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I’ve been waiting for one phone call.

The one where a stranger on the end of the line will tell me I can go see him. They told me I needed to leave. That I needed to wait and stop calling them. So I’m trying.

I have to tell Dean first. He has to know.

And then I can tell everyone else. And they’ll let Dean go. They have to.

It’s my fault.

My tired eyes lift from the dead violets on the windowsill to the front door. The window’s open and I should have heard someone pull up to the house, but I didn’t.

“Allison?” a soft voice says hesitantly and I press my palms into my sore eyes.

“Mom?” Through my tears I think I see her. She’s hazy and the white blinds billow in front of her before she can walk in and shut the door behind her, but I hear her voice.

“You didn’t answer your phone.” She talks quickly as she walks toward me with uncertain steps. “I had to come see you,” she whispers as I get up from the floor with shaky legs.

“Mom?” I can’t stop saying it.

My feet move on their own, guiding me to her and when I finally get close enough, I cling to her. Burying my face in the crook of her neck, I hold on to her with a tight grip.

“Mom,” I say between the sobs.

“I’m here,” she says and holds me back just as tight, the keys in her hand dropping to the floor and clattering together. The noise makes my shoulders shake, but everything makes me jumpy now. And I don’t care.

I’ve broken down so many times in the last week. I thought I was done with crying. I thought I had nothing left, but as she cries into my hair and rocks me, they come again. They’re merciless.

And I deserve it.

“Are you okay?” my mother asks me although her grip doesn’t loosen. I can’t nod and I can’t speak so I don’t say anything until she holds me at arm’s length.

“Talk to me please,” she begs me and I shake my head.

“I’m not okay. I’m not okay,” I tell her as my shoulders shake.

“It’s okay, I’m here,” she says, just like Dean did. Like words can make it alright, but they can’t. “I heard what happened,” my mother says and my body tenses, but all she says is that it will be okay.

“It’s all my fault.” The words pour from me even though I’m not sure they make sense. I’m not sure she can even comprehend them.

“Shh.” Hushed words won’t keep me quiet. Not anymore.

“You don’t understand it,” I say and the words come out quickly, and the rest beg to follow. To confess.

“It’s not your fault,” she says and pulls me in close. “What happened to Sam wasn’t your fault either and-”

“Yes it was!” I scream at the audacity of my mother to say such a lie. Especially now. How dare she! I shove against her, knocking myself backward and scramble to leave her comfort. “When will you admit it?” I shout at her, letting the pain and anger twist in my gut.

My mother shakes her head, denying it as she always has. Her hands are up in defense, as if she’s approaching a wounded animal ready to run. Her brunette hair brushes back and forth around her shoulders. “It wasn’t,” she tries to lie again but her words are lost as she cries into her hand.

“If I hadn’t texted her,” I gulp in air and my breath shudders. “If I hadn’t told her you didn’t want me to see her anymore … ” I close my eyes, remembering how I sent the text in anger. I was so upset that my mother would treat Sam the same way everyone else did. Like it was her fault that Kevin had hurt her. Like she was lying about what he’d done to her.

My mother blamed Sam. And I spread that blame to my friend. My friend who was struggling. Who just needed someone to love her. I broke Sam by telling her that. I know I did.

My mother was just like them. She said Sam was trouble, and I never should have turned my back on Sam. I never should have acted so rashly.

That was the last text I sent to Sam. And the last one she read before she killed herself.

“Admit it,” I demand with a note of finality in my voice. “Admit it, Mother!”

“It’s not-” I cut her off, refusing to listen to her denial after all this time.

“Why avoid me then? Why walk around like you’re guilty? So quiet and afraid to say anything to me like your words will break me? Why!” I scream at her.

Both of us were so aware of how our words had killed, that neither of us spoke. I hate her for it. So quiet I became dead inside. And she’s the one I blame, because I’d rather blame her than myself.

“For years you hardly spoke to me. You let me get away with murder. You avoided me. You know what you did and you know how much it meant to her. You knew how it would hurt her. And you didn’t care! You didn’t care about her and now she’s dead!”

My voice is hoarse and the words echo in my head. I didn’t care about Sam when I sent that to her. I was just angry at my mom for not believing me. I didn’t think about how it would destroy her. It’s my fault for telling her. It’s always been my fault. But I hate my mother for it.

“I’m sorry!” my mother wails. “I wish I could take it back, Allison, but I can’t and I’m sorry.” Her face is bright red and she struggles to swallow as she waits for my response. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to hurt her. I never wanted to hurt her. I just wanted to save you.”

It’s the first time she’s ever told me she regrets it. It’s so late. Too late for what really matters, but still, it’s something I desperately want to cling to.

“Please, stop hating me,” she begs, her bottom lip wobbling and her frail shoulders shaking. I always thought she was so strong. I thought I was the weak one. Maybe we’re both weak.

“I never hated you,” I tell her but I can’t be sure that it’s honest. Pain turns to hate so easily. “I wasn’t okay though. It’s not okay. It never will be.”

“Please, forgive me.”

I nod my head, although I flinch when she makes an effort to hug me and it breaks her. I can’t help it. There’s so much more. And the truth begs me to speak it.

My voice is eerily calm and my mother just nods her head once, staring at the pot of withered violets and avoiding my gaze. Or maybe my judgment.

“Mom, I have to tell you something.”

My mother’s eyes whip to mine. Maybe because the tone of my voice has changed. From pained to haunted.

“When Grandmom died, that very week, there was an article.”

My mom wipes her face with the sleeve of her shirt, but I know she’s listening.

“There was a name I recognized.” My hands clench at my side as I remember seeing it. “The name of the boy who hurt Sam.” The words hurt as they leave me and the article flashes in my memory.

“What was it about?” There’s hesitation in her voice, like she’s scared to know.

“Just about alumni, about tradition. It wasn’t anything that should have made me angry, but it did. I was the angriest I’ve ever been.” I admit to her something I’ve never said out loud. Jack and Kevin Henderson, the proud alumni son. Smiling in an article.

The boy whose father was friends with a judge.

The boy who said she’d made him think it was what she wanted.

The boy who went back home and kissed other girls and smiled, knowing he’d get what he wanted. No matter what.

That boy never paid for what he did.

“Allison?” she says and my mother’s tone holds a warning. Like she knows what’s coming. Like she’s followed my train of thought.

“I’m not done,” I tell her and her expression changes. I force my clammy hands to unclench.

“I came here because of that article. I came here because I wanted him to do to me, what he did to Sam.”

“No,” she gasps in disbelief, the puzzle pieces finally falling into place for her. I asked for it. Her head shakes as I continue my story. She can say those words now, like she did back then. It’ll be true this time.

“I wanted the world to see him for the person he was. I wanted them to know she wasn’t lying,” my words get louder and louder as I speak. More frantic, more saddened. “She deserved some kind of justice. So I came here and I sought him out.”

Her cry is all that stops me from telling her more. She covers her mouth with both hands and shakes her head.

I won’t deny it. I won’t pretend things aren’t as they seem.

“I knew what I was doing, Mom. I wanted him to hurt me. ‘Cause if he did it to me, he’d be punished. Sam would finally have some sort of justice. It wouldn’t make it right, but she’d have something,” I croak out the last word, the tears slipping down my face to my chin and falling hard on the floor beneath me. Each one feeling heavier than the last.

I walked away five years ago, perfectly fine on the outside. Nothing happened to me. I was saved by circumstances. But what happened to Sam, not only that night, but the weeks after, forever changed whatever it is that makes a person a person.

Death changes people.

But so does hate.

And that’s all I’ve been since Sam died. Hateful.

And I know my hate came from fear, it came from regret. It was bred from sadness.

In five years, all I’ve been doing is suffering. Until I met Dean.

“You can’t tell anyone, Allison,” my mother speaks with tears brimming in her eyes. She cups her hands around the sides of my face and pleads with me. “They can’t know. Don’t tell them. Don’t give them a reason to blame you.”

“But Dean,” I start and my voice is tight. The second I say his name, my phone rings.