Chapter Thirteen
Flora
Madison shoots me a warning glance as soon as we part ways with Josie. We’re standing in a hospital corridor near a row of ugly plastic chairs. “Are you seriously not over him? You were practically drooling over him in there.”
“I wasn’t. I was trying to take his mind off the injury.” Sean clearly hated talking about surgery, especially when he mentioned things like “autograft” and “arthroscopic procedure.” The balloons made him smile—I’d been right to insist on them.
“What do you care, anyway? I thought you wanted him to suffer.”
It’s true that whatever love I had for Sean has fermented into hatred, but I never wanted him in physical pain. “By suffer, I meant crying himself to sleep every night thinking about me. Not suffer through a busted knee. What if he can never play basketball again?”
Madison scoffs, cold as the cucumber salad she ate for lunch.
“His knee looks awful. Maybe I should get him a brace? I wonder how much his medical insurance covers.”
“Honey, he’s not your problem anymore.”
“There must be something I can do for him. Maybe—”
“Stop right there.” She turns to face me square on. The usual arrogance drains from her eyes, replaced by concern. “It’s been weeks since you broke up. You have to move on. He. Doesn’t. Care. About. You. I’m sorry, but it’s the truth.”
Madison is all about brutal honesty. She doesn’t do fake smiles, just like I don’t do knockoff bags. Everything she says is true, but it doesn’t make it any easier to accept.
I tried moving on. I dated my way through the senior class, but no one made it past the second date. I’d mentally grade the new guys, giving them tiny black marks every time they did something uncool, or in other words, un-Sean-like.
I miss him. I loathe him but I miss him. I want to drive him to class and carry his books until he gets better, but the burn behind my eyelids reminds me that I don’t have that privilege anymore.
When Madison leaves, I sink into one of the chairs.
I’m not ready to go yet.
“Flora?”
Lindsey’s eyes are red rimmed, her usual brightness dimmed. Beside her, Sean’s mom stands with that familiar warmth. A sob rises in my throat. They worry about Sean as much as I do, if not more.
I stand up, and, obeying an impulse, wrap my arms around Mrs. Foster. “He’s going to be fine.” My voice wavers, but I blink back the tears.
When we pull apart, she squeezes my hand. “It’s so good to see you. How have you been?”
“I’ve been better,” I admit.
“My dad keeps asking when you’ll be back for his famous burgers,” Lindsey says.
I manage a smile. Probably never.
“I still use that highlighter you gave me,” Lindsey adds after a pause.
“The pink one? Told you. It makes you glow from within.”
“Lindsey had so much fun that day,” Mrs. Foster says, referring to the afternoon I played personal stylist/image consultant and gave her tips based on her undertones and color theory. God, I’m such a pro. “By the way, she’s starting high school this fall.”
I turn to Lindsey. “That’s exciting! We’ll have a great year together. You know you can come to me for anything, right?”
Lindsey tugs at the end of her hair. “I wanted to text you, but I wasn’t sure you’d want to hang out since you . . . since you and Sean . . .”
“Hey, I’m still your friend,” I say, meaning it. “That hasn’t changed.”
When we wave goodbye, she’s smiling.