The Beginning Of After Part 31

Then, his mouth opened into a wide, hollow O.

Out of it came a sigh filled with pure agony. A dusty, terrible gush that reminded me of Pandora's box.

He started to cough, almost gagging on his own breath, before the other sound came. Sobbing. Like a child's sobbing. Soft and utterly broken.

I backed up against the wall in horror. Oh my G.o.d, Laurel. What have you done?

Footsteps down the hallway, fast with the little squeak of rubber-soled shoes.

"What's going on?" barked a nurse as she exploded into the room.

I stammered in denial. "We were just talking . . . he got upset."

The nurse rushed to Mr. Kaufman's bedside, and I turned and ran.

In the hallway I saw the door marked STAIRWAY and crashed through it, taking the steps quickly as if someone were chasing me. Putting as much distance as possible between myself and the sound that came out of Mr. Kaufman's mouth.

I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I kept saying to myself. That wasn't supposed to happen. A gust of regret and cringing shame pushed me faster down the stairs.

When I reached the ground floor, I pushed open the stairway door and tried to figure out where I was. I looked right and saw the peach glow of the lobby at the end of the hall. I looked left, and saw a big wooden door, different from all the other doors in the building.

A small sign on it said CHAPEL.

In seconds I was through it, and shut it behind me. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dark.

The room was only large enough to hold two wooden benches and a stone pedestal with some flowers on it, set in front of a stained-gla.s.s window. In the gla.s.s, a woman dressed in white knelt on a patchwork bed of gra.s.s and roses before a large black cross.

I collapsed onto the rear bench, pus.h.i.+ng the heels of my hands into my eye sockets, and screamed silently. Maybe that would be enough to make me feel human again before anyone came to find me.

But I needed the sound that wanted to come out. In the past, this kind of thing always took me over, breaking free of some holding pen down in my gut and raging wild until I could tame it again.

Here, now, I called it up. Let it loose, almost begging for the damage I knew it could do.

I put my hands on the back of the bench in front of me and gripped hard, let my head drop as if my neck was finally tired of holding me up. Then, the low, guttural wails burst and the tears rushed. My right hand crunched into a fist and started banging on the wood.

I want. I want. I want. It stuck in a single stubborn loop, like a toddler throwing a wicked temper tantrum.

There was so much I wanted, but could never have. It came tumbling out of me, the smallest things first. My mom smiling at me, my dad putting his arm around my shoulders. My brother laughing at one of our inside jokes, like how he always let me know I had food on my chin by saying, "Hey, Laurel. Keepin' it real!"

Then the bigger ones. Like having three people in the world who would always know me and love me.

I also wanted there to be a reason why I was here. If there couldn't be a reason why my family died, maybe I could at least have that much.

Or perhaps just a future that wasn't so complicated, filled with holes and what-ifs, everything colored a few shades darker than normal.

And then, finally, I just wanted to be Laurel. Not a tragedy. Not a survivor. Just me. Who would ever let me be that?

Someone knocked on the chapel door, and I sucked in a sob.

"Laurel?" David's voice. Worried.

"Yeah."

He opened the door and saw my face, covered in tears and snot, and the set of his mouth changed. Without a word, he let the door close and slid onto the bench, circling his arms around me in such a smooth motion I didn't even see it happen. I just felt them, warm and st.u.r.dy and confident.

David said nothing. He didn't ask what was wrong or even say shhhhh the way some people do by instinct. He just tucked his chin over the top of my head as I curled into him. I was crying softly now, but easily. It was like a language that only he understood, because we were the same species.

David saw me, my house, my life, as a refuge somehow. Here, in his arms, I realized he could offer the same to me.

Finally, when my crying had disintegrated into just sniffles, I raised my face to his.

"Is he okay? Your dad?"

David looked at me tenderly, protectively. An expression I'd never seen on him before.

"Yes. My grandma's up there with him now." He paused, and the expression faded. I knew what was coming. "What happened?"

I didn't want this to end yet, so in place of the truth I just said, "I'm sorry."

But it ruined the moment anyway. David leaned away from me to get a better look at my face, his brow furrowing.

"For what?"

I bit my lip hard. "I told him . . . about my parents and Toby."

Now he stood up, sliding out of my arms so that they fell, limp, against the wood of the bench.

"WHAT?"

"When I realized that he didn't know yet, I lost it. . . ."

David took a deep breath, steadying himself.

"I asked you not to mention the accident."

"He wanted to know why I was there. . . ." I knew it was a weak excuse.

"The doctors told us not to talk to him about the accident yet. They wanted to wait until he was more stable. . . ." His voice rose with every word.

"I was wrong, I know. I'm sorry."

"You should be!"

His scolding, indignant tone made me instantly furious. What was I thinking? He would never completely understand.

"You would have done the same thing," I said, trying to make my voice match the pitch of his. "Think about it, David. Just think about someone besides yourself for a change and imagine what it's like for me."

David opened his mouth to say something in response, but froze.

We were caught like that, staring each other down in a minuscule chapel, when Nana found us. The look on her face told me she had an idea of what had happened.

"Laurel and David," she said sternly. "I'd like to leave now before traffic picks up."

David forced a smile at her and nodded, then followed her out. I took one more look at the stained gla.s.s and then turned, trailing behind them.

Chapter Thirty-seven.

Needless to say, the car ride home was more awful than the one that morning. This time, even Nana was too beaten down by the strain of the day to make small talk. It was a very long forty-five minutes of quiet, quiet, quiet with just the hum of the car and static-laced news radio.

I felt a dull pain behind my eyes from all the crying, but it was a good hurt. Like someone had swept something away back there and suddenly, I could see again. As we crossed back over the Tappan Zee, the water looked clearer than it had that morning.

My cell phone beeped one more time, now with a voice mail. Desperate for something to do, I listened to it.

"Laurel, it's Joe. I'm kind of worried about you, you haven't answered my texts. Can you please just call me and let me know everything's okay?"

But there was no way I could call him back, even if I'd wanted to. I couldn't even think about why I didn't want to.

Finally, we pulled into our driveway to find a red truck squatting in front of the house.

Joe's truck. I gasped, then shut myself up.

And Joe, sitting on our doorstep with a takeout cup of coffee in his hands. Wearing a ski hat topped with a pom-pom, and fingerless gloves. He looked up when he saw our car and squinted.

"You have a visitor," said Nana as she turned off the car. My eyes darted to the rearview mirror to see David glance up and register Joe. He looked confused for a second, then lifted one side of his mouth into a half smile.

Then he quickly got out of the car and said, "I'm taking Masher over to the dog park."

He walked toward the house, and Joe stood up. I watched Joe watch David warily, like they were crossing paths in a dark alley. Then, a few feet before David reached the front door, Joe started walking over to our car. Where I sat, unable to move.

"Hey, man," said David, nodding quickly as they pa.s.sed each other.

"David," said Joe flatly. Joe opened Nana's door for her, helped her out.

We heard Masher barking, then David fiddling with his key in the front door, finally getting it open and stepping inside. Nana watched Joe move around to my side of the car, then she turned quickly and went into the house too. It was starting to get dark now, and the temperature had dropped sharply since we'd left the Palisades Oaks.

Joe opened my door, but I climbed out before he could help me. He glanced at the house and back at me, quizzically. "David Kaufman has a key to your house?" was all he asked, his breath visible in the twilight.

"Uh-huh," I said casually, then closed the car door and glanced up at Joe. He looked cold. And still sick. "What are you doing here?"

"Meg told me about David's dad, and that you were going out there today." He paused. "I left you a bunch of messages. . . . I thought you might need someone to talk to after."

Now the front door opened again. David and Masher. Neither of them looked at me as they climbed into the Jaguar. Joe and I stepped aside as David backed up past us and then, once out of the driveway, sped down the hill.

I felt something catch in my throat, and my eyes get wet. If Joe hadn't been standing there, I was pretty sure I would have started chasing after the car.

But now that it was gone, I looked back at Joe, at his runny nose and bloodshot eyes, waiting for me to say something.

Someone to talk to.

But I couldn't think of anything. Where would I even start?

I thought back to that night in the truck outside Yogurtland, and how happy I'd been for those moments Joe had had his skin on mine. Things were best between us when we weren't talking. At least, not about anything that mattered.

My hesitation must have been obvious, because Joe said, "Or we don't have to talk. You just look like you could use a distraction. If your grandmother says it's okay, can we go have dinner? I brought you a Christmas present."

There was suddenly nothing I wanted more than to get distracted somewhere public and normal with Joe. We could eat and maybe do more sketches together and make jokes about the other diners, then make out somewhere in his truck.

But then I looked down the driveway, and I could almost still hear the Jaguar's tires screeching.

The only thing I knew for sure at that moment was that David would be back.

If I was gone when that happened, would he leave again? For good?

David, do you know that's a chance I can't take?

Now Joe reached out tentatively, slowly, and took my hand. His glove scratchy, his fingertips icy as they laced through mine.

"Let me take you out," he said, trying to sound confident.

I felt my ears burning and my throat closing and the tears coming.

"Joe," I sputtered. "Why are you being so nice to me? I completely blew you off today. You sent me all those sweet, concerned messages and I didn't answer."

I thought he would let go of my hand, but I felt his grip tighten instead. "It's okay. I understand."

"You're not mad at me?"

"No."

Now I was the one to pull my hand from his.

"But you should. You should get mad at me, even just a little. You'd get mad at anyone else."

"You're not anyone else," he said.

"Yeah, you told me. I'm amazing in spite of everything I've been through." The bitterness was rising now; I could almost taste the bile, and it was all I could do to keep it down.

"Uh-huh," said Joe, an almost-question.

"Joe, I shouldn't be anything in spite of anything. I want to be someone you can get p.i.s.sed off at when I do something that's not cool."