Casey
“Thank you,” I say from the doorway.
My father observes me over the rim of his teacup. He’s in his study, drinking tea, an open book in front of him. It’s the one I got him last Christmas, a historical account of the Hundred Years’ War. He’s been holed up in here all day reading.
“I know you wanted to expel him,” I continue when Dad doesn’t speak. “But I promise you, he didn’t do anything wrong. Fenn’s only sin was rushing over here when I needed him.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw.
“Are you going to say anything?”
Dad sets his cup down. “What would you like me to say?”
“I don’t know.” I fidget with my sleeve. “Just something.”
“All right. Here’s something—if I ever find a boy in your room again in the middle of the night, he will be expelled if I have the power to expel him, and you will be homeschooled for your senior year. Understood?”
“Yes,” I say tightly.
“And I expect you to keep the promise you made earlier,” he adds, his eyes stern.
“I will.”
During our hourlong talk this morning, in which I laid out my case for why Fenn shouldn’t be punished too harshly for last night, one of my father’s conditions was that I return to therapy. Weekly. I wasn’t thrilled to agree, but I don’t mind Dr. Anthony that much, and it seemed like a fair exchange to keep Fenn at Sandover.
He owes me, though. And I plan on settling that debt tonight—I won’t accept anything less than the truth about prom.
“Sloane just put a lasagna in the oven,” I tell him. “She said it’ll be ready by seven.”
Dad nods and reaches for his book. “I’ll see you at dinner, then.”
Dismissed.
I wait until I’ve closed the door to roll my eyes. I get it. He’s pissed that he caught Fenn in my bedroom. But come on, it wasn’t that big a deal.
In the hall, I fish my phone out of the pocket of my zip-up sweatshirt.
Me: Hey, we still on for later? Dinner’s at 7, so I’ll be free around 9. Meet on the lake path?
Fenn is typing, but the dots keep appearing and disappearing for what seems like an eternity. I get bored of waiting and head upstairs. I want to shower and change before dinner.
My phone buzzes as I’m striding into my room.
Fenn: It kills me to say this, but you were right. It needs to be over. I’m not the guy for you, Casey. I’m sorry.
I stare at the message.
A second ticks by. Two. Three. Ten.
Still I keep staring. In the hopes that it will make sense soon. I even double-check it’s actually written in English because my brain won’t compute. My eyes see words like “over” and “sorry” but obviously my eyes are stupid and wrong. There’s no way he’s ending things with me.
Over text.
That’s preposterous.
My pulse gets weaker, slowing to a crawl as I send back three words.
Me: Are you serious?
This time he answers straightaway.
Fenn: I am. I’m so sorry. You need to forget about me.
I exhale in slow, measured breaths. My pulse accelerates now. Faster and faster, until it’s thundering angrily between my ears.
I cannot fucking believe this. This guy spent a month trying to bulldoze his way back into my life, begging my forgiveness on a daily basis. And until last night, I was standing my ground, maintaining my boundaries. But he steamrolled past those too. Last night when he held me in his arms, I was ready to forgive him, even without knowing the whole truth about prom. I’d reminded myself Fenn had saved my life, that I was alive because of him, and wasn’t that the most important thing?
God. There must be something wrong with me. An inherent flaw in my programming that compels me to commit the same mistakes and be constantly amazed to find myself alone.
Or maybe’s it’s just Fenn.
Hiding in plain sight like a colorless, odorless poison.
Microdosing himself into my veins until my heart stops beating.
I can’t believe I ever let him convince me he was my friend. I was so close to forgiving him, against my better judgment and every warning bell blaring in my head. But Fenn Bishop is impervious to all my natural defenses, slithering inside my brain to whisper just the right lies and empty promises.
I sink onto the edge of my bed, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay. Funny thing is, I thought this time he was ready to tell the truth, that after weeks of begging for the chance to come clean, he wouldn’t screw it up this time. Only here I am again, the fool. Flat on my face.
The tears dry up as the pain surrounding my heart hardens into something darker, more hostile. Anger flares inside my skull, a deafening, howling storm of rage and resentment that intensifies each time I reread Fenn’s messages.
I can’t fucking stand it any longer.
Dropping my phone on the bed, I force myself to go take a shower. I crank the temperature to scalding and then stand under the spray, breathing in clouds of steam before tipping my face upward. I let the hot water soak me. Soothe me. Somehow, it works. I close my eyes, and the first peaceful thought I’ve had all day drifts in among the clutter.
The memory of speeding through the mountains with the windows down.
Eating ice cream in a random town.
Getting lost and forgetting who I am.
As the heat and steam loosen my tense muscles, I remember the last time I was happy. Not drunk-happy or revenge-happy or orgasm-happy. Just…happy.
After the shower, I throw on a pair of yoga pants, a striped sweater, and warm wool socks. I need to feed Silver before I’m called down for dinner, so I reach into my top desk drawer for the Ziploc bag of food I stashed there. Today we’ve officially graduated to alfalfa hay and plain pellets that are supposedly high in fiber. Silver still seems weak, though. I really wish she would move around more.
When I lift the lid of her shoebox and peek in, she’s once again still.
“Wake up, kiddo,” I say softly. “Alfalfa time.”
I’ve been leaving her food in the corner of the box next to a shallow water dish. Usually when I prep her food, her eyes pop open and she makes the cutest squeaking noises. This evening, she remains silent.
“What’s wrong?” I coo. “Come on, cutie pie, let’s have some dinner.”
Silver doesn’t react. Ears don’t even twitch.
It takes a little while longer before I realize what’s wrong.
What’s wrong is that Silver is dead.
I feel it happening almost in slow motion—I feel myself going numb. Shutting down. Just like Silver hadn’t reacted to the sound of my voice, I don’t react to the fact that she’s gone. I stare at her motionless body. Then I replace the lid of the shoebox.
“Case! Dinner!”
At Sloane’s shout, I exit my bedroom on autopilot, the box tucked under my arm. I go downstairs and enter the kitchen without a word, finding my sister in the process of removing her oven mitts. Steam rises from the lasagna pan cooling on the stove.
“Set the table?” Sloane says over her shoulder.
“Sure.”
She turns, laughing when she spots the shoebox. “Silver’s joining us for dinner?”
“She’s dead,” I answer.
“Oh shit.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Dad’s voice sounds from the doorway. He’d walked in just in time to overhear us. “I’m so sorry.”
I shrug.
With a sigh, he walks over and gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll get the shovel.”
“Don’t bother.” I ease out of his grasp and walk to the counter, opening the tall drawer that houses our trash can.
“Case?” he says uneasily.
“We always knew she was going to die. There’s no point in a burial. Seems like a lot of effort for no reason.”
There’s silence in my wake as I drop the box in the garbage. I shut the drawer and turn around to find two confused faces.
“What?” I mutter.
“You always bury your strays.” The groove in Sloane’s forehead gets deeper. “You’ve been holding animal funerals since you were six years old.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not six anymore. People grow up.” I shrug again. “And things die.”
Everything fucking dies.