It’s my second-to-last morning at LakeShore. Red and I sit in companionable silence over strong coffee and waffles soaked with syrup. We both know I’m leaving tomorrow. We both know Red isn’t. What we don’t know, what neither of us is saying, is how we’ll make it on our own.
Red’s the first to break the silence. “It’s going to be real boring playing Ping-Pong by myself.”
I snort. “At least you’ll finally hit a winning streak. Too bad Will’s not here to bet on you.”
“Yeah.” Red gives a small smile. “Too bad.”
“He’ll be back,” I say. “Eventually, he’ll find his way.”
“I hope so.” Red pushes a piece of waffle around his plate, soaking up the syrup. “Have you thought about what you’re going to say tomorrow?”
My own bite of waffle is suddenly plaster in my throat. I wash it down with coffee that scalds my esophagus and grimace at Red. “No idea.”
Red chuckles. “Winging it, huh? That’s brave. If I tried that, I’d just stand there sweating my ass off until somebody put me out of my misery.”
“It’s not that,” I tell him. “I want to plan it ahead of time, but I don’t know what to say. I feel like I’m supposed to tell some big story about how I’ve changed, you know? How I’m better. But what if I’m not?”
Red raises his brow, his loaded fork suspended just short of his mouth. “You don’t think you’re different?”
The last few days play on random shuffle through my mind, pausing on yesterday. My mom came up—Richard Fisher’s idea. It was awkward at first, the space between Mom and I throbbing with the pain of past hurts. But we’d talked, and not just ‘good game’ or ‘please pass the salt,’ but really talked for probably the first time since before my dad died.
“Things will be different,” she’d promised. “You can ask me anything—no secrets, no lies, okay?”
“Different, yes,” I say to Red. “But I know I’m not ‘cured,’ if that’s what you mean. I still have a long way to go.”
Red smiles; he points his fork at me before popping the bite of waffle into his mouth. “Then maybe you say that.”
I nod, considering. Red’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. “Is that Libby?”
I swing around, following Red’s fixed gaze to the far end of the room. And there she is.
I’m on my feet before Red can say anything else. I weave my way through the dining hall as Libby fills a Styrofoam cup with hot water and selects a piece of fruit from the overflowing bowl. She’s turning to leave when I approach.
“Libby?”
Her hair’s been washed; it hangs soft around her shoulders. Her blue eyes are the placid sea on a clear day. Her lips stretch into a small smile that fills me with relief. “Eli.”
I move to hug her, but her hands are full. We share an awkward embrace that jostles Libby’s tea. Flustered, I grab a handful of napkins and blot the spill from the floor. When I look back at Libby, her smile is strained.
“I should get going,” she says. She nods at the orange in her hand. “I just came for some sustenance. You know . . . other than broth.”
I force an uncomfortable laugh. “You’re feeling better then?” The question is meant to tug at her; I’m not ready for her to leave.
Libby shrugs, pain palpable in her eyes. “Better’s a relative word.”
“What happens next?”
Libby casts a look around the room, as though searching for an escape. My questions weave a net around her, drawing her in. Remember that night? I want to say. Remember the crash?
Realization dawns, weighty and sharp. Not everybody gets out. Not Will. Not my dad.
Not everybody’s ok.
“They’re moving me,” Libby says, and even though I’m leaving, too, her words sever me.
“Where?”
“Not sure yet.” Libby’s lips curl into a sneer. “Turns out LakeShore can’t handle my kind of crazy.”
Her words are meant to sting, but I reach out to her anyway. Libby, the girl with sharp edges—edges that protect something small and soft and beautiful.
My hand brushes her upper arm, but she shifts her weight, shrugging me off. “What about you?” She rubs her nose with the back of her hand. “You’re leaving soon, aren’t you?”
“Tomorrow,” I tell her, almost guiltily.
“Good for you,” Libby says, her voice slightly shrill. “I’m happy for you. I am.”
“I’m giving my final testimony tomorrow night. You should come,” I offer weakly.
Libby gives me an uncertain smile. “Sure. Maybe.” She turns, waves awkwardly with the orange in her hand. “I’ll see you around, Eli.”
It’s like when Mo left. Libby’s dandelion seed kiss, her face streaked with tears. I’ll see you around.
Is this really how it ends? After everything we’ve been through? After crawling together from the wreckage of our pasts, we’re just going to shake hands and walk away?
Everything inside me wants to go after her, wants to keep talking, prolong the inevitable. But while Libby’s scars are deep and fresh, mine are finally starting to fade.
I watch her back until she’s gone, and then I make my way to the table where Red waits.
Concern flashes across his freckled face. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I tell him, though the words sting, bittersweet. Because all at once, I know they’re true.
I’m okay.
I’m going to be okay.
I pick up my tray. “I’ll see you later, bro. I’m going to go work on my speech.”