Lavender Haze

Chapter 24

I do the most self-destructive thing I can think of with my new-found day off. I make a trip to Sunset View. After yesterday's debacle, it's definitely the wrong move, but my mom is the only person I want to see, the only one I can talk to. Dan has no idea of the history River and I share (although Rafael doesn't keep his own secrets from my brother, he still keeps mine), and catching him up would take forever and gut me even further. Of course, my other option is Rafael. I could spend the next sixty-seven hours dissecting my fucked up taste in men with my best friend, but I can't go to him with my broken heart because he would suggest I do something humiliating and stupid, like plan an impromptu flashmob with Christina Perry's A Thousand Years blaring from a boombox to honour our first dance together or tattoo River's face on my left butt cheek or something equally idiotic but dangerous and selfish and dramatic, too, like crawling to River and beg him not to marry Mila.

And I am not that person.

I don't want to be.

I don't go around destroying other people's happy endings. Mila and River might not have a conventional relationship, the type I'd want, but that doesn't make their bond any less sacred, any less important or meaningful. It's not her fault I have feelings for her fiancé. I'm not about to screw her life over because I'm a selfish monster.

When I sign in at the reception desk of Sunset View, Carla is genuinely surprised to see me. Her eyes are anchored to the blue Band-Aid plastered on my forehead. I know I look weary and not like myself at all, dark circles under my eyes and no trace of Fascinating Ruby on my lips, my hair limp around my face, clearly in need of a good scrub. I haven't spent much time sleeping in the last twenty-four hours, and let's just say it shows.

"How are you?" Carla asks.

"Had better days." I make myself smile at her. "How is she?"

"Better. Still a little... foggy."

"Okay. I can deal with foggy." I hand her a box of assorted pastries and march to my mother's room. As usual, I knock.

"Come in."

I open the door holding my breath. The room is far from perfect, but it's in a much better state than it was yesterday, no books nor clothes strewn on the floor, but a chaotic desk overflowing with old photographs my father took.

Mom is sitting at her armchair by the window, a John Grisham book open on her knees. She's got her reading glasses propped so far down her nose, I'm surprised they haven't slid off yet. She looks away from her book, slides an ancient photo of young Danny helping toddler Astrid climb on a swing, and puts her book away. Seeing her doing something as mundane as this, sliding an aged, yellowy polaroid in her book, reminds me of my mom before this decease took over. Her dark hair neatly tied in a low bun at the nape of her neck, her muddy-green eyes sharp.

She glances at me for a while, a frown curling her lips down. I know I look like a kidnapping victim, but I was hoping my mother wouldn't notice. "What happened?" She juts her chin at my head.

Okay, good. I'm glad at least she doesn't remember about yesterday's fight. She'd flagellate herself until the end of times if she knew she was the one who hurt me.

I slink inside the room and close the door. "Icy sidewalks. I nearly bruised my tailbone, too."

She studies me a moment longer, eyes scanning for more injuries. "Tell me it wasn't Clark," mom says, tone serious.

All right, the implication is not ideal. If she's asking me if Clark is responsible, then she thinks we're still together.

I inhale deeply. One crisis at the time. "Of course not, mom," I say. "Clark wouldn't be capable of this. Do I need reminding you I am the one who had to squash cockroaches in our apartment?" The past tense slips out of my lips without me meaning it, but mom doesn't seem to realize.