The Rules of Regret (32 page)

My
phone vibrated on the carpet. I couldn
’
t
look at it. I couldn
’
t
even pry open an eye to sneak at glance at the screen. I pressed a lazy finger
into the 'off' button and curled back onto my side.

A
few hours passed. The only way I could really tell was from the increase in
pain in the crick in my neck. After sleeping in the middle of the empty family
room of my old apartment (which Gustov was kind enough to let me squat in while
he looked for a new tenant) for the past three nights
—
or days, all of it
really
—
my
bones felt like they were going to break. And after sleeping several hours
straight, they felt like they were about to become unhinged. So that
’
s how I knew I
’
d been asleep for a while, because
not only did my head and my heart hurt immensely, my bones ached to the core.

The
front door flew open.

“
God, this color sucks.
”
I rolled onto my back, my joints all
popping with the slow movement like a twisted up section of bubble wrap.
“
Seriously, Darbs. I
hate
this color.
”

Sonja
dropped a bag of Cheetos onto the floor and they landed inches from my head.

“
But it matches,
”
I said, swallowing. When was the
last time I
’
d
brushed my teeth? My mouth felt like cotton.

“
Matches what?
”
She ripped open the chip bag and
tossed an unnaturally orange puff into her mouth.
“
There is absolutely nothing in here
to match.
”

“
My mood.
”

Sonja
threw another chip in.
“
Darby.
That is
so sad
.
”
I could hear her teeth crunching
around her words.
“
This
color is awful, and if this is how you feel, then I
’
m truly sorry. This has to be the
worst color in the history of colors. It
’
s
not really even a color.
”

I
propped up onto my elbows, my bones locking into place. I prayed they wouldn
’
t snap beneath the pressure as I
stretched my neck out toward her.
“
It
is a color. Just, like you said, an awful one. White is not a color. Or maybe
black isn
’
t.
I don
’
t
really know. But beige is. And this one is SW7036.
”

“
Let
’
s repaint.
”
She held out the bag to me and I
dipped my hand in. I hadn
’
t
eaten in
—
I
actually didn
’
t
know when I last ate
—
but
for some reason that I couldn
’
t
explain, Cheetos were exactly what I craved.
“
Come on. Get in the Jeep. We
’
re headed to the hardware store.
”

 
Though I hadn
’
t left the townhouse in days, it didn
’
t sound like a bad plan, so I forced
myself into a sitting position, readying to stand, not entirely sure the bones
in my legs were actually going to do their expected job and support me.

While
I was figuring out how to best stand without snapping in two, there was a knock
on the door. Sonja flicked a glance my direction, as if to ask,
“
Are you expecting someone?
”
and I shrugged, as if to say,
“
No.
”
She crossed the room and tossed open
the front door.

“
Is Darby here?
”
He didn
’
t have to say it, because we
’
d actually made eye contact before
the words even had a chance to fall out of this mouth. There they were: two
wide, green eyes that leveled me with just one glance.

“
And you are?
”
Sonja gave him a sidelong look, and
then tossed one toward me.

“
Torin. Darby
’
s friend.
”

“
Can you paint?
”
Both of her hands were hooked on her
hips. She was practically tapping her toe.
“
How good are you at painting?
”

Torin
’
s dimples
—
how I
’
d missed those dimples
—
pulled into his
cheeks.
“
I
’
m an excellent painter.
”
He almost sounded like Dustin
Hoffman,
Rainman
-style.

“
Good!
”
She grabbed him by the wrist and
flung around toward the empty room, waving a hand at the wall.
“
Because today, we paint.
”

 
We both sat in the back of my Jeep. Sonja
drove. She liked being in control, and I liked letting her. That was how our
friendship went, and there was comfort in that predictable consistency.

There
was also comfort in the silent way Torin
’
s
fingers twisted with mine.

We
hadn
’
t
talked since Lance, and we still weren
’
t
actually talking with words, but we didn
’
t
need them.

I
’
d left Quarry Summit that day
—
that same day that
I heard about the crash. I didn
’
t
look back. I just ran. I ran
away
from it all, that much I was willing to admit. Because in reality, there was no
way I could keep up with my summer duties as a counselor to troubled youth. I
was every bit as troubled as their worst-case scenario camper. It would be the
blind leading the blind, and any way you sliced it, you always ended up lost.

Torin
had tried calling, but I didn
’
t
have it in me to answer. I worried that somehow the grief I
’
d felt for Lance would hurt him, and
I couldn
’
t
do that. The whole unexpected scenario was so unbelievable, so fresh and raw,
and Torin didn
’
t
need to be drug into the middle of it. Somehow he
’
d gotten mixed up with me this
summer, and I
’
d
bet everything I had that he wished I
’
d
never set foot at Quarry Summit.

But
his presence in my Jeep and his hand tangled with mine hinted otherwise.

The
first week after, I was with Lance
’
s
family mostly. Going through his things. Watching old videos. Talking about him
like he was some incredible person that was too young to die. Which probably he
was
—
especially
the too young part. That was what everyone always said about Anna: that she was
too young
to die. I was beginning to
believe that was just what people said because it sounded good. Was there
really an acceptable cut-off age when it suddenly became
okay
to die? Like at 42, was that an appropriate time for death?
When did death no longer become tragic? When was it finally allowed?

It
struck me that it never was.

This
thing that would eventually happen to
every
single one
of us was never accepted by
any
of us. I wondered if there were any other things that humanity experienced
universally, yet had an impossible time coming to terms with. I didn
’
t think there was. Death was it.
Death was the socially unacceptable experience that we would all, at some point
in time, experience.

All
I knew was that if I were to die right then, I didn
’
t think I
’
d feel too young for it. If anything,
it would make me want to ask the cruel hands of time,
“
What took you so long?
”
Maybe that
’
s what happened when the people you
knew and loved died before you. Maybe that
’
s
why everyone always said those words
“
too
young to die.
”
Because, in reality, they believed
—
or
at least hoped
—
they
were too young to die, also. No one ever felt old enough to stop living.

I
vowed at that moment to never utter that phrase again.

Sonja
angled the Jeep into a parking spot near the sliding door entrance of the
store, and we funneled out in one line of three, like we were on some mission
and were joined at the hip. I was grateful that Torin had scooped my hand back
up after getting out of the car, and our arms swung loosely between us as we
walked.

“
Mark, where is your paint section?
”
Sonja took charge and asked the
first guy she could find in a red apron with his name embroidered across it in
unraveling white thread.

“
Aisle 23.
”

We
all nodded a thank you and then headed that direction.

“
Can I help you?
”
A boy that was probably close to our
age asked from behind a metal counter. He pounded on the lid to a paint can
with a rubber mallet and wiped his hand across his brow, streaking it an aqua
hue.

“
Yes.
”
Torin spoke up.
“
We need paint.
”

The
guy gave us a look that should have made us feel stupid, but it didn
’
t, because we were on a mission, and
this was more than just paint.

“
Do you have a swatch?
”
He pulled another can from some
contraption that spun them around furiously which rocked and vibrated like a
washing machine.

“
No.
”
Torin glanced my direction.
“
What color are you thinking?
”

I
thought for a moment.
“
Black.
”

“
No way.
”
Sonja thrust out a pouty bottom lip
and furrowed her brow.
“
Absolutely
not. We
’
re
doing an actual
color
.
”

The
guy behind the counter wasn
’
t
listening to us anymore, but that was okay because it wasn
’
t like we were anywhere near ready to
place an actual order.

“
I think black is a color. I think it
’
s actually all of colors mixed
together,
”
I suggested, feeling like I
’
d
heard that somewhere once.

“
That is very left brain thinker of
you, Darby.
”
Torin squeezed my fingers, but I just gave him a confused look.
“
To an artist, black is all the
colors. To a physicist, it
’
s
the absence of color.
”
Again, the blank look of confusion cloaked my face.
“
In terms of light, black is not a
color. No light equals darkness, which equals black.
”
I wondered how Torin had learned of
such things up on that mountaintop of his.
“
White is the blending of all the
colors together. Like light from the sun. All colors on the spectrum composed
together equal bright white.
”
He paused, waiting for us to catch up, but my brain was working hard to process
and lagged behind. The look on Sonja
’
s
face proved hers was working at an even slower rate. It was obvious Torin
really wanted to be understood, so he continued,
“
But from an artist
’
s perspective, you can
’
t combine colors together to make
white, so white is the absence of color.
”