Page 51 of Every Thought Taken

Concern bleeds from her pores and covers me like a blanket of anxiety. I hate it. Hate her worry. Hate her pity. And if I did meet her gaze, I’d hate the unshed tears I know are there.

“Dinner’s ready.”

Again, I don’t answer. I have no plans to eat with my family. Mom will bitch the entire meal when I don’t come out. She will speak loud enough for me to hear her through the walls, to hear her disappointment. Then, after she bitches for thirty minutes, she will wrap my uneaten food with plastic wrap, put it in the fridge, and tell Dad how hard she worked on a dinner I didn’t eat. How I have no respect for her or the effort she puts into making meals.

Eventually, when all the lights are out and everyone falls asleep, I will leave my room and eat enough to barely satiate my growling stomach. Drink enough water to keep me going.

“She misses you,” Ales whispers as her fingers ghost my forehead.

A knife pierces the center of my chest at her words.She misses you.Wish I believed her. Wish I believed anyone could miss me. But I know the truth. No one misses me. No one cares.

Ales leans into me, wraps an arm around my twisted form, and kisses my forehead. A sniffle sounds in my ear as she hugs me tighter. “Love you, Baby A.” Then she releases me, rises from the bed, and leaves my room.

The second the door clicks shut, I curl into a tighter ball. Hug my knees to my chin and free an ounce of the pain. Release a little of the hurt as tears leak from my eyes.

She misses you.

And I forget how to breathe without her.

CHAPTER29

HELENA

Four and a half painful months. Were they worth it? Yes and no. It was lonely and dreadful and harrowing, but I managed to pull all my grades up.

I stare down at the report card in my hand, at the A’s and B’s printed on the small scrap of paper. Pride blooms in my chest at the accomplishment. Right beside pride, though, is this unending emptiness. Dark and hollow and cold. A place that was once warm and bright and filled with love and light and laughter. A place reserved solely for Anderson, who I haven’t seen or spoken to since late January.

He hasn’t walked home with us from school for months. Hasn’t responded to any of the texts or calls or notes I sent via Lessa. After my regretful blowup, he shut me out.

Can’t say I blame him. If our roles were reversed, I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.

Although I deserve his silence, I pray he will forgive me for my heat-of-the-moment outburst. I pray he will give me another chance.

The bell rings and I swipe up my backpack, beelining for the door. People wish me a great summer as I pass, but I don’t stop to return the sentiment or spark conversation. No, my only goal is to leave school on swift feet and make it to Anderson’s school before he bolts.

“Lena,” Lessa yells through the throng of bodies as I exit the hallway.

I don’t stop for her. I push forward and slow jog to the sidewalk lining the front of the school. A minute later, my muscles burn as I switch from a jog to running. My pulse whooshes behind my ears, my lungs begging for more air as I eat up the distance.

Then I see him, already on the sidewalk near the opposite end of the middle school campus. His gait is wide and his stride is quick and determined as he trudges forward.

I open my mouth to yell his name, but my voice won’t come. So I push harder, run faster, chase after him. And just before he turns the corner, I catch up to him, grab his arm, and yank him back as I skid to a stop.

My lungs tighten in my chest. My heart beats an uncontrollable rhythm beneath my breastbone. The muscles in my legs are on fire and ready to buckle. But none of that matters because he is here.

“Ander.” I wheeze and hold up a hand. “Please.” I lift my arms in an attempt to ease my breathing. “Wait.”

He doesn’t say anything as his eyes roam my face. The muscles in his jaw flex a moment before he looks away.

As I wait for my breathing to settle, I take him in. After eighteen horrendous weeks, I scan his face. A face I have missed.

The first thing I notice is his sunken cheeks, the tightness of his skin on his bones. Dark marks rest below his dull blue eyes that refuse to meet mine. He tucks his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie, the hood over his head. Even with the baggy material concealing his body, I see his slender frame. The weight he has lost.

“Ander,” I say more confidently as I reach for him.

He flinches and takes a step back. The small move is a slap to the face. A hit I deserve.

“Hey,” I say, a touch softer. “Please.” I pull my hand back and clasp both together at my waist. “Can we talk?”

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