Page 72 of Until the Ribbon Breaks

“Yeah, no problem. I got it.”

“Thanks.”

After she disappears down the hall, Marcus moves to stand in the doorway and asks across the way, “Do you need anything?”

“No,” Harlow responds, so I know her door is open even if I can’t see it from where I’m sitting.

Pulling my knees up, I rest my forehead on them as embarrassment over her seeing me cry swells. If only there were a place for me to run and hide, but there isn’t. I’m stuck, but so is she. This must be how she felt when I saw her restrained to a bed, how mortified she must’ve been to be seen at her weakest. I try to use that to help curb my own mortification, but it doesn’t do a whole lot. Not being alone at rock bottom doesn’t make being at rock bottom any easier.

“Is it cool?” Marcus asks, pulling me out of my thoughts, and when I look up, Harlow is standing next to him.

“What?”

“Is it cool if she comes in and talks to you?”

I nod, and when she walks in, Marcus steps out and stands next to the door because, heaven forbid they leave us unattended. My eyes track her as she makes her way over and sits on the floor next to me.

“What happened to your hand?”

“I hit the doorjamb,” I tell her before stretching my legs out in front of me. Lifting the ice pack, I show her my knuckles, which are already bruising.

“You just got your cast off.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Her attention is making me uncomfortable. For the first time, someone knows my truth.

She and I used to be friends when we were younger, but somewhere along the line, everything changed. During these past two weeks, I’ve come to realize that I have no reason to dislike her. I only picked on her because everyone else was and it seemed like the cool thing to do.

It was all bullshit.

“What happened?” she asks after a span of silence.

The urge to lie is instinctual at this point, but she already knows so much, so why bother? “My mother didn’t even bother showing up today.” There’s a pain in her eyes when I tell her this, but I go on and reveal, “She doesn’t even call me or show up to therapy sessions.”

“Have you tried calling her?”

I chuckle beneath my breath, but there’s nothing funny about it. “What’s the point?” She goes quiet, and in a strange way, telling her this stuff makes breathing easier. “I hate her,” I admit, feeling safe enough to unload that.

“Why?”

“Because I needed her after my dad died, and when I turned to her, she had already turned to alcohol.” Memories of how she used to be when my father was alive hit heavily, forcing me to fight back the rising sadness. “It’s horrible that I feel like that. I mean ... she’s my mom.” A tear slips out, and I quickly wipe it as if I can hide it from her.

“I hate my mom too.”

“Why?”

And this time, it’s her eyes that flood. “She doesn’t know how to love someone like me.”

“What do you meansomeone like you?”

“I’m not normal.” Her voice cracks, and when she blinks, tears spill down her cheeks.

My chest pulls toward her like a magnetic force, and when I drop the icepack and slip my arm around her shoulders, she leans into me. Even with her crying, there’s something soothing about holding her in my arms. Maybe it’s the fact that I can relate to her in a way I haven’t found with anyone else, that we get each other on a level no one else can understand.

Our pieces are broken in different ways, but to know that I don’t have to pretend to be perfect around her alleviates so much of the pressure I’m constantly under.

Marcus peeks in, and I tense because it’s against the rules for us to be touching like this, but he doesn’t say a word. He simply turns away, and when he does, I wrap my other arm around her and hug her. It feels selfish on my part, but if she wasn’t getting any comfort out of it, she’d push me away, but she isn’t.

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