Brooklyn
I was admitted into Stanford. I busied myself with reading carefully through the acceptance letter in order not to throw the papers across the room, which was what I really wanted to do.
I had woken up to an empty bed. In a state of denial, I'd checked the bathroom, the sheets and even under the bed. Justin was nowhere to be found. The only trace that last night hadn't been a dream was the fact that the curtains were slightly open, letting in some light.
A bitter sound left my throat. He was gone, he'd left without even saying goodbye. I knew he wasn't ready to face the daylight, because secrets are easier to keep at night, when it's all dark and hidden. Justin wasn't ready to have the conversation—the one in which he explained everything to me, including all the lies and things he'd been keeping from me and why he was acting this way and why he was pushing me away and why he hated himself so much but did nothing about it. He didn't want to face the fact that we had problems, and that was so typical of him.
Running away from things can only get you so far, though.
I threw a pillow at the closed door of my room, swallowing down a scream. It was early so the house was silent. Not even my mom was awake. I sat on the edge of the bed and checked the messy sheets again in case Justin had at least left a note or something.
Nada.
Then, I started getting angry. I felt my breathing increasing and my hands fisting on the duvet. Why did he have to do this? Why did everything have to be so difficult? Why couldn't he mourn and grief his dad's death like a normal person? Why did he have to get in trouble, bringing our relationship down with it? And most importantly, why couldn't he let me help him?
I hadn't realized I was crying until I saw dark blue stains in the light blue pillow I was holding—more like wrenching—between my hands. I really needed to stop with the crying. It wasn't worth it. It would get me nowhere.
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The rest of the day passed in a blur of schoolwork, family time and unsent texts. Every time I typed down something to send to Justin, I chickened out. But why should I be the one to always trail behind him like a lost puppy? I wouldn't be the weak end in our relationship again. I could live without Justin ever present in my life, and if I couldn't, I was going to have to learn how to, apparently.
Days passed and nothing happened. My routine kept repeating itself: wake up, go to school (which included ignoring Nate as best as I could), pick Tommy up from soccer practice (Justin didn't show up any afternoon, and the days I drove Jaxon home he wasn't there either), study with Kelsey for mid-terms, have dinner, go to sleep, toss in bed for hours, finally get some sleep. I could tell my mom was worried because I stopped having plans after school and I spent more time revising and doing homework than I can ever remember doing. She didn't mention it, though. I think she was afraid we'd have the Ray conversation again, one neither of us was ready for.
Kelsey, of course, picked on it the first Monday after The Disastrous Weekend. That's how I'd decided to call it—it fit perfectly. Unlike my parents, she didn't buy my explanation for the cut I sported on my jaw. Apparently, it wasn't believable that I'd been cooking when it happened because "you can't cook for shit". Those were her exact, kind words. Besides, Tyson had told her Justin was being evasive and seemed angry all the time since Saturday, from which Kelsey drew the conclusion that something had happened between us. I had to tell her everything. Her reaction was something like a really long and creative string of curse words and then weeping for me. It was ironic that I was the one who had to comfort her.
