58. CHARLOTTE
58
I ’m not okay.
When you are younger, you think your parents are invincible. Superheroes. You don’t think about them dying long before you have kids of your own, and until you’re completely independent. Not for me. I’ve known my mama could leave me since I was eight, preparing myself for that day to arrive sooner than I’d ever have kids. But now I realize you can never really prepare yourself for it. That’s bullshit. A white lie, you tell yourself, hoping you’ll be fine. Well, the truth is—I’m not fine.
I'm hollow.
“Have you heard from Hunter?” Julie hands me my glass, taking the seat in front of me on the screened porch.
I let out a snicker, though there’s nothing funny about it.
“Of course not. Bet you that Instagram-addicted bitch won’t let him.” I sound bitter, and frankly—I am.
I tried calling him a bunch of times, the night those police officers crushed my world in two. Even after he sent me a text to say he was busy, I brushed the rejection aside because I simply needed him. I needed my best friend to tell me everything was going to be alright. That I could get through this even though I had no clue how. But he never answered, and he never called back. He should've been standing next to me when they lowered my mother's casket in the ground.
But he wasn't.
“It’s been a week. He just left you hanging after you called him God knows how many times?”
I shrug my shoulders, my face filled with fury. After the funeral, I cried for days, not letting any other emotion in than grief. I didn’t eat, didn’t shower. Suddenly, there was no more reason to get out of bed. But in the last twenty-four hours, my grief has been replaced by anger. Straight up burning flames of fury that are directed toward Hunter Hansen.
“Did you text him? Saying what happened?” she asks carefully.
“No!” I bark, lifting a reprimanding finger in the air. “And neither will you! If that asshole doesn’t think I’m important enough, he doesn’t need to know shit.” I don’t expect him to be at my beck and call whenever I want. I know he has his own life. But up until now, I truly thought we were still friends. That I could still call him and he’d at least listen to me, no matter how random or silly it might seem. I shouldn’t have to tell him my mother died over a text message. No, he should pick up the goddamn phone. Surely calling him ten times in a row screams important, right?
“Okay. Okay.” She throws her hands up in the air in surrender before moving forward, her elbows resting on her knees as she locks her gaze on mine.
“But you gotta end this, Charlie. He’s killing you inside. You can’t be friends if it’s going to keep hurting you like this. He’s not your friend. You gotta stop trying.”
I ball my fist, wanting to punch something, knowing she’s right.
Fuck this shit and fuck him.
“I know.” I pause, but finally breaking that invisible chord in my head. “And I will.”