New Forever (12 page)

“This doesn’t change anything,” he says, starting to pace the small room, still naked.

I inwardly recoil at his words, but keep my face impassive as I grab my pillow and hold it to my chest. I swallow against the bile building inside of me and somehow manage to keep from averting my eyes. The burning in my throat intensifies, but I swallow it back as I shrug my shoulders at him.

“Of course not,” I agree with a fake smile plastered to my face. “But why stay at a hotel when you have an apartment with a couch you can crash on? One by the way, you’re still helping pay for?”

I don’t know why I’m pushing the subject, but somehow I know that if he doesn’t come back home with me, I’ll lose him for good. I’m not ready for that, so Operation: Get Max Back, is in full swing.

“You’re unbelievable.” He shakes his head and I can feel his cold disappointment from across the room. “We had sex, Hay. Two consenting adults who’ve had sex in the past, had sex again. Don’t make this out to be something it isn’t.”

“I’m not.” I stiffen my bottom lip so it doesn’t quiver. I’m a hot mess, wanting to flee while simultaneously not being able to leave.

“You are! If I asked you to, you’d forget all of this and take me back.”

“Yeah,” I agree quietly. I’d take him back. “I’ve lived most of my life without you and I can do it again, but I don’t want to. The only thing holding either of us back is pride, but screw pride, Max.” I get off the bed, putting my pillow gently to the side and rest my hand over his chest. “Screw pride when happiness is so close I can practically hear its heart beating alongside mine.”

“If you knew, you wouldn’t want me, Hay.” He removes my hand from his chest after a quick squeeze and looks down, not wanting to make eye contact with me.

My heart breaks even further, not just for me, but for the both of us.

“Then tell me, so I can prove you wrong,” I whisper. He whips his head up at me quickly with barely controlled anger in his eyes.

“You have this perpetual need to be the hero,” he scoffs back at me. “You did it with Dee and now you’re trying to save me, but I don’t need a hero and I don’t want rescuing. I’m not the one drowning here, Hayley, you are. Save yourself, or do you not think you’re worth the effort?”

As intended, his words cut me so deep, I stare at my bare skin to make sure I’m not bleeding. I replay his words, agonizing over the barely controlled anger he’s baring at me and press my hand to my stomach. Is that what I do? I mean, sure, I like helping people, but do I have some sort of hero complex?

“Truth be told, I’m not doing this for you or for me,” I lie, proud when my voice comes out strong. “I’m doing this for Dee and Adam. You’re walking in their wedding. It’s their day, not ours, and they want us to be a part of it. They don’t need to worry about whether you’re getting your ass whooped or being sent to jail any more than they need to worry about our relationship. So, we’re gonna play nice until they say their
I do’s
. Then, we can go our different ways.”

“You don’t get it-”

“Oh my God!” I throw my hands up in the air, beyond frustrated with this man. My stomach continues to clench as I dive headlong into anger. Anger is good though. At least it’s better than desperation or worthlessness that leaves you feeling unclean. “You’re worse than a fucking girl! ‘
You don’t understand,’
” I mimic him.
“‘If only you knew.’
I’m not a mind reader! Either you tell me or you get over it.”

I go back to the bed and sit on the edge with my arms crossed over my chest, waiting for him to make some sort of choice. I should probably get dressed, but fear of his rejection immobilizes me.

He studies me for a full sixty seconds before he lets out a strangled breath and starts to put his clothes on. I follow suit, at least to a point and put on my panties and one of his clean shirts. He can’t kick me out and carry me out of his room again if I’m only half dressed, right?

I quietly get into his bed and make myself comfortable while I wait for him to make a decision with whatever war he is fighting in his head. He silently shakes his head at me and I feel like I’ve let him down. A tear slips from my eye when he lies down beside me, but I brush it aside before he sees it. After getting into bed, I watch him reach his hand toward my face and close my eyes waiting for his touch, but he never makes contact. Instead, he covers himself with the sheets and he shifts his body away from mine without saying anything to me, and inches as close to the edge as he can without actually falling off.

This doesn’t change anything, I remind myself. Him lying next to me doesn’t change a thing, but it gives me enough wiggle room to be able to fight for him.

***

We wake up cloaked in each other’s arms and while I find myself smiling at his closeness, I deliberately move away from him when I hear Max starting to wake up. Always weary of my morning breath, I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth with a small strip of toothpaste on my finger. Normally, I’d use Max’s toothbrush but I don’t want to cross any imaginary lines since our relationship isn’t much of a relationship anymore.

By the time I finish in the bathroom, Max is sitting up on the bed. Our eyes lock, but this time he doesn’t look away.

“Are you depressed?” he asks suddenly and I scrunch my eyes at him in question. “We met at a hospital because you were dealing with your depression and I was just wondering…”

“If I’m gonna off myself because of you?”

I know he’s asking me honestly, but I can’t help but laugh. Depression doesn’t work like that, at least not for me. I go months at a time on a natural high from life and then suddenly plummet into the pits of Hell. But there’s never an actual reason for my happiness or my sadness. Nothing triggers it, but everything around me can either make it worse or better.

“At the moment, no,” I reply behind a smile and moisten my lips before I continue. “Right now, I’m emotionally stable so you’re safe to feel guilt free over these past few days.”

I know I shouldn’t make fun of myself or his question, but it’s just one more reminder of how different we are. I may be wired differently, but I know my differences and with time and therapy, I’ve learned to recognize the flags that scream out
Danger!
and I am even conscientious enough to up my therapy sessions so I don’t get lost in the abyss of my own brain.

That’s the real enemy here—my brain. It’s not my heart, although during my bouts of depression it feels like an emptiness lives inside of it. It’s really my brain that is the one causing all the turmoil. 

He scoots further on the bed until he’s sitting on “his side” of the bed with his back to the pillow he used last night, and looks back at me nervously so I sit beside him and rest my head on the headboard.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about your sister,” he replies frankly and I hear my breath catch before my heart slams into my chest, frantically trying to find a way out.

“Hannah?” I stammer out.

“Yeah.” He nods his head, his eyes intently on my face. I try to hide my emotions so he won’t stop talking. “Her death was?” he trails off, obviously at a loss for words.

“Her death was horrible, but it was the days and months before her death that were the most difficult, only made worse after her death.”

I detach myself from that horrific day as I relay the events that would forever change my life.

I roll my eyes when I hear my mom scream, annoyed that my sister is yet again seeking attention through a disease that doesn’t even plague her. I know her—she’s not depressed. We’re the same person, leading the same life, yet she acts as if her world is shattering around her. She’s so melodramatic, so selfish.

It’s crazy to think that we share the same genes, the same features, but everything else about us is different. It’s been that way for the past two years. She spends her time in her bedroom with her headphones in her ears and her laptop practically attached to her body. She does online gaming, which is weird all on its own, but she also talks to these people online and swears they’re her friends. She talks about them as if they were real, which I know they are in the sense that they are alive, but they’re not real in our world. They live in her computer, but they’re not a part of her real life.

I am. The friends we once shared are. But she chooses these imaginary people over flesh and blood. She wanders the school halls like a recluse. She doesn’t talk to people. She looks straight through others as if she doesn’t see them. It’s strange and honestly, it’s embarrassing.

Just this past Friday, she sat down with my friends and me at our lunch table but she didn’t acknowledge anyone. She sat next to us, but pretended we weren’t there. We tried talking to her, but eventually we turned to making fun of her. I can’t even say I felt bad about it because she brought it on herself.

It’s almost as if Hannah believes she’s better than us—above our conversations and antics. So when she got up from the table, upset with us, it was laughable. I mean, what did she think would happen? She can’t expect to get a free pass just because she’s my sister. Not when she sits on her throne of judgment and looks down at the rest of us, when she’s the one that doesn’t belong. She’s the one being judged, and accurately so. It’d be so much easier for both of us if she just conformed and tried to fit in. But, nope, she has to isolate herself, forcing us to alienate her in the process. That’s how high school works. That’s how hierarchies work.

There was a rumor that she ran to the bathroom where she cried until the next class started. I want to help her—she’s my sister, she was once my best friend, but you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to help themselves. I’ve talked to her, asked her to stop being so damn weird, but she brushes me off and goes back to the Internet where she chats with her online friends for hours. Apparently, they understand her and can help her better than I can. I may not know her very well, but damn it, I know how to have friends and how to be popular.

That night, she didn’t come downstairs for dinner and my parents looked at me as if it were my fault. My fault! Like I have any say in what Hannah does. If I did, I’d force her to act like a normal teenager. She’d have a boyfriend and friends she hung out with. She’d laugh during lunchtime rather than drop her head in her arms on the lunch table and sleep her lunch time away. She’d talk about normal things, like our football team or the latest movie.

My parents don’t understand how hard it is for me to have her as a sister. People talk about me, making it that much more difficult for me to fit in, but I manage. Under normal circumstances, I’d choose Hannah before anyone, but with homecoming coming up, it’d be social suicide.

Reluctantly, I get off my bed and shuffle my feet toward Hannah’s bedroom. I yawn at my dad, who I meet at the door before we go in together. Confused, we look at each other before my dad walks to my mom who is holding Hannah in her arms, sobbing hysterically. I lean on her tidy desk and pick up a piece of paper that I quickly drop on a silent scream after reading half of it.

My throat constricts when I look over at my sister, only partially understanding why she is lying too still on her bed, and why my mom is weeping over her lifeless body, and why my father is yelling for help into the phone.

I quietly leave the room, taking her letter with me so I can fully digest it, but instead of reading it right away, I hide it in the back of my closet, not quite ready to face the ugly truth. I can’t believe she did this to herself. To us.

My sister is dead. She ended her life while I daydreamed about my boyfriend, Garrett. All while I’d called her selfish.

The days after her death merge into one, while I try to come to grips with the fact that I’ll never see Hannah again. I’ll never get the chance to tell her I love her. I love her as much as she loved me, but I was too stupid to show it or say it. Instead, I pushed her away as if she were nothing but an annoyance in my life. There’s no defense against my actions nor is there a resolution for her sudden departure.

Life keeps moving forward although I am no longer an active participant. My body is nothing more than a crumpled mess that begs my sister for her forgiveness while my parents try to sort out their own life. My nights are endless as I lie awake holding an open dialogue with a ghost that won’t respond to me, while my days are spent lying in bed, hating my sister for punishing me. I deserve the sobs that wrack my body because no matter what her letter tells me, I am responsible. I obsess over every detail of our lives together and know that I was the only one who could have saved her, but I failed her.

All that surrounds me is noise, white noise that leaves me gasping for air as my parents try to find their footing. Breathing is a task so hurtful, I’d prefer it if my own lungs and heart would quit working.

Alone, I listen to saved voicemails from her over and over again just to hear her voice. The day my parents deactivate her number, leaving me unable to call her phone to listen to Hannah say her name, is the day I contemplate taking my own life.

I call my best friend, convinced I no longer deserve even an ounce of happiness, and she hurries to my side to help me cross my bridge of despair. Only, she doesn’t feel my pain. Her world hasn’t stopped turning. She can’t hear me scream or see the battle raging inside of me. Her sympathy isn’t just fleeting, but at a point where it is nonexistent.

She doesn’t just think I should move on, as if moving on were an option after only three weeks, but she’s pushing me forward, uncaring of the fact that I simply can’t move at all. Not when the wrong that keeps me up at night haunts me every time my heart beats.

So I lie to her. Every day I lie to her and make excuses for my weight loss and resort to self-destructive behavior no one sees but me. Desperation balances the pain, justifying every harmful act I bestow upon myself.