Run Away (5 page)

And yet the normality of the day felt suffocating.
How dare I live through these blissfully average days when my brother is dead and my best friend is gone?
The sheer absurdity of the idea pierced her chest.
How can the world keep turning as if nothing has happened when everything, everything, has changed? How can I be making coffee and smelling freshly cut grass and feeling the warmth of the early summer sun when so much blood has been shed?

Time kept ticking relentlessly forward.

Her throat felt thick and her lungs tight. She cranked the window open even farther, struggling to gulp in enough fresh air. Her limbs were heavy and her stomach was hollow, hollowed out by grief and longing, longing for everything to be back to normal. There was a ringing in her ears—­or was it the kettle whistling?—­and she was being crushed, crushed by the weight of a depression so dense there was no way to escape. She slid to the floor.

With her legs twisted awkwardly and her head tilted backward and resting on the cupboard, Kayla breathed deeply, laboriously, trying to escape the helplessness enveloping her.
They’re gone
.
They’re never coming back
.
I’ll never see them again
.
Never
. Her shoulders crumpled and she writhed with gasping sobs.

When can I wake up? When can I wake up from this nightmare?

When can I go back to my real life?

The kettle kept whistling. The tap kept dripping. The world kept spinning.

The room stayed empty.

Chapter 8

April 15, Thailand

I
T WAS HOT.

Though not an especially deep or descriptive sentiment, it was the only one Kayla could focus on: it was hot. There was nothing else. The heat seeped into every orifice, every pore in her body. If ever there was an apt time to use the adjective “stifling,” it was now. It stifled movement, it stifled thoughts, it stifled feelings. Which, in all fairness, was rather nice. If only temporary.

“Jesus. What is this? What actually is this heat?” Even Dave’s usual shrieks and splutters had been dulled to a murmur by the oppressive temperature. Every sentence was half yawn, half incoherent muttering.

“I feel like I’m trapped under a hot air vent,” Russia mumbled. “You know when you walk into the supermarket and just outside there’s a vent that hurls baking hot air at your face, but it’s all right cause it only lasts a second? Yeah. That. Except I can’t escape it.” With as much energy as she could muster, she fanned her face with the intricately painted fan she’d bought from a stall on Khao San Road. Two of the flimsy wooden toothpicks holding it together had already snapped. Like most of the group, it was on its last legs. She discarded it with a sigh, letting it drop onto the patchy grass next to her.

It was mid-­April, and two weeks of intense partying and adventuring in the hottest time of the year had started to take its toll. They’d soaked up the dynamic party scene of Bangkok—­Ralph and Thomas had enjoyed the “massage parlors” in particular—­explored Lampang’s enchanted ruins by bike, eaten fried bugs at the Sukhothai night market, and taken a canal boat trip that resulted in most of its hungover passengers hurling over the side into the water. Kayla could hardly believe they’d only been here two weeks. It felt like these ­people, these near strangers, were the only friends she’d ever had. It was relentless, sure, with no alone time. But that’s exactly what she’d been looking for when she booked the trip. No time to think meant no time to sink into the deep depression that was looming on her horizon.

Today was the last day of the Songkran Festival and, incidentally, their last night staying on Khao San Road before traveling to Kanchanaburi for the next leg of their trip. Songkran marked the Thai new year, and their adopted home street had been transformed into a flurry of flags and festivities.

One of her favorite Songkran traditions—­in no small part due to the climate—­was the mammoth water fight that took place, with officials and visitors alike roaming the streets and drenching each other with full containers, water pistols, and water bombs. Khao San Road sang with a chorus of unfaltering laughter, almost like birdsong in perfect harmony. There was no time for sadness here.

The practical problems? The sheer volume of water had rinsed their skin of sun cream, leaving the group burnt, uncomfortable, and irritable. Sam, Kayla, Russia, Dave, and Bling were currently seeking respite in Lumphini Park. They were laying on a small grassy bank next to a green-­tinted lake, a grand old tree providing them with some delicious shade. The intoxicating scent of pink lotus flowers clung to the air. The faint sound of traffic was distant.

Bling lay with her eyes closed, her hands behind her head and her eyelids twitching as she succumbed to the wave of fatigue enveloping her. Sunstroke, really, though she’d insisted otherwise. Bling did not show weakness. Russia had her head in Dave’s lap, grabbing clusters of grass with her hands and wrenching them out of the soil to throw over Bling’s face like confetti. Sam sat with his feet on the ground and his arms resting on his upright knees, running his hands through his fluffy brown hair and facing the ground.

Kayla kept trying to catch his eye, then wondering why she did.

“So are we going out tonight?” Russia asked.

“Nah, Russia, I thought we’d just stay in,” Kayla replied. “Catch up on some sleep. It’s not like it’s our last night in Bangkok, or anything.”

Russia laughed. “You know, sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.”

“Well, I try to cater for my audience.”

Russia threw a handful of grass at her, though it didn’t even come close to reaching Kayla. Instead it blew back into Dave’s face, who shook violently and sent Russia rolling down the bank. Sam snorted with laughter and said, “You two are so woefully idiotic that I sort of admire you.”

Dave nodded sincerely. “Thanks, mate. ’Preciate it.”

F
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hours and it’d just be Kayla and Sam in the park. They’d left the others in the bar. Dave and Russia were sucking face in one of the booths, Ralph was hitting on an unimpressed Bling, and everyone else was in the middle of the dance floor. Sam had turned to her and said, “I miss the park. Want to go back one last time before we leave?” He didn’t quite have a twinkle in his eye—­the alcohol had stolen off with such sharpness. But his eyes were definitely glazed over with something more than intoxication.

After one more shot of tequila for luck, they’d hailed a cab to the park entrance and returned to the exact same spot they’d been earlier that day. Just as they’d sat down and gazed awkwardly at each other, not knowing quite what to say, Kayla’s phone rang in her pocket. She picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Kayla? Kaaaay-­la?”

“Yes, hello?”

“Kayla! It’s your nan! Can you hear me? I don’t think my phone works abroad.”

“But you aren’t abroad, Nan. I am.” Kayla turned to shoot a disapproving glare at Sam, who was sniggering drunkenly. She was the only one who was allowed to laugh at her nan.

“Right you are, poppet. Are you having a nice time on your holidays?”

Kayla concentrated very hard on not slurring. “Yes. Wonderful. Hot. Nice.”

“Good, that’s good. I’ve not been up to much. Today I went for afternoon tea with Muriel. You know Muriel, she was married to your great-­uncle Bill before the nasty business with his secretary. Anyway, I had a really lovely scone. A fruit one, it was lovely, and a pot of tea. One of those new flavors—­peppermint, I think it was—­then I went for a walk with your mother.” A pause. She waited for Kayla to ask the question. She didn’t. “She’s not doing well, Kayla love. She misses your brother, and now that you’re not here . . .”

Kayla looked away from Sam. The park was so quiet, she knew he could hear exactly what her nan was saying, though whether he was sober enough to make sense of it was another matter. “Now isn’t a great time, actually, Nan, we’re about to go out, erm, volunteering. Building schools and that. Can we talk another time?” A little white lie wouldn’t hurt. Her eighty-­five-­year-­old grandmother had no concept of time zones, after all. Plus she really wasn’t in the mood for another guilt trip. She’d been subjected to enough of those before she left. Her family couldn’t believe how selfish she was being, jetting off during such a tumultuous time.

“All right love. Well I hope you’re looking after yourself out there?”

“I am.”
Don’t cry
.

“I’m glad. I love you, sweetheart. I can’t wait for you to come home!”

“Bye, Nan. Love you too.” Kayla hung up and peered upward through her eyelids to stop the tears prickling behind her pupils. She worried that Sam would ask her what was wrong, then realized he was on the phone too. He was having significantly more trouble forming full words than whoever was on the other end.

“Okay . . . but mate . . . th’park . . . wha . . . ?” The recipient lost patience and seemed to hang up, leaving Sam frowning at the mobile in his hand. “That was Bling. She’s mad.”

“What? Why is she mad?”

“I dunno. Probably something to do with noodles.” Sam rolled over onto his front and smiled dopily. “You’re all right, you.”

“Not bad yourself.”

Sam rested his head on the grass. A few moments of silence passed, but it wasn’t awkward. Just peaceful. “Kayla?”

“Sam?”

He paused, as if uncertain whether to continue. “What happened to your brother?”

She considered getting angry and defensive, but decided against it. She felt too sad after talking to her nan. Besides, she’d have to tell Sam eventually, if they were ever to—­ She stopped the thought before it ended. She reached into the patchwork bum bag she’d taken to using every day and pulled out a squashed packet of cigarettes. Russia had gotten her into the bad habit. She lit it slowly.

Blowing the smoke away from Sam’s face—­as a sort-­of med student, he deplored the very concept—­she tapped the cigarette free of its loose ash and sighed. “He killed himself.”

Sam didn’t say anything. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips together, only peeling them open when he’d processed the information. He looked up at her, though had difficulty meeting her eyes. “I’m so sorry. That must . . . that must have sucked. It must still suck.”

“Yeah.”

They sat in silence for a few moments. Kayla finished her cigarette, and once she flicked it away into the pond—­
Sorry, fish
—­Sam began tracing infinity signs on the palm of her hand with his fingertip. It was more absentminded comfort than anything of metaphorical significance, but the touch of his skin felt nice.

“His name was Gabe. He . . . he was my best friend. I know it’s probably really generic to say that in retrospect. I can hardly say I hated him, can I? But it’s true. We weren’t like siblings who tolerated each other’s existence just because we had to. We just . . . liked each other. He was hilarious, so funny. And so sweet.” Kayla bit down hard on her bottom lip. “I miss him, you know?”

Sam propped himself up so he was sitting parallel to Kayla, and she rested her head on his football-­sized shoulder. In a soft voice, he asked, “Why did he . . . do it?”

“He was bullied. Threatened. He was gay, and someone took a disliking to him. Just like that, no rhyme or reason.”

A contemplative pause. “How are you doing? You know . . . it must be so hard . . .”

She shrugged. “I’m trying not to think about it. I know that’s bad. I know I should be crippled with grief. But . . . it’s too hard. It’s too hard to think about. So I don’t.”

A hand stroked her hair, even though it was matted and tangled from a day of water fighting, sweating, and dancing. “But Kayla . . . numbing the pain for a while will only make it worse when you finally feel it.”

She spluttered with laughter.

Sam looked shocked at her outburst—­comedy hadn’t been what he was going for. “What? Why are you laughing?”

She could hardly catch her breath. “Isn’t that from Harry Potter? That numbing the pain line?”

Sam’s cheeks went pink. “Oh, shut up. I was trying to be insightful . . .” He trailed off. Another hand traced down her jawline, from her ear to her chin, then gently nudged her head upward so she was nose-­to-­nose with him. His breath tickled her sun-­chapped lips, and he leaned in, tenderly brushing them with his.

Kayla pulled away. It didn’t feel right. “No, Sam.”

His eyes betrayed his hurt. “Sorry, I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought.”

“No, I mean . . . I don’t mean no. I mean not like this. Not while we’re talking about my brother. It feels . . . cheap. I don’t want to cheapen his memory.”

“What? That’s not what I—­”

“Yeah, but it’s what it felt like.” Kayla pushed herself up off the bank, losing her balance a little at the top. Sam didn’t follow. “I think we should go back and meet the others.”

“Okay. I’ll see you there in a bit.”

“Are you not coming with me? I don’t really want to walk back through the park by myself in the dark. Bangkok is . . . well, it’s Bangkok.”

Sam rubbed his eyes. “Okay, Kayla. Let’s go back.”

Her stomach twisted. Not an excited flutter of expectation, like only moments ago, but the sensation of reaching for a top step that doesn’t exist.

It was a feeling she would come to know all too well.

K
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walked back through the park in silence. Her mind kept racing with things she wanted to say—­
I’m sorry
.
I’m not angry
.
I’m not sad
.
Kiss me again
.
I promise I’ll kiss you back
—­but her tongue felt too big for her mouth, and the words wouldn’t come. Sam walked two steps in front of her, scuffing the bottom of his dirty Converses along the dusty path.

A branch cracked somewhere southwest of where they walked. Sam didn’t hear, but Kayla stopped abruptly and swung around. There was a silhouetted figure standing next to a thick tree trunk.

She rubbed her eyes but couldn’t bring the shadowy person into focus. It was too dark.

Her skin prickled. Why were they just standing there? “Sam, wait.” He stopped, bemused. “Who’s there?” Kayla called, lifting her voice.

The figure jerked slightly. Cicadas rattled and hissed in the trees. The air was still humid.

Sam muttered, “Leave it, Kayla. Why do you care who’s there? We’re in Bangkok, it’s not like—­”

“I said, who’s there?” she called. Her voice trembled.
Why am I getting so worked up about the fact there’s someone else in the park?

The person started toward them, and as he walked under the ornate streetlamp, his face came into view.

“O-­Oliver?” Kayla stammered. “What are y-­you doing here?”

He grinned clumsily. He was slouching. Drunk. Drunker than them.

“Just shh-­checking up on my favorite traveler . . . and her mate,” he slurred.

Was he . . . winking? It was hard to tell in the dark.

Sam rolled his eyes and turned on his heel. “Now you have another chaperone, I’m off. See ya.”

“W-­Wait up, Sam,” Kayla said, running after him.

“What the hell’s his problem?” Sam almost spat when she caught up. “Who lurks in the shadows like that? S’creepy.”

“Yeah.” Kayla shuddered. Sam was walking too fast, and she was almost jogging to keep up.