Page 140 of Until the Ribbon Breaks

I text him the address and then make my way there.

Normally, I’d be more upset after a fight with my mom, but oddly, I don’t feel much of anything. In the two months since I was discharged, I’ve slowly been disconnecting from who I am. Or maybe I’m finally connecting.

It’s hard to tell the difference when you’re undefinable.

Last night scared me, but it hurt me too. The first time Sebastian kissed me, I felt so much. It was a comfort that slipped between my fractures and helped to fill some of the gaping holes—the parts of me that have always been missing.

I know it was merely an illusion, but it felt good, so I allowed myself to believe he was actually making me better.

But last night, I couldn’t feel it. Something was missing, so I kept kissing him, hoping to find it again.

I couldn’t.

I pull into the driveway only minutes before Sebastian arrives.

“You mind if I take a shower here?” he asks when we get out of our cars.

“No, it’s fine.”

He takes the duffle bag from his trunk, and we head in. After he cleans up, we spend the rest of the day in the room my dad set up for me. Lying in bed, we watch television and nap off and on, wasting away the hours. He only asks once if I’m okay, and when I tell him I’m fine, he simply lets me be. If it were anyone else, they’d be hounding me with questions, but he knows what I need, and he gives it.

Mom: About to leave the shop. You want me to pick up dinner?

“Who’s that?” Sebastian asks when I start texting back.

“My mom. She’s on her way home.”

Me: I’m taking pictures at the homecoming game tonight, remember?

Sebastian reads the text and chuckles. “You’re such a liar.”

“I’m not ready to go home just yet,” I say because I like hiding away with him and I don’t want it to end.

“Are you going to get in trouble for not showing up to the game?”

I shrug. “I don’t really care.” I could easily text Jennifer to tell her I won’t be there and that she needs to find someone else, but I don’t. I can’t even be bothered to make the effort. And it’s true, I don’t care. It’s a stupid football game, played by stupid people, living out their stupid high-school dreams.

It’s all stupid.

Mom: Have fun. I’ll see you when you get home.

Tossing my phone aside, I tuck my head under his chin and soak up the time remaining before I have to go.

“You know, you could just stay here if you want,” I offer.

“When does your dad get back?”

“Not for another two weeks.”

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

“He won’t know, and it’s better than you having to wait until my mom goes to bed for you to come over.”

“Thanks,” he responds.

After a few more hours, I tell him goodnight and head back home. When I walk in, my mother lifts her eyes from the book she’s reading in the living room.

“How was the game?” she asks as if everything’s fine and we weren’t yelling at each other this morning.

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