If We Say Goodbye

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Despite popular belief, and the fact that I hold in my feelings like they’re the CIA’s most classified secret, I’m not a robot. My emotions are there but buried deep inside my icy exterior. It’s safer that way. More comfortable.

I hate when people try to tap into them—as if trying to figure out what I’m thinking is some kind of game. Because of that, I’ve learned it’s sometimes easier to avoid others. Like I’m doing right now.

One minute and fifty-three seconds. That’s the average time it takes me to get all the way down to the kitchen, grab my food, and race back to my room.

The tricky part is getting down there without being noticed.

Small talk is the epitome of social torture, and I will do just about anything to avoid it.

And, normally, I would. But the syrupy sweet smell of Mom’s over-the-top breakfast has invaded my room. I can almost taste the buttery pancakes from here. My stomach cries out as if there’s an earthquake inside of me demanding food.

I crack my door open and peer into the empty hallway. My foot hovers above the hardwood floors that line the second story of our house, contemplating my first step.

If I had more self-control, I’d wait for Mom to leave for work, but I’m withering by the second.

Normally, she’s gone by now. I could play it safe and wait another ten minutes, but what if she doesn’t plan on going today?

That would mean that all this waiting would be pointless.

I’d be depriving myself of happiness for nothing.

I weigh my options one more time—food and possible conversational discomfort, or die of starvation.

Man, this choice is hard.

Mom is predictable. Without fail, she tries to pry into my emotions every chance she gets. How are you feeling? Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want to try going to school today?

Fine. Yes. No.

My answers are always the same, so I wish she’d stop asking.

It’s not like I’m going to magically open up.

Besides, we’ve never been that close. There was always a clear divide in our family, separating us.

Mom had Ethan—who enjoyed staying up late talking about everything under the sun.

Dad and I, on the other hand, are the quiet ones.

We don’t have to say much to understand each other.

My stomach growls again, forcing me to make a decision.

I internally groan as I step out of the safety of my room.

At the end of the hallway, the staircase leading down to our front door looms with our living room around the corner. The two large windows in the entryway light up the whole space, burning my eyes.

I blink to adjust to the disturbing sunshine I’ve managed to keep off my radar until now.

I avoid the creaks in the floor with strategic steps.

After living in the same house for so many years, I’ve grown well acquainted with each and every one of its quirks.

Like how the back screen door needs to be pulled up otherwise it won’t open.

Or how if you flush the toilet in the downstairs bathroom, the shower upstairs goes ice cold.

My parents call these things part of the house’s “charm” and “personality,” but I know an excuse when I hear one.

They don’t have the time or money to fix them.

I keep my eyes laser focused as I sneak forward.

I won’t look at it.

But that’s easier said than done.

Ethan’s closed door is like a neon sign in my peripheral vision.

It doesn’t matter how far I turn my head in the opposite direction, its gnawing presence demands my attention.

My gaze flickers to it for a split second, and my heart plummets like a bowling ball from the sky.

The air drains from my lungs, and I stagger in the wrong direction.

My misfired steps cause the floor to creak beneath my toes.

My heart jumps into my throat, and I bite my bottom lip, hoping Mom didn’t hear it.

Thankfully, the only sound competing with my drumming heartbeat is the slow drip from the coffee maker.

I breathe out slowly.

With regained control, I continue to creep forward until my hands reach the white railing on the side of the stairs.

The uneven texture of worn paint greets my palm, and I lean over to get a clear view through the living room and into the kitchen.

A stack of fresh pancakes sit on the island counter.

Next to it is a large glass pitcher of orange juice.

Mom is nowhere to be seen.

My shoulders relax, and I let out a sigh of relief.

I continue my journey downstairs and enter the living room with my target locked in.

Buddy sits on the couch, surrounded by a sea of bright pillows. His ears perk up the closer I get. Bringing my finger to my lips, I shush him. Still, his chest pushes out, fully prepared to let out a very inconveniently timed bark.

I rush to his side. Hoping to keep him quiet, I glide my hand over his short fur. “Be quiet. I’m just trying to get my breakfast,” I whisper.

He lets out a yelp anyway, and my nose scrunches up.

Like clockwork, Mom steps out of the bathroom.

Unable to contain my disappointment, my lips fall into a frown.

She’s in the middle of brushing her wavy blonde curls, and it frizzes more and more with every stroke. Her light foundation is caked on, not fully blended in. Her intense red lips part into a smile. “I thought I heard you come down. How are you, honey?”

I sigh. “I’m fine.”

I’d be doing a lot better if Buddy had kept quiet.

The thing about Mom is that she loves to talk. She could literally spend ten minutes talking about her favorite way to cook an egg. Now, while I’m sure that would interest someone, I am not that someone. I am the someone who just wants to eat their pancake in beautiful, uninterrupted silence.

She hands me the hairbrush, which I should take as a hint to tackle my own mess of blonde curls, but I toss it onto the couch.

It’s been at least two days since I last brushed it.

What’s one more? Besides, my curls are tighter than Mom’s.

If I brush mine, my hair will completely skip over the frizzy phase and graduate directly into an untamable poofy disaster.

Is that what I want on this glorious Wednesday morning? Definitely not.

I head for the kitchen without giving it another thought.

Mom follows me, of course. Her flowy dress dances around her ankles as she passes me on the way to her oven mitts. She pulls something off the stove and spins around with a pot balanced perfectly in her padded hands. “Look,” she says, beaming. “I made your favorite.”

Diced caramelized apples fill my senses. The gooey goodness is still bubbling from the residual heat of the stove.

I force myself to smile. It’s hard and small, but it’s all I can muster.

As if she's a porcelain doll, Mom stands there frozen, waiting for me to say something more.

My smile dissolves back into a blank stare.

After a moment she breaks free and sets the apples down onto the pot holder sitting next to the stack of pancakes. She grabs the coffee pot and pours herself a cup of unneeded caffeine. “Want any?”

“No. I’ll stick with orange juice.”

She had already put the pot back down before I finished my sentence.

Drinking coffee is a rare occurrence for me. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not anti-coffee. I enjoy an occasional caramel-flavored burst of energy, but it tends to get in the way of my long midday nap.

“Just a heads up, I asked Caleb to bring your homework today.”

I groan. “Mom.”

She laughs. “You’ll live. Besides, you could use a friend.”

“I have friends,” I mumble, opening the cupboard for a plate.

Even our dishes are a mismatched rainbow, reflecting Mom’s colorful taste. The one on top is lime green. It’s not the most appetizing color to eat off, but I’m too lazy to switch it for another one.

I set it down in front of the pancakes.

Mom rests her elbows on the counter, wrapping both hands around her coffee mug. “How is Sadie?” Her voice wavers.

My back stiffens. I stab my fork into the first pancake, transferring it to my plate. I go back for another. “I don’t know.” And another. “I haven’t seen her.”

Before I know it, five pancakes stare back at me. They’re sprawled out haphazardly on the plate, overlapping each other. One is hanging off the edge of the plate, threatening to jump ship, but I slide it back to safety just in time.

Mom’s mouth twists in thought. “It’s been three months. I’m sure Ethan wouldn’t want—”

“Ethan is dead. He doesn’t want anything.” The words slip out too fast, and I can’t look at her.

A long, thick silence follows.

She sets her coffee mug down, half empty. “I need to go,” she whispers. “I’m already late.”

My heart sinks as she walks past me. I know I should stop her. I should say something. Apologize, maybe. But my body stays put. I’m too numb to move.

Part of me needed to remind her that things will never be the same. Our happiness will always be shadowed by a piece of sorrow. Acting like everything is okay is nothing but a worthless distraction.

The screen door rattles as it closes behind her, sending a shiver down my spine.

I got my wish.

She’s gone.

But it doesn’t make me feel any better.

I don’t really feel like being around anyone.

At the same time, though, I hate having the house to myself.

It makes it too easy to imagine how our family used to be.

The way we would sit in front of the TV while we ate dinner.

The way we would chase Buddy up and down the stairs, laughing so hard we almost cried.

Or even the times when we would fight. Our fights were different then.

They were silly—meaningless—nothing that would cause lasting damage.

I hide away in my room most days, but it’s beginning to suffocate me. I don’t have the motivation to clean it, and even though I’ve never been a clean freak, it makes me cringe every time I step inside.

Every surface is cluttered with books I haven’t read and wrappers I should throw away.

In the corner behind my door is a never-ending pile of dirty clothes that need to be washed.

On the easel next to my desk, there’s a half-finished canvas, paints and brushes scattered below it.

I haven’t even pushed the drawers closed on my dresser.

There are so many things out of place that I don’t see the point.

The only thing in my room that isn’t in a state of mayhem are the movie posters that line my walls.

I love sci-fi movies, especially old ones.

I don’t know why. There’s just something about the old special effects that make me smile.

Most of my posters are of movies from the fifties—when giant bugs invading the world were all the rage.

For the majority of the day, I ignore the atrocious state of my room and huddle under a mountain of blankets on my bed, watching movies to distract myself. Despite the heat being set to a comfortable sixty-nine degrees, the cold winter air finds its way into my room.

The winters here aren’t terrible. We rarely get any snow, only cold rain, but I’ve never enjoyed the cold.

I like to joke that my heart is cold enough on its own.

I don’t like the heat, either. In a perfect world, the weather would make up its mind and stay at a consistent medium temperature.

But obviously, this world is anything but perfect.

Before I know it, it’s almost three-thirty, and I shed my cocoon to head downstairs.

I hold my hand up to my face as I speed past Ethan’s room to mimic the blinders that horses wear in races. I refuse to look at it again.

Caleb will be here any minute, and if I try to ignore him, he’ll come back over when he sees Mom’s car pull into the driveway. I learned that the hard way . . . multiple times. I also learned that Mom will invite him inside every single time and talk for a minimum of an eternity.

When Ethan died, the school stopped expecting me to show up.

It was as if my brother’s death was a free pass to skip class.

After a while, my teachers started having my parents pick up packets of homework assignments—until my Mom had a light bulb moment and started asking Caleb to do it.

She rarely does it anymore, to my disappointment.

She should know better. Ever since we were young, Caleb and I have gotten into fights.

I’d be minding my own business, and he’d do everything he could to disturb the peace.

He craves attention. When we were six, he stole my soda, and I jumped him in the cafeteria, sending us both to the principal's office. At age thirteen, he pushed me into the pool even though he knew I couldn’t swim.

The only reason I didn’t kill him is because he’s the one who pulled me out.

He made a big deal about it too, saying he saved me.

On top of it all, he smiles too much and must be delusional because, despite my constant lack of natural human affection, he still talks to me.

I’m still in my pajamas, but I don’t care. If anything, maybe one day my unruly appearance will scare him off. Before he has a chance to knock, I open the door, letting the cold air smack me in the face.

Caleb stands there like a skyscraper. I swear he grows taller every time I see him.

If he doesn’t stop growing, soon enough I’ll have to crane my neck to make eye contact.

His hair is dark, almost black, and his bangs kiss the fringe of his eyebrows no matter how many times I’ve seen him brush them back with his hand.

He holds out my newest packet of homework and smiles, his dimples popping out on either side of his mouth. “How are you today?”

I answer his question with a blank expression, yanking on the papers.

He doesn’t let go. “Bright and cheery, as always, I see,” he says.

I roll my eyes.

“Wait,” he says with a smirk. “Aren’t you headed out? You’re clearly dressed for town.”

I blink a couple of times, meeting his gaze. “Ha-ha.” I yank harder, successfully tugging the papers out of his hand.

I move to close the door.

He shoves his foot in the door to stop it from closing. “Usually, when someone goes out of their way to bring someone else their homework for the hundredth time, they expect a thank you.”

I smile sarcastically. “Thank you.” My smile dissolves. “Now, move your foot before I slam this door and break it.”

He steps back with a smile. “Yessir.”

I slam the door.

Unfortunately, his foot was no longer in my line of fire.