Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
My chest heaves. I can’t see anything through my tears. The room is one big blur, everything melting into each other.
I sob against Caleb, soaking his shirt and leaving smudges of mascara behind.
He stays completely still, except for the soft and steady patting of his hand on my back.
I can’t seem to get the image of Ethan’s lifeless face out of my head. It’s been written in permanent marker and can’t be scrubbed away.
My shoulders start to shake.
“Hey,” Caleb says in a soft voice. “You’re going to be okay.”
I cry harder. “I was—they were . . .”
I don’t deserve to be okay.
He tries to take a step back, but I won’t let him budge. He’s the only glue stopping me from falling apart.
“They were packing up his room,” I sob.
“Look at me,” he says, moving his hands from my back to cupping my face. He rubs my tears away with his thumbs.
More tears come, immediately replacing the previous ones. My eyelids are heavy, and it’s easier to keep them shut than to try and make eye contact.
“Focus on me, not what’s in your head,” he whispers.
“I can’t,” I sob.
“Yes, you can. You’re a strong person. You can do hard things.”
I pry my eyes open. Caleb is inches away, staring into me with his deep brown eyes.
“Tell me what you see,” he says.
He becomes the center of my attention. There’s a faint scar just above his cheekbone that traces up toward his eye, and his dimples attempt to show with every word leaving his mouth.
I take in a deep breath. “I see you.”
He wipes my cheeks again. “You’re safe with me.”
I nod.
“What color is my shirt?”
The fabric is still clenched in my fists. I loosen my grip. “Blue.”
“And where are we?”
“Your house.”
My breathing begins to slow. I raise my hands to his to lower them from my face.
The room comes into view as I step back. The house is dimly lit, and no one else is in sight. “Where’s Jordy and your mom?”
“They went to the store.”
I nod again, thankful they weren’t here to witness me like this. “Can I have some water?”
“Of course,” he says.
I slip off my shoes before following him toward the kitchen.
There’s a knock at the door. I pick up my pace, hiding behind the wall. “It’s probably my parents. I’m not ready to see them.”
Caleb hands me a glass of water. “I’ll take care of it.” He walks back to the door, opening it. “Hello, Mrs. Jacobs.”
“Have you seen Becca? She ran out of the house, and I don’t know where else to look,” she says, sniffling.
I peer out. Mom’s mascara is smudged.
“Yeah, she’s here, but she’s pretty upset.”
“Let me talk to her.” Mom tries to step in, but Caleb doesn’t let her through.
“She’s okay,” he says. “But I think she needs to calm down before she sees you.”
Mom scoffs. “I’m her mother. Are you telling me I can’t see my own daughter?”
He lowers his voice. “No, but I am saying that it’s not a good idea right now. You’re both upset. If you talk before you both have a chance to calm down, it’ll make things worse.”
Mom’s back grows rigid, and she crosses her arms. “I need to know what’s going on.”
“Has forcing her to talk ever worked before?”
Mom’s mouth drops open, and she stumbles over her words. “It’s—well, I—what else am I supposed to do?”
“Give her some time. She’ll come to you when she’s ready.”
I’ve never had anyone stand up for me like this.
I’ve been surrounded by people poking and prodding to get what they want.
I don’t think they meant it, but it hurts to be forced to share things I don’t want to.
I need to think about how I feel for a long time, how I want to say things, and who I want to tell. I can’t just blurt them out.
Caleb is patient, and I like that about him.
Mom rocks her jaw, eyes darting to the side. “Fine,” she says. “But I want her home before nine.”
Caleb says goodbye to Mom, and she leaves without putting up much more of a fight. He makes his way back to me, running a hand through his hair to move his bangs out of his face. A gentle smile tugs at his lips. “She’s gone.”
Relief floods through me. “Thank you.”
There are at least five feet between us, and this is the first time I’ve ever wished it was less. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I have an overwhelming desire for him to wrap his arms around me again.
I don’t dare move. I stand as still as possible, barely breathing.
“Why don’t we get out of here?” he says.
I wipe my face with the back of my sleeves. My lips turn up ever so slightly.
Caleb’s poor shirt is wrinkled with black splotches on it.
“What?” he asks.
“You might want to change,” I say.
He looks down and chuckles. “Oh. Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” He turns to walk away.
“Wait, where are we going?”
He looks over his shoulder and smiles. “We’re going to watch the movie you wanted to see.”
The theater is almost empty. This movie isn’t exactly a blockbuster anymore, but I don’t mind. I hate being stuck next to random strangers who’ll most likely talk through the whole thing. I’d never be found at a premiere.
“This is for you,” Caleb says, handing me a cherry soda. Then, he sets a large tub of popcorn between us. He insisted on getting the largest tub they had. I didn't argue because I haven’t had dinner.
“Do you know the right way to eat popcorn?” he asks while we wait for the movie to start.
“Doesn’t everyone? You put it in your mouth. It’s not rocket science.”
He grimaces. “Wrong, and I have to be honest, I expected you of all people to know the right way. Especially after the whole chips-in-your-sandwich thing.” He sets the tub between us on the armrest that divides our seats.
“Hey, the chips make the sandwich ten times better.”
“I’m not arguing. I’m just saying I thought you’d know how to eat popcorn.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So then, what’s the right way?”
He pulls out the boxes of candy he bought earlier. “You have to mix in chocolate.”
“Since when did that become a thing?” I ask.
“Since forever, but I guess only some of us were blessed with the knowledge of how to make superior popcorn. Obviously.”
“And who taught you that?”
He pauses, and the glint in his eyes fades. “My dad.”
I cringe. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s okay. I don’t mind talking about him. Especially when it reminds me of the good times we had together.” He smiles, scattering the chocolate pieces over the popcorn. Then, he sets the box down and stares at his hands. “These are the kind of things I want people to remember him for.”
“Does it ever get easier?” I ask, my voice timid.
He takes in a breath and lets it out slowly, letting the wheels turn in his mind. “Have you ever heard about the ball in the box?”
I shake my head.
“It’s the idea that pain and grief never really disappear.
It just gets triggered less. Imagine you have a box, and inside that box, there’s a button.
That button represents your pain. Now, there’s also a giant ball inside that box, and at first, that ball is so big that the button gets pushed all the time.
” When he looks up at me, his bangs fall into his eyes.
“Over time, the ball gets smaller, and that means the button doesn’t get pushed as often.
But when the button does get pushed, it hurts just as bad. ”
“So, what you’re trying to tell me is that it never gets easier?”
He shakes his head. “It does. Even though sometimes it still hurts, you eventually get to a point where you can start filling the box with memories of them that make you happy instead of ones that trigger you and make you sad.”
“How long did it take for you to feel that way?”
“Here’s the thing: when you’re at your worst, you don’t want to ask for help, and when you’re at your best you won’t think you need it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He tilts his head to the side, gaze dancing across my face. “It means asking for help is the hardest thing you’ll do, but it’ll make a world of difference. You aren’t alone. Once you realize that, it’ll get easier.”
“I’d rather eat staples than talk to someone about how I feel.” I sink into my chair, stuffing my face with a handful of popcorn.
He leans back into his chair, mirroring me. “You’re talking to me.”
I choke on the popcorn. He’s right. I am talking to him. It’s like he casts a spell on me every time he’s around, and I start spilling my guts.
He hands me my soda. “Drink this.”
I take a sip and regain my composure after hitting my chest with a closed fist. “Sorry, I—oh look, the movie’s starting.”
The lights fade, making the large screen even brighter. I’m unbelievably grateful for the interruption.
He laughs a little, biting his lip to try and mask it as he looks toward the screen. “I’m starting to think you don’t mind me,” he whispers.
“Oh really?”
He grins. “I’d go as far as to say we’re friends.”
I shrug. “Well, I don’t dislike you.”
He clicks his tongue with a sigh. “You have such a way with words. Really touching. I might actually tear up.”
I roll my eyes. “Never mind. I take it back. I don’t like you.”
“Nope. You already put that positive energy into the universe. You can’t take it back now.”
I give him a side-eye. “Says who?”
“Me.”
“And since when do you make the rules?”
“Since I got you to sign a contract agreeing to my rules.”
“Which you tore up.”
“Taped it. Besides, we're on another date.” He shrugs. “So I guess we don’t need it after all.”
“This isn’t a date.”
He smirks.
“It’s not.”
“Okay, if you say so.” He takes a sip of his soda.
I narrow my eyes, shooting daggers. “Watch the movie.”
“Sure thing, Bec.”
I prop my elbow up on the armrest, leaning onto my hand. I cover my mouth with my palm to hide my smile.
Throughout the movie, I steal occasional glances at him, taking him in. I like being reminded that he’s right next to me.
Right now, he’s my safe space.
The car slows to a stop outside his house, and we sit in silence, each waiting for the other to speak first.