Your mom opens the door. Behind her, the house is crowded with church people. Her best friend, Winona, slides up beside her, frowning at me, but your mom waves her back and steps outside.
I’m bawling.
“I’m sorry,” I cry. “I’m so sorry.”
Your mom just stares at me. “Why are you sorry?” I want one of her hugs, but she crosses her arms.
“It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”
Her jaw stiffens. “It is not your fault. You shouldn’t think—”
I’m hysterical. “It is. If I didn’t go on this break, if I didn’t fight with him, if I wasn’t such an awful human being…”
“Stop it, Jessie!” she yells.
I’ve never heard your mom yell. My head is pounding and I feel confused and unfocused and half out of my mind, but her voice is like getting splashed with cold water. I blink at her.
“You need to stop it,” she says, shaking her finger at me. “Right now. I’ve had enough, girl. Are you really this self-centered? Do you really think you have that kind of power? To make my boy kill himself?” Her voice breaks.
I step back.
But she’s not done. Her eyes are filled with stormy passion. “You do not have that power. You’re just a girl. That’s it. He dated other girls before you. He had a whole life before you. He has a family and friends who love him. Who are you to say that you are that important? He had all kinds of trials in his life and he made it through. He would have made it through you, too. You do not have the right to claim that kind of power, do you understand?”
I nod, and move numbly backward, down the steps, but she follows me. My vision is all blurry. A scream is building up inside of me.
“He had a mental illness,” she says.
I cry, “But if I hadn’t—”
“Jessie!” Her hands are clenched, and she bangs them now against the sides of her pants. “I don’t want to hear about how sorry you are or how it’s your fault.”
Tears and snot are cascading down my face, and I’m sobbing even though I hear what she’s saying, I do.
She presses her hand over her eyes. “Jessie…I know you lost him too.”
The front door swings open. Your dad steps onto the stoop, and Raffa eases out behind him. He moves slowly down the stairs and wraps his arms so gently around your mom, it reminds me of you.
“Come on, baby,” he says. “Come inside.”
“Jessie, you should go home now,” your mom says, softer.
I turn and walk slowly toward home.