Far From You

36

SEVEN MONTHS AGO (SIXTEEN YEARS OLD)

All week, I look forward to my call to Mina. I’m only allowed to have two nonparental calls a week. It sucks, but I’m following Aunt Macy’s rules. So when Trev’s number appears on my phone instead of Mina’s, I feel a flash of disappointment.

“Hey,” I say, trying to sound cheery. “Aren’t you busy with school?”

“I needed a break. And I wanted to see how you are; it’s been a while.”

Months, in fact. “Things are good,” I say as I pick at the quilt spread across my bed. It has hand-tied squares, and I like to twirl the strands of silky embroidery floss between my fingers.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, you know, therapy, admitting my mistakes, my failings, basically examining all the bad parts of me. It’s been a ball.”

“Sounds like it. What about the pain? Is it…Are you handling it?”

“It hurts,” I say. “All the time.”

I can hear his intake of breath over the phone, ragged and too quick, and I wonder if I’ve been too honest with him. If he still blames himself for all this.

Of course he does. Trev wouldn’t know what to do if loving me wasn’t wrapped up with some form of guilt.

He and Mina have that in common.

“I’ve been worried about you,” he says.

“I know.” I lie back on my bed, sink into the safety of my pillows as I cradle the phone against my cheek. “I’ll be okay.”

“Mina misses you.”

“I miss her.” Can he hear it? The truth in those three little words?

“Do you know when you’ll be home?”

“Probably not for another few months. It’s hard, adjusting to no pain meds. I don’t want to…” I stop.

“What?” Trev asks.

“I just—I can’t. Not right now.” I know he doesn’t get what I’m talking about. How much it hurts. How hard it’s been. How I’ve been forced to look at the worst parts of myself. The ugliness on the surface is nothing compared to what’s inside me.

I am not the same. I’ve gone hollow, scooped my insides out. The constant fear that it’s too late, that I’ll mess it up, slip back down into that hole, no way out, gnaws at me. I understand now how weak I am.

“I’ll get better. I’m getting these cortisone shots in my back that help, and believe it or not, I’m doing yoga, and I actually like it.”

“Yoga?” he asks. Something eases inside me, hearing the laughter in his voice. “I’d think that’d be a little slow for you.”

“Things change, I guess.”

“Guess so.”

Another pause. I stare up at my ceiling, at the glow-in-the-dark stars Macy stuck up there. “Is Mina there?” I ask. “She was supposed to call.”

“I know,” Trev says. “She asked me to call and tell you she’ll talk to you on Tuesday. She’s all distracted. Mom and I are officially meeting this new boyfriend of hers.”

Cold shock spears through me. I sit straight up, so fast that my back flares painfully in protest. “Boyfriend?”

“Didn’t she tell you? Of course she didn’t. Mina and her secrets.” Trev’s words are full of fondness. “He’s that blond one who follows her around like a puppy. Kyle.”

“Kyle Miller,” I croak. I think I’m going to be sick. I almost drop the phone, but force myself to keep listening.

She never said anything. This entire time, all these months, I’d been thinking…

Oh God. This is Jason Kemp all over again. But it’s so much worse this time.

“Yeah, that’s it. Is he still a good guy? Or am I gonna have to scare him off?”

“Um…” What do I say? He’s a man-whore. The biggest asshole in the world. A chronic cheater…any wild lie to get him away from her.

“Soph?”

“He…he’s okay, I guess,” I stutter. “Kind of a jock. He’s always had a crush on her. I guess she’s decided to finally give him a chance.”

Macy knocks on my open door, peering in. She taps her watch, and I nod to show I’m finishing up. “I have to go,” I blurt out. My eyes burn. Any second I’ll start crying, and I’m desperate to hang up before he catches on. “Trev…does she seem happy?”

“Yeah,” he says, unaware what that one word does to me.

“Good, that’s—good. Anyway, I should go. Thanks for calling.”

“I’ll call again,” he says. “And I’ll see you when you get home.”

“Of course.”

I never want to go home now. I want to stay here forever. Hide from what’s waiting. I’m so angry and hurt, the memory of her touch still fresh on my skin after all this time. I don’t even know what to do. I put my phone away and sit on my bed.

I want to use.

The thought slips through me, tantalizing, kissing across my body. It beckons me. Just one more time. It’d feel so good, it’d make you forget, it’d make it better. And I want to so badly.

Three months. One week. One day.

I can’t.

I won’t.

But, oh, do I want to.