my chest that longed to be released, and the general sense that it was disrespectful to Oscar’s memory not to cry. But no matter how urgently I willed it, the tears never came.

I remember how loud my body seemed. My beating heart was abooming bass drum, my breaths were a howling wind, my parched lips stuck together and pulled apart with a dry ripping noise. Like Velcro, I remember noting.

Eventually, I gave up. Then I wandered to the study, pulled every book off the shelf, and placed them back one by one in alphabetical order.

I have no defense, because I’m sure Molly is correct. There’s much I can’t remember after that first day—the following weeks, and even months, are a blur with only a few snatches of clarity here and there—but I believe every bit of it. I’m sure I changed the subject away from Oscar as often as he was brought up, because my mind all but ceases to function when I remember him. I’m certain I never invited Molly to talk about him, or her grief, for the very same reason. As for my reputation—yes, I did focus on that, absolutely. It was the one thing I had any semblance of control over—the only thing I had any hope of fixing—while everything else lay in shattered pieces at my feet.

“That’s all true,” I tell her. “And you deserved so much better than that.”

“I just want to know why you didn’t care. Did you ever even like Oscar? Or me?”

A sigh seeps out, heavy, weary. “Of course I did. I just… the older I get, the less I’m able to feel… things. Bad things. If something’s somewhat bad, I can feel it, but it’s as though if it passes a certain threshold, it vanishes altogether. Even my thoughts disappear sometimes. I don’t know why it’s happening, and I know it’s not a good enough excuse. But that’s the reason, all the same.” I clasp my hands together tightly. “I suppose that’s why my eyes seem empty to you. Whenever I should be feeling sad, or angry, or afraid, it’s as though Idoempty out on the inside. I don’t really think I’m there at all. I’m just sort of watching from a distance.”

“You could have at least pretended to care. You could have asked me how I was. You could have let me talk about it, for god’s sake, even if you weren’t actually listening. You have no problem saying the right things to strangers, even if you don’t believe them. You should have done that for me.”

“But we don’t lie to each other, Molly. It would be fake.”

I lie to so many people, for so many reasons. I say I’m happy to be at events I despise. I make people believe I remember them and care for them, when in reality I reviewed refresher notes on their names and lives hours earlier. I pretend endless small talk doesn’t make my brain shrink. I speak passionately on causes that aren’t close to my heart in the slightest.

There are so few people I let into my life voluntarily. And all of them are people I can be myself with, for better or for worse.

But thegoodversion of myself—the one Danni seems so sure I could be—would she value authenticity over her friend’s well-being? Or would she happily play a role every now and then when it’s needed? Would she, perhaps, be more liberal with white lies than I am?

“I can try,” I offer, and Molly silently nods in response. I clear my head, and think of what I would say if Molly were a family friend, or a visiting diplomat, who had gone through a recent tragedy. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through,” I say. “Oscar was a wonderful, incredible person. He was kind, and funny, and loyal, and the loss of him is just… simply devastating. I know there’s nothing I can say that can erase this, or ease your burden, but if there’s anything you need from me—anything I can do—I will be there in a heartbeat. You’re my best friend,” I finish, and that part, at least, rings true. “And I’m so sorry you have to live through this.”

I sneak a glance at Molly to ascertain her reaction. She doesn’t look particularly moved. In fact, she appears to be fighting a smile of mirth.

“Yeah,” she says, her mouth trembling with the effort of remaining straight-faced. “That was, um… very fake.”

“I did warn you.”

“You did,” she agrees, finally letting the smile win. Sun peeking through clouds. “Thank you for trying, though. At least you tried.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t try earlier.” And again, it’s honest.

The smile fades in an instant, and all at once, Molly looks as though she’s on the verge of tears. She blinks up at the ceiling. “I just really thought you didn’t care. I thought we didn’t matter to you. I was so hurt, I was… I just…”

“I have cared about you since the day I met you,” I say quietly. “You matter to me more than almost anyone in the world, and there’s never been a moment that wasn’t true.”

The tears spill over now, slipping down her cheeks one by one. She makes no move to wipe them away. I watch them fall, and feel a pang of jealousy, which I know full well is an abominable reaction to someone I love crying, but I feel it all the same.

“Molly?” I say. “I’ve been trying to apologize and understand what happened between us for months. Why are we having this conversation now?”

She takes an awfully long time to reply, sniffling and swallowing and working her mouth as she mulls over her words. “Because I thought when you went distant, it was proof you didn’t care. I thought actions spoke louder than words, so I didn’t want to hear what you had to say. It wasn’t until Danni said she thinks you shut down when stuff goes really wrong that I even realized there could be another explanation. You were so good to me when my dad died, I thought it was evidence that youdoknow what to say, and you just didn’t care anymore. I didn’t click that the difference between Dad and Oscar is you were grieving Oscar as well. Maybe I should’ve figured it out myself. I definitely should’ve heard you out, Iknow. But I’ve just been so…”

“Sad,” I finish. “You lash out, and I lash in, I suppose.”

“I’ve been awful to you,” she says, and I get the sense that she’s realizing the truth of her words as she says them. “I’m so sorry. I was just… everything was so much, and I was so angry at everybody.”

Though her words don’t erase the hurt of the past several months—and though I’m sure she feels much the same about mine—I don’t have it in me to conjure up any bitterness. And I don’t believe it’s due to a lack of feeling, either. Mostly, I think, I’ve missed her far too much to have any interest in holding a grudge, and it feels so wonderful to be by her side and talking frankly that any less pleasant emotions simply aren’t loud enough to make themselves heard.

“I don’t suppose we’ll be able to forget this all happened,” I say.

“No.”

---