Page 96 of It's Always Been You
I am so sorry for your loss.
An elevator ride.
Jordan’s cries.
Silence.
Gabe coming to get me.
Gabe driving me home.
Gabe taking care of me.
Gabe telling me he would love me the way I deserve to be loved.
Gabe.
His arm is a comforting weight around me, anchoring my body to his, and his hand is still holding mine. I asked him not to let go and he didn’t. Ever. Even in sleep, he kept his promise.
I could live a thousand lifetimes and never deserve this man.
I want to crawl into his body and sink into his warmth. Let him keep me safe from a world where my evergreen embrace of chaos and clutter means I’m late to pick up my friend. Where being late means my friend is dead and my other friend has to live forever without his love. Where there were so many tear-soaked pillows last night and there will be for so many nights to come.
Because of me.
My fault.
My fault.
My fault.
With no chaos brain to protect me, the words circle and take root, and other, deeply buried memories start to surface.
Molly, why can’t you ever just keep your room clean?
Molly, I think you have the messiest desk in the whole fifth grade.
I’m switching dorm rooms, Molly. I’m really sorry, but I just can’t take the mess.
You can’t possibly need three purses. No one has that much stuff.
I thought lawyers were known for organization.
How do you find anything in here?
God, how do you live like this?
Don’t you think that’s enough pink?
Too much. Too loud. Too messy. Too extra. Too everything.
The memories slam into me like bullets, each one hitting its mark. My breath goes shallow, my head spins, and my stomach churns with nausea.
Slowly—so, so slowly—I unwrap my hand from Gabe’s. As carefully as I can, I slide out from under his arm. If he wakes up, he’ll ask what’s wrong. He’ll wrap me in his strong arms and kiss my head and tell me he loves me and that none of this is my fault.
But he’s wrong. Allie is dead because of me, and no hug in the world can fix that. Not even Gabe’s. I don’t even deserve to let him try.
As quietly as I can, I get out of bed and tiptoe out the door, leaving a still-sleeping Gabe behind. I freeze in the doorway to the guest room, taking it all in. Clothes strewn all over the bed. A folded pile of sweaters in the corner. Hangers on the floor. Accessories all over the dresser. My fingers itch to clean everything up. To give everything its place. To make some order in the chaos. But I don’t want to wake Gabe, so I grab the first sweatshirt and leggings I can find and close the door on the mess.
