Page 1 of Deep Gap

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“Let me drive you,” Karen offers.

I pause, shrugging on the thin coat I bought at the donation center before the winter weather set in. The collar has gotten stuck underneath the back of the jacket and my shirt sleeves have ridden up to my elbows. I should either take it off and try again or find a mirror to un-bunch everything.

“Please, Greer. It’s cold out.” I hear my mom’s voice in Karen’s reminder and see her concern that I’m not protected from the elements.

Turning from the soulful expression that I’m still unable to handle, I decide I’ll be going back to the thrift shop for a thicker coat before Karen runs to the mall to buy one for me. I’ve taken too much from her.

You took everything from her.

“I walked here. It’s no big deal. I walk everywhere.” I stop fiddling and pull up my shirt, exposing the mismatched tank top I’m wearing underneath. Another donation center find I’d worn all summer when it was sweltering in Brighton. “See layers!”

For Karen’s sake, I keep it cheerful and walk toward the front door without meeting the worrisome crinkles at the corner of her eyes. She was kind enough to feed me a huge breakfast before I go to work. I refuse to take advantage of her hospitality. The whole reason I agreed to come over was that I’d spent Thanksgiving with my mom and dad when Karen had wanted all three of us here. I hate disappointing her.

When I glance into the mirror there, my own face betrays the act I’m putting on for Karen’s benefit. I don’t recognize the detached woman who is staring back at me with her stringy blonde hair secured in a thick ponytail at the base of her neck. My outsides and my insides don’t match.

Or maybe what’s left on the inside is reflected on the outside. I couldn’t smile if you asked me to. With the exception of everything Karen’s husband, Mac, does for me, I haven’t had many reasons to smile in years.

I flop my long hair out over my coat. The end smacks between my shoulder blades. As I’m buttoning up, it happens. Like a moth to a flame, my gaze finds the eight-by-ten Karen keeps on the mantle.

Senior year. God-awful mottled blue background that I guess is supposed to resemble the wide sky and all the possibilities in the world. Tan sport coat, white button-down, and red-bordering-on-burgundy tie because that’s the kind of momma’s boy Ellis was that he allowed Karen to choose his outfit on portrait day. Although Ellis practiced for days trying to master tying it himself. He was so proud of himself. Heck, I was proud of him.

I feel the elation of his laugh from over a decade ago, when Ellis showed me how to do it, ring hollow inside my empty chest. My windpipe collapses and the parts of my heart that had begun healing since the last time this happened once again show the telltale marks of how threadbare my life is since Ellis died.

I miss his smile. His gleaming white teeth. How he towered over me from the moment our mothers introduced us. We had so much in common. There was never once I hadn’t trusted Ellis. Whether that was showing me the secret of how to ease forked vegetables underneath the dinner table and feed them to one of his family’s many animals, or slipping me the correct formula for a problem during a math test. Ellis was a constant. At seventeen, I couldn’t envision my life without him. At eighteen his life was over.

So was mine.

Karen’s hands rub my shoulders, breaking my trance. “He loved you. We love you.”

“Thank you.” I hug Karen, repeating the same response I’ve given to her and her husband whenever they’ve reminded me over the past few years.

What else do you say to the parents of the boy you killed?

“I love you, too” seems superficial. But “Thank you for forgiving me for the unforgivable” I can get behind.

Aside from Karen and Mac and my parents, I think I’ve lost the ability to love anyone. Some days I doubt I ever knew how to begin with.

I clear my throat and chirp, “Breakfast was wonderful. I appreciate you feeding me, but I don’t want to be late!”

If Karen and I reminisce about Ellis now, we won’t stop. Or she won’t. I mostly let her talk out her grief and answer any questions she asks as frequently as she asks the same ones, albeit in slightly different manner. I refuse to hold things back from my best friend’s mom and dad that they’re entitled to know about their son. All the same, Karen and Mac own the dog training facility that I work at and she deserves an employee who doesn’t shirk their responsibilities.

“It will only take a minute to get my keys?” She presses.

“It only takes a few minutes to walk that mile. The fresh air will do me good.”

“The November cold has your cheeks permanently pink, sweetheart.”

“Some people call that healthy.”

She releases a wry laugh. “Promise me you’ll be safe. Call if you need a ride.”

“I promise to be safe.” We both know I won’t call.

Outside, I put my earbuds in my ears, letting the music play softly so I remain aware of my surroundings. I tuck my hands inside my pockets and am down the driveway, passing the house when Karen finally goes back inside. My lips move to the lyrics and my feet fall rhythmically, landing on the wet pavement. It rained last night. I avoid the craggy puddles where the worn road dips and water fills the potholes. The weatherman says it will be sunny and thirty degrees warmer tomorrow afternoon. North Carolina’s early winter weather has a serious case of ADD.

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