Tess Sharpe - Far From You

When we were little, whenever she cried, I’d give her the purple crayon out of my box so she’d have two, and it made her smile through the tears, so I kept doing it. I stole purple crayons from everyone’s crayon boxes until she had a whole collection.

And now Trev stares at me with her eyes like he wants to devour me. His hair’s long, veering into mop territory, and his jaw’s prickled with stubble instead of smooth. I’ve never seen him this scruffy. I can feel the hard edges of calluses on his palm where he’s holding my arm. Rope calluses, from handling the sails. I wonder if that’s where he’s been spending all his time—on his boat, trying to sail away from it all.

He lets go of me, and the feelings battle inside: relief and disappointment wrapped up in a neat, bloodstained bow.

I step out of the doorway into the sunlight, and he backs away like I’m poisonous.

He sticks his hands in the pockets of his shorts, rocks on his heels. Trev is strong and tall in that way you don’t really notice unless he needs to use it. It makes you feel safe, lulled into this sense that nothing bad will happen with him around.

“I didn’t know you were home,” Trev says.

“I just got back.”

“You didn’t come to her funeral.” He tries to make it gentle, not like an accusation, but it hangs between us like one.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not the person you need to apologize to,” Trev says, and waits a beat. “Have you…have you gone to see her?”

I shake my head.

I can’t go out to Mina’s grave. The idea of her in the ground, sealed forever in the dark when she had been all light and sound and spark, horrifies me. When I force myself to think about it, I think she would’ve liked to disappear in flames, the brilliance and warmth all around her.

But she’s in the ground. It’s so wrong, but I can’t change it.

“You should go see her,” Trev says. “Make your peace. She deserves that from you.”

He thinks that talking to a slab of stone will make a difference. That it’ll change something. Trev has faith in things like that, just like Mina had.

I don’t.

The belief in his face makes me wish I could tell him yes, of course I’ll go. I want to be able to do that. Once upon a time I loved him almost as much as I loved her.

But Trev has never come first. He’s always been second, and I can’t change that now or then or ever.

“You think it’s my fault, too.”

Unable to meet my eyes, Trev focuses on the kids playing on the jungle gym a few yards away. “I think you made some big mistakes,” he says, tiptoeing around words like they’re land mines. “And Mina paid for them.”

It hurts more than I expect to hear him confirm it. Nothing like the shallow cuts my parents have left in me. This is a blow to a heart that was never quite his, and I almost crumble beneath his disappointment.

“I hope you’re clean.” He backs away from me like he doesn’t even want to share airspace. “I hope you stay clean. That’s what she’d want for you.”

He’s almost down the walk when I ask; I can’t help myself. “Do you still hate me?”

He turns, and even from this far away, I can see the sadness written on his face. “That’s the problem, Soph. I never could.”

THREE AND A HALF YEARS AGO (FOURTEEN YEARS OLD)

The morphine has worn off. The pain is all over, a sharp edge that relentlessly carves through me.

“Push,” I say between cracked lips. I move my hand, the unbroken one, trying to find the button for the morphine drip.

“Here.” Warm fingers close over mine, placing the pump in my palm. I push the button and wait.

Slowly, the pain retreats. For now.

“Your dad went to get coffee,” Trev says. He’s in a chair next to my bed, his hand still covering mine. “Want me to find him?”

I shake my head. “You’re here.” The morphine makes my brain fuzzy. Sometimes I say stupid stuff, I forget things, but I’m almost positive he hasn’t visited before.

“I’m here,” he says.

“Mina?” I breathe.

“She’s at school. I got out early. Wanted to see you.”

“You okay?” I ask. There’s a fading bruise on his temple. He’s sitting in a weird position, his leg straightened out like it’s in a cast. But I can’t prop myself up enough to see how bad he’s hurt. Mina has a cast on her arm, I remember suddenly. The nurses and my mom had to force her to leave last night; she hadn’t wanted to go.

“I’m fine.” He strokes my fingers. They’re pretty much the only part of me that isn’t bruised or broken or stitched together.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Sophie, I’m so sorry.”

He buries his face in the sheets next to me, and I don’t have the strength to lift my hand to touch him.

“’S’okay,” I whisper. My eyes droop as the morphine kicks in further. “Not your fault.”

Later, they’ll tell me that it was his fault. That he ran a stop sign and we got T-boned by an SUV going twenty above the speed limit. The doctors will explain that I flatlined on the operating table for almost two minutes before they got my heart started again. That my right leg was crushed and I now have titanium rods screwed into what little bone remains. That I’ll have to spend almost a year walking with a cane. That I’ll have months of physical therapy, handfuls of pills I have to take. That I’ll have a permanent limp, and my back will cause me problems for the rest of my life.

Later, I’ll finally have enough and cross that line. I’ll crush up four pills and snort them with a straw, floating away in the temporary numbness.

But right now, I don’t know about what’s ahead for us, him and me and Mina. So I try to comfort him. I fight against the numbness instead of drowning myself in it. And he says my name, over and over, begging for the forgiveness I’ve already given.

NOW (JUNE)

My mom’s car is in the driveway when I get home. As soon as I open the door, I hear heels, brisk and sharp against the floor.

She’s immaculate, her straight blond hair in a slick bun. She probably came straight from court; she hasn’t even unbuttoned her blazer. ��Are you all right? Where have you been?” she asks, but doesn’t pause for me to answer. “I’ve been worried. Macy said she dropped you off two hours ago.”

I set my bag onto the table in the foyer. “I left you a note in the kitchen.”

Mom looks over her shoulder, wilting a little when she sees the notebook paper I’d torn off. “I didn’t see it,” she says. “I wish you would’ve called. I didn’t know where you were.”

“I’m sorry.” I move toward the stairs.

“Wait a moment, Sophie Grace.”

I freeze, because the second Mom gets formal, it means trouble. I turn around, schooling my face into a disinterested mask. “Yes?”

“Where have you been?”

“I just went for a walk.”

“You can’t leave whenever you like.”

“Are you putting me under house arrest?” I ask.

Mom’s chin tilts up; she’s ready for war. “It’s my job to make sure you don’t fall back into bad habits like before. If I have to restrict you to the house to do that, I will. I refuse to let you relapse again.”

I close my eyes, breathing deeply. It’s hard to control the anger that spikes inside me. I want to break through the ice-queen parts of her, shatter her like she’s shattered me.

“I’m not a kid. And unless you plan on staying home from work, you can’t stop me. If it’d make you feel better, I can call you to check in every few hours.”

Mom’s mouth flattens into a thin slash of pearly-pink lipstick. “You don’t get to make the rules, Sophie. Your previous behavior will no longer be tolerated. If you step one toe out of line, I’ll send you back to Seaside. I swear I will.”

I’ve prepared myself for these threats. I’ve tried to examine every angle Mom might come at me from, because it’s the only way to stay a step ahead of her.

“In a few months, you won’t be able to do that,” I say. “As soon as I turn eighteen, you can’t make any medical decisions for me. No matter what you think I did.”

“As long as you live under my roof, you’ll follow my rules, eighteen or not,” Mom says.

“You try to send me back to Seaside, and I’ll leave,” I say. “I’ll walk out that door and never come back.”

“Don’t threaten me.”

“It’s not a threat. It’s the truth.” I look away from her, from the way her hands are shaking, like she’s torn between holding and hurting me. “I’m tired. I’m going up to my room.”

She doesn’t try to stop me this time.

I haven’t been allowed a lock on my door since forever, so I shove my desk chair against it. I can hear Mom climb the stairs and start to run a bath.

I shove all the clothes off my bed, taking off the sheets and blankets and pillows, too. It takes me three tries to flip the mattress, both my legs shaking at the effort. Panting, I finally succeed, my back protesting all the way. I step over the pile of sheets and blankets and pull a notebook from my bag. There are loose pages stuck between the bound ones, and I shake them out on top of the mattress before going over and grabbing tape and markers from my desk.

It takes only a few minutes. I don’t have much to go on—yet. But by the time I’m done, the underside of my mattress has been turned into a makeshift evidence board. Mina’s junior-year picture is taped underneath a scrap of paper labeled VICTIM, and the only picture I have of Kyle is taped under SUSPECT. The picture’s an old one from the Freshman Fling when all our friends went together. Mina and Amber and I are crowded to the side, laughing as Kyle and Adam are caught midshove and Cody looks on disapprovingly. We look young, happy. I look happy. That girl in the picture has no idea that her entire life’s gonna get trashed in a few months. I circle Kyle with my Sharpie before moving on. To the side of the picture, I tape my list, the number one question: WHAT STORY WAS MINA WORKING ON?