Amber

Chapter 40

May 28, 2015

Dear Journal,

Today I saw Brad for the first time in two weeks. I've stopped going to the library during study hall. I've only gone to school a few times since the funeral. Those are the days Mom tries to be tough and mom-like and pretends like things actually matter again. Those days are scattered, though, among others where she won't even leave her bed. And Dad won't try to make her, and he'll poke his head into my room and ask if I'm up for school. And I'll say no, and he'll nod and tell me he loves me before closing my door. But when I am in school, I mostly spend my time hiding in the bathroom crying or drifting past Hannah's locker to see if she'll be there with her books cradled into her chest and resting under her chin, kicking at the jammed part at the bottom and asking if I could lend my ginormous feet to help. I know they've already emptied it out, but part of me wonders if she isn't somehow hiding inside, squeezing in the laughter as everyone passes without finding her.

Brad's worried. He texts me every day to ask how I'm doing and what he can do to help. He says he just wants to see me. To try to cheer me up. To try to comfort me. But, honestly, he doesn't have a fucking clue.

He picked me up a few hours ago, and we drove to one of our old spots in a lot tucked away at the back of a strip mall. He had flowers for me and chocolate candies as if it was Valentine's Day. God, so bizarre. I guess he's never had to deal with something like this, and he has no idea how it works. Neither do I, but I know if our positions were reversed, I would talk to Brad and listen and let him share all of his emotions and pain and agony with me. I wouldn't try to buy him happiness.

I tried so hard not to be mad at him and to appreciate the effort he was giving, but I was so angry. I wasn't even angry at him. I was angry at the world, and he happened to be the person closest to me who had to hear about it. The journal I screamed into.

After I was quiet for a while and we were sitting there with nothing to say, he put on the radio and tried to make it like any ordinary date where we would hold each other and listen to music and let each other's arms be all we needed in the world. But this wasn't like all of those other dates. I didn't want to pretend like it was. I couldn't just forget everything and be normal.

So I snapped ...

I took the flowers and crushed them in my hands. I told him I wasn't in the mood for music. That music makes me think and I didn't want to think. Music makes me feel, and I had lost all feeling. Then he stared at me, wide-eyed, and asked what I wanted.

"I want you to stop pretending like everything is fine and normal. I want you to actually talk to me about this and show that you actually care and are aware of my feelings and that this is, like, hell for me right now."

His face fell as low as the broken petals on the floor mat. "How can you think I don't care? I've wanted to see you. I've done nothing but try to cheer you up and take your mind off of things." His eyes followed the broken flowers. "I guess I'm not doing a great job of it."

"Because this isn't normal," I said, fingers digging into my temple. "Flowers and candy? That's not helping. It won't replace her. You're supposed to be the person I can talk to about this. But every time I bring it up, you try to change the subject or pretend like everything is normal. It's not normal, Brad. Not even close."

Hurt showed on his face and deep in his eyes, darkened by the night sky and out of the moon's reach. "What do you want me to do differently?"

I sighed, relaxing into my seat and finding the stars through the sunroof. "I want you to say all of the normal things like everyone else does when they're trying to make you feel better. To say that you're sorry but that it will all be okay. That's what everyone says. That's normal. You haven't even said that yet."

Then he sighed, leaning toward me a little at first before crashing all the way against me, his fingers suddenly running wild through my hair. His face was so focused that I thought he would explode into song. "Hailey, I'm sorry." His voice whispered above the radio. "I'm so sorry about Hannah. I really mean that. Life is so unfair, and it's so terrible that this happened to your family. I feel so sorry for you. I know how much you're hurting." His fingers fell to my chin, turning my cheek toward his lips. "I'm seriously so sorry."

His words summoned tears to my eyes, and when I looked to him and saw that he was almost happy, I could tell that he misunderstood them. "Never mind," I whimpered. "You were right, Brad. Saying sorry really is meaningless."