Two days since the blowup on the dock. It’s bad enough that Bentley’s bedroom window is visible from mine, but now he’s in clear view of the picture window, lifting weights in his yard while I’m eating dinner with my family.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Mom asks as I push my food around my plate. The last thing she needs to worry about right now is my failed relationship with Bentley.
“Nope,” I respond. “Can I eat in my room?”
“I thought you hated your room, or so you told us a few days ago,” Dad says, trying to lighten the mood. Between me and Mom, he’s had one heck of a week trying to be cheery.
I shrug. “Changed my mind.”
My parents look at each other.
“Okay,” Mom says as I stand. “What if we told you that you’ve completed the self-reflection period; would you still want to go to your room?”
I know I should be happy to hear it, but it doesn’t feel like good news, just pressure to handle five thousand disasters.
“Yup,” I say and turn around, heading for the stairs.
I abandon my plate on the nightstand and fall onto my bed. I’ll just stay here for the rest of the night, watch a movie, and pass out—deal with it all in the morning.
But after fourteen minutes of ceiling staring, I stand up, my cyclical thoughts getting the better of me, and I resign myself to talking to August.
“Whatever,” I say to no one, not confident I’m making the right decision, but if I spend one more minute in my bedroom, I might torch it.
I change out of my pajamas and into a pair of cutoffs and a tank top. And I head back down the stairs. But as I near the kitchen, I hear my parents fighting.
“And how are we supposed to explain that to Valentine?” Dad objects.
“We don’t,” Mom replies in a tight voice.
“And what if your doctor’s right that there could be life-threatening complications? What if you die?” Dad says, and my heart stops. “How do you think she’ll feel, knowing we didn’t tell her?”
“Prem,” Mom says in a hard tone. “I’m not discussing this right now. Not until we know for sure.”
Fear and nausea churn my stomach in awful ways. I’m going in there—I’m going to yell and plead with her to take care of herself. But she starts to sob, and it’s so awful that I turn away before I reach the kitchen, my own eyes welling. Instead, I make my way to the door and quietly close it behind me.
I take a gasping breath on the porch, willing myself not to fall apart, and head toward August’s house. I climb the ladder and slide through his window, my feet landing on his floor with a thunk.
He’s in bed, book in hand.
“Hello?” I say, only it comes out sounding like a rude question.
He doesn’t look at me. “I’m not in the mood to fight.”
“Excuse me?” I say, my tone questionable. “I didn’t come here to fight.”
“Yes, you did,” he says, finally looking away from his page but not closing it. “And I’m telling you that I don’t want to.”
He starts reading again, and for some reason it makes my blood boil. I came here to vent, but obviously he’s too stuck in his own damn head to notice. I’m about to turn away and climb back out the window when I stop.
Frustration pulses through me. “You’re not the only one who has bad things happen, you know. Have you even considered that maybe my life isn’t going well, either? No, you haven’t.”
His eyes tense, but he remains fixated on his book. Part of me knows I should stop, but the other part of me doesn’t care.
“This is exactly what I mean. Not one word asking me if I’m okay, what’s going on with me, or why I’ve been so damn quiet. Meanwhile I’ve been bending over backward to help you for years. Every fight, every disappointment, and there I am. Faithful Valentine.”
Still nothing but silence.
Anger rises in my chest, hot and unruly. “But you know what? Not anymore. ’Cause guess what, August? I don’t want to go to Berkeley. And you know what’s messed up? For a second there, I was going to go for you. Well, not anymore. Go to California by yourself!”
Now he does put his book down. But all he says is a quiet, “If that’s how you feel.”
“It is!” I say and storm out his bedroom door, not trusting myself on the ladder right now.