CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ARIELLE
The Airbnb had four bedrooms, six wineglasses, and a neon sign over the couch that said GOOD VIBES ONLY.
My mother carried my overnight bag inside and looked around the living room.
“This is cute.”
“The sign is threatening me.”
“It does feel aggressive.”
The reservation had been paid, reinstated, and argued over. Canceling would have returned less than half of what we spent. Letting the house sit empty felt like giving the whole mess one more thing.
So, the following Friday, I came alone.
My mother drove behind me because she did not trust me to spend the first night by myself without making sure the doors locked. She checked every window, opened the refrigerator, and inspected the shower like she was preparing evidence for a hotel review.
“You staying?” I asked.
“Do you want me to?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
I gave her a look.
She smiled. “Had to try.”
The kitchen counter held four gift bags I had dropped off before everything fell apart. Each had a name written in gold marker.
KYE.
JORI.
NAE.
ARI.
Inside were matching pajamas, small bottles of liquor, face masks, candy, and disposable cameras because I had wanted pictures that did not get edited before anybody saw them.
My mother touched Kye’s bag. “What you doing with these?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t throw them away tonight.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You threw perfectly good flowers in my trash.”
“They were emotional flowers.”
“They were expensive flowers.”
“The vase survived.”
“Barely.”
I laughed.
The sound moved strangely through a house meant for four women.
After my mother left, I ordered food, changed into the pajamas from my own gift bag, and sat in the middle of the couch beneath GOOD VIBES ONLY.
I did not take a picture.
The house had a balcony facing a small lake. Sunset turned the water pink and gold. My first thought was that the lighting would have looked good on all of us.
My second was that there was no all of us right now.
I took the disposable camera outside instead of my phone.
One picture of the water.
One of my fuzzy socks on the railing.
One of the empty chair beside me.
The camera did not show me what the pictures looked like. I had to let the moment exist without checking whether I captured it correctly.
That felt like work.
At eight, Nae texted.
NAE: You went to the house?
ME: Yes.
NAE: By yourself?
ME: My mom knows where I am. Doors locked.
The typing bubble appeared.
NAE: Okay. Be safe.
She did not ask to come.
I did not invite her.
Jori sent a message an hour later.
JORI: Please don’t use the hot tub alone if you’ve been drinking.
I stared at the screen.
ME: You lasted nine days before giving instructions again.
JORI: That is fair. Sorry.
ME: I am not drinking and there is no hot tub.
JORI: Good.
I almost typed that I was proud of her exam. Instead, I reacted to the message with a thumbs-up and put my phone down.
Kye did not contact me. Her old messages sat in my head anyway.
You only picking her because everybody think she prettier.
Wait until she start crying every time you don’t text back.
The ugliest part was that she had identified the fears I had never said out loud at seventeen.
Being known that well and loved anyway had always been the foundation of our friendship.
Now, I had to accept that being known also gave people better weapons.
At ten, Cam emailed me because every other door was closed.
SUBJECT: FOUR YEARS DESERVE A CONVERSATION
I deleted it without opening the message. Then, I cried.
Growth was irritating like that.
You could make the right decision and still hurt afterward.
I slept in the largest bedroom with the television on and the lamp beside the bed burning until morning.
When I checked out Sunday, I loaded the three unopened gift bags into my trunk.
I kept them there for six weeks.
Life continued without asking whether we had repaired anything.
Nae went to court and came out with a temporary parenting schedule while the support case moved forward. She posted one picture of Amir at the playground and turned the comments off.
Jori stayed in pharmacology. She sent her final study schedule to the group chat by accident, deleted it, then reposted it because she said hiding was how she got behind.
Kye installed two new cameras at the salon, changed suites, and attended the full restraining-order hearing with her mother. The final order stayed in place. Trell was told not to contact her or come near the salon.
Cam stopped emailing after I had the third message returned unopened through his mother.
Sade disappeared from his events.
The gossip page found a rapper’s girlfriend to discuss and left us alone.
None of us spoke together.
Private messages happened when something required an answer.
Court dates.
Exam grades.
A client canceling.
Amir getting a fever.
No jokes.
No random videos.
No somebody come outside.
DAY ONES OR DIES became a place where information sat.
Not home.
I started counseling through campus because my mother filled out half the online form and placed the laptop in my lap. I hated the first session. Spent most of the second explaining that I did not need somebody to tell me I was beautiful.
By the fourth, I admitted beauty had become the safest answer to every other question.
Am I interesting?
Am I lovable?
Am I behind?
Will people leave?
At least pretty could be checked in a mirror.
For my media campaign class, I pitched a project about the difference between looking okay and being okay. No crying videos. No public confession. Just photographs of polished moments paired with the truth that happened before or after them.
My professor called it honest.
I did not tell her how much honesty had cost me lately.
On a Wednesday evening in late November, I was sitting on my bedroom floor editing the first campaign image. My hair was in six rough braids beneath a scarf. I wore an old college T-shirt and shorts. No lashes. No lip gloss.
My mother yelled from downstairs that dinner was ready.
“Coming!”
My phone lit beside my knee.
DAY ONES OR DIES.
For one second, I assumed Jori had posted another exam reminder.
Then, I saw Kye’s message.
KYE: BLUE LIGHT. SALON. BACK DOOR.
My body went cold.
Blue Light was the emergency word we made up in eighth grade after Nae’s older cousin followed us home from the park drunk and angry. It meant no questions, no debate, come now and bring an adult.
Nobody had used it in eight years.
Kye’s location appeared beneath the message.
Jori started typing.
Nae started typing.
I did not wait for either one.
I called 911, gave the salon address, and grabbed my keys.
My mother met me at the bottom of the stairs.
“What’s wrong?”
“Kye needs us.”
She looked at my scarf, bare face, and shaking hands.
“I’m driving.”
The old me would have lost five minutes making sure I did not look like this when I arrived.
I followed my mother out exactly as I was.