Suicide // Haylor AU

Chapter 28

THURSDAY, APRIL 4
3 days left

I drive to Harry's house. I texted him to let him know I was coming. He didn't answer, but sometimes he's slow to respond.
I picture him in his room. Flopped down, belly-up, staring at Captain Nemo, absently sketching, his pencil making light marks across the paper. I wonder if he and Captain Nemo sit in silence all day or if Harry talks to him. I wonder if Harry ever talks to him about me. I wish I could get Captain Nemo to divulge all of Harry's secrets.
I grip the steering wheel and remind myself that I don't need anyone to tell me Harry's secrets. That I'm going to make him talk to me. Because I'm going to be honest about everything. I take my eyes off the road for a second and glance at the passenger seat, where I tossed a book I bought called Exploring North Carolina's Beaches. I figure I'll start by selling him on the road trip to the ocean and hope the rest will come naturally.
Harry still hasn't answered my text by the time I pull into his driveway. I sit in the car for a couple of moments, staring at the familiar butterscotch-colored mailbox. I text him again and when he still doesn't respond, I try calling. No answer.
I jump forward in the driver's seat when I hear the front door of his house open but relax once I see it's his mom. I step out of the car and wave at her.
"Taylor," she says as she walks toward me. She's wearing a pink sweater and her daisy-print clogs. "What are you doing here?" Her chestnut-colored hair is pulled up into a topknot. It makes her look younger than usual.
I give her an apologetic smile. "Oh, I was in the neighborhood and wanted to see if Harry was home. Last week, we'd talked about hanging out today."
Mrs. Styles frowns, drawing her eyebrows together. "Harry isn't home."
"Really?" I try not to sound completely shocked. I thought he never left the house, unless it was with me.
"Yeah. He told me he was going to your house."
I feel my jaw go slack. "What?"
She wraps her arms around herself like she's suddenly very cold. "Yeah, he asked for permission to borrow my car to go to your house. I'm not sure if you know, but Harry hasn't been allowed to drive for some time. But it seems like he's been getting so much better, hanging out with you, and so I thought . . ." She trails off.

A horrible thought hits me with the force of a tsunami. I feel like I'm drowning as I manage to sputter, "Can I go upstairs?"
She pauses, staring at me, a confused expression on her face. But then her eyes bulge and she runs toward the house. I follow her.
She speeds through the kitchen, pushing a chair out of the way. It collides with the kitchen counter, causing a teacup to fall from the edge and shatter. I hop over the shards and I'm right behind Mrs. Styles as she darts up the steps.
We race upstairs and my heart lifts when I see the door to Harry's room is open. Maybe he's inside. Maybe he's just wearing headphones, listening to his terrible music, zoning out and forgetting the world.
Mrs. Styles stops in the doorway. She raises her hand to her heart and lets out a deep wheezing breath. My feet feel like they are two anchors weighing me down, but I force them to move and I enter his room.
The hairs on my arms stand at attention and I get a sudden, sinking feeling as I take in the empty room. I turn to look at Mrs. Styles and her face is neutral, almost relieved. I scan the room, searching for any sign of him.
The bed is unmade, the beige comforter crumpled in a messy pile at the end. There's a dent in the pillow. I walk over to it and press my hand against it.
"Taylor," Mrs. Styles says, her voice shaking. "Is there something I should know?" She wraps her arms around herself again. "Should I be worried?"
I don't answer her. I check the nightstand and I don't find any letters—no suicide note. I let out a shallow breath. "I'm not sure."
I crouch down and duck my head under the bed. I don't find anything. I stand up and walk over to Captain Nemo's tank. My heart stops when I see it. Another dish of food has been added. There used to be only one, but now there are two.
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. It could be a mistake. Maybe Captain Nemo was extra hungry this morning. My mind races with excuses, but nothing is as convincing as the pit in my stomach that is growing wider and wider as I watch the turtle bob up and down in the water.
"We need to find him," I shout, but it comes out more like a strangled whisper. I rush out of the room and gallop down the stairs. Mrs. Styles follows me and grabs my hand, pulling me back toward her.
"What is going on?" she asks. Her voice is breathless and her face is red.
"I'm worried that Harry . . ." I can't look at her. I fiddle with my car keys.
"I'm coming with you." It's not a request; it's a demand. I don't want her to come with me, but I don't know how I can tell her no. How can I tell her anything when all of this is my fault? When I should have told her days ago about our plan, our suicide pact.
My car peels out as I back out of the driveway as fast as I can. Mrs. Styles presses her palms against the dashboard to stay steady, but she doesn't reprimand me for driving too fast. I speed to Crestville Pointe.
Mrs. Styles begins to sob. She wails. Her shoulders shudder. She pounds her fist against the passenger-side window. "This is all my fault."
It's not your fault. It's mine, I scream inside my head. My jaw clenches and I keep my eyes focused on the road. Harry always wanted me to watch the road. To stay focused.
"He blames himself for his sister's death," she says.
I know. I know everything. I stay silent.
"But it's my fault. I've told him that a thousand times. I'm the one who left him alone with her. That was too much responsibility for a Eighteen year old. I should have never left her . . . left him alone with her. . . ." She breaks down and buries her head in her hands. "When Harry went to see a counselor, I went with him. And over and over again, we discussed how his dad and I were the responsible ones, not him, but he would never listen."
I don't even nod. I can't say anything. I park the car at the edge of the woods. I scan the area, searching for the Styles' red Jeep. I don't see it anywhere. Maybe he drove it through the forest. It's not like he would care that that's illegal and dangerous. "I'll be back," I say.
"I want to come with you."
I glance down at her clogs. "But . . ."
She steps out of the car and tosses her shoes to the side. "He's my son, Taylor. I'm coming."
She reaches out and grabs my hand. We run through the woods and she keeps squeezing my hand, over and over again. Her grip is so tight that I feel like any second my fingers are going to fall off from the lack of circulation. Her bare feet crunch twigs, but she doesn't wince. She keeps up with me and we quickly reach the clearing.
The cliff looms in front of us. I want to find Harry here and I don't want to find him here. I want to throw my arms around his neck and pull him close, breathe in his mint scent and kiss the  the back of his neck. And I want to punch him in the gut, slap him in the face, for betraying me like this. For lying. For trying to die without me. But I might not get to do either if we don't find him in time. My knees buckle.
"You don't think he . . . do you?" Mrs. Styles asks, her voice hoarse from tears. I watch her staring out over the cliff. The Ohio River sputters below us, and I doubt we would even be able to see him if he was in there. In the water. His head banging against the rocks, his spine broken and flimsy. I squeeze those thoughts out of my mind.
He's not dead. He can't be. I wonder if I would feel it if he was dead. If I would know it, understand it at some cellular level. If my body would be able to sense his energy giving out and fading away. For the first time all day, I squeeze Mrs. Styles hand back, returning her tight grip. "We need to find him. We're going to find him."
I don't know why I say it. It's more of a wish than a promise. She drops my hand and reaches out to pull me into a tight hug. She smells like cupcake  batter and vanilla. "You're an angel."
I lose it when she says that. I am not an angel. I am the opposite. I could have stopped this. Should have stopped this. I'm about to tell her that when a thought hits me. "You said you gave Harry the keys to the car?"
She nods.
I run back toward my car and Mrs. Styles follows. I don't even put my seat belt on and I slam on the gas pedal. We roar away from Crestville Pointe. The eight-minute drive feels like centuries. When we reach Harry's house, I pull on the emergency parking brake and jump out of the car.
I dash toward the detached garage. I can smell the exhaust slipping through the bottom crack and I hear the faint hum of a car's engine. I pull at the door, but I can't get it to open. I kick it.
Behind me, I hear Mrs. Styles' scream and run toward the house. I keep banging on the garage, but it is useless. Mrs. Styles returns, wildly waving the garage-door opener over her head. She presses the button again and again and the door lifts and we see it.
The red Jeep is running. The garage is full of exhaust. Through the smoke, I can see Harry in the driver's seat. He is folded over the steering wheel and his big, beautiful green eyes are shut. He's not moving.
My legs go weak and something inside me bursts. My heart.