I’m sprawled out across the living room floor, lying flat on my stomach, staring aimlessly at my AP Statistics homework in front of me. I have the night off work, so I’m using it to my full advantage by catching up on all of the homework I’ve let stack up over the past week. I’m not quite focused, however, mostly because I keep glancing up at the TV and over to Mom.
She’s sitting stiffly on the couch, chewing on her lower lip as she tries to concentrate on the episode of Scandal she’s watching. But I can tell her mind is elsewhere, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out where exactly. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since she announced her decision to cut out the wine, and already she appears lost and unsure of herself. I can see it in her eyes. She’s struggling.
Setting my pen down on my notebook, I prop myself up onto one elbow and look up at her. “What are you thinking about?” I ask her quietly, my tone gentle.
Her dark eyes flicker from the TV down to me. As she looks at me with a blank stare, it becomes clear that she is fighting a mental battle with herself. I can see it in her expression, in her frown, in her warm brown eyes. “Everything,” she admits. She interlocks her fingers and then releases them, only to repeat the action all over again. She’s more fidgety than usual, most likely because her mind won’t rest. There is no wine in her system to numb it.
“Maybe you just need to find a new hobby,” I suggest with a hopeful smile. I push myself up completely and cross my legs on the floor, leaning back against the couch. I rack my brain for possible ideas, and blurt out the first ones that come to mind. “How about knitting? Scrapbooks? Drawing? You were arty in college, weren’t you? Why don’t you create something?” The tight smile that Mom gives me in reply does little to mask her frustration and desperation, so I quickly add, “Or you can do my homework, if you’d like?”
That gets her to laugh, and she rolls her eyes and relaxes back against the couch, breaking out of her stiff posture. “Nice try,” she murmurs.
Heaving a sigh, I push my homework to one side and get to my feet. If Mom is going to be successful with this, she’s going to need a new distraction. She’ll drive herself insane otherwise. I leave the room and head into the kitchen, pulling open drawers and fumbling around them in search of scrap paper. It’s just after 9PM, but the evening has felt long and the time has dragged, so I can only imagine that it feels much longer to Mom. She needs something to keep herself occupied, so I grab some old sheets of paper and a couple pencils, close the drawers and head back into the living room.
“Draw something,” I tell Mom. I set the paper and pencils down on the couch next to her, giving her a nod of encouragement when she glances down at them. I’m not exactly sure where I’m going with this, but I press my palms flat on the arm of the couch and lean forward, looking at Mom from beneath my eyelashes. “None of this is really about the drinking,” I state quietly. My words are slow and cautious as I continue. “It’s about Grace. It’s about accepting it, and if you don’t think you can, then maybe you should talk to someone who isn’t me or Dad. But first, there’s a habit you need to break, so please, draw something.”
Mom frowns at the paper on the couch by her side. She picks up a pencil and holds it delicately between her fingertips, then glances back up at me. “When did you get so smart?”
Smiling, I tell her, “My mom raised me.”
At that exact moment, the doorbell rings out around the house with a bouncing echo. It’s followed by several loud knocks against the front door, and I exchange a glance with Mom. Neither of us is expecting anyone.
“I’ll get it,” I tell her. Pushing myself back from the couch, I leave Mom with the scraps of paper and head down the hall toward the front door. It’s dark out, so it’s impossible to peer through the door’s glass panels to see who’s on the porch. I unlock the door and swing it open only by a few inches just to be safe and then peer around the frame.
“Holden?”
What is he doing here? Holden is the last person I expected to turn up on my porch unannounced like this. Even Will doesn’t just show up without warning, so I slowly edge the door open wider, wondering why he’s here. Holden is standing a few feet back from the door with his hands in the pockets of his football jacket and his chin tilted down to the ground. The small porch light above him flickers every few seconds, illuminating his shadowed face. He glances up at me, swallows, and asks, “Can we talk?”
“If it involves you giving me an explanation for the way you acted this morning, then yes,” I answer, folding my arms across my chest and stepping to the side. “Come on in.”
Head still down, hands still in his pockets, Holden slowly shuffles past me over the threshold and into the hall. He lingers by my side as I close the door and lock up again, but there’s tension radiating from him. I try to catch his eye, but he only continues to stare at the floor as he follows me down to the hall, back toward the living room.
Stepping into the room, I meet Mom’s awaiting gaze and inform her, “It’s only Holden.” As I say his name, he places his hand against the doorframe and leans forward enough to let Mom see him. However, he doesn’t come into the room.
“Hello, Holden!” Mom greets him with a warm smile, and she appears grateful for the distraction. Holden showing up is apparently better than my suggestion of having her draw something.
“Hey,” Holden murmurs with a small nod. He doesn’t smile back at her or look at her for longer than one second. He drops his hand from the frame of the door to my elbow, and carefully but quickly he tugs me back out into the hall with him. This is weird, and I’m not exactly sure what’s going on. Holden towers over me, dark eyes on mine, his cold fingers still on my arm.
“Can we . . . can we go out back or something?” he asks, his voice nothing more than an anxious whisper.
There’s something hugely off about him right now, but I’m not sure what and I don’t know why. Holden can be moody, sure. Hell, he’s grouchy most of the time, anyway. But this tense? This nervous? This isn’t Holden.
“Um. I guess.”
I shake his grip off me and turn for the kitchen. It’s in darkness, but I don’t bother to switch on any lights, and instead I head straight for the back door while Holden follows close on my heels. I hear his breathing deepen as I unlock the door and pull it open, allowing the fresh, cool night air to hit us. I walk over to the old wooden table and set of chairs in the center of the yard. It’s not too cold out tonight, but there is a small breeze in the air that blows my hair across my face.
I press my hand against the back of a chair and turn around to face Holden. He has stopped a few feet away from me again, almost as though he’s afraid to come any closer, and his dark eyes have grown wide and fearful. “Is everything okay, Holden?”
Holden’s eyes close. Slowly, he shakes his head back and forth, hands balled into fists inside his pockets. “No,” he whispers. Even though it’s not cold, his breath is visible in the air and it seems his breathing has become shallow. His eyes flicker open again and he reflects my panicked stare, then exhales deeply and states, “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“What?” Holden is never, ever like this, and the panic that is quickly sweeping through me sends me into a fit of desperation when he doesn’t immediately reply. Stepping forward until I am standing directly in front of him, I beg: “Holden, what is it?”
Swallowing hard, he sinks lifelessly into a chair and I quickly sit down next to him. I’m worried now, and I need him to say something. I need him to answer me.
“If you’re serious about Jaden Hunter,” he murmurs, “then you need to know. I have to tell you.” He tries his best to meet my eyes, but I can see it’s difficult for him. “You need to know why I can’t be around him and Dani, not unless you want me to explode. I can’t . . . I can’t bear it.” He shakes his head fast and drops his gaze back down to the grass again, unable to look at me. “It’s too much.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Being around them makes the guilt unbearable,” he says to the ground, voice quivering. He releases his interlocked hands and throws them back into his hair, roughly running his fingers through the ends. Why won’t he look at me?
“Guilt?” I echo. I don’t know what he’s talking about. “Holden?”
“The Hunter crash, Kenzie!” he blurts out. I still don’t understand, so I only stare blankly back at him with my heartbeat thumping against my ribcage. Holden leans forward, his dark eyes full of terror as he continues. “Do you remember the final report? They swerved off the road because they think an animal ran out on the road in front of them.” He pauses for a brief moment to take a deep breath, and it’s only then that I notice he is trembling—and it’s not because he’s cold. “But the cops were wrong. There were no animals on the road that night,” he whispers, voice cracking, face paling. “But I was.”