This is What Goodbye Looks Like (38 page)

“I just figured I’d do home studying,” I say, turning back to my laptop. “Or maybe just get my GED and be done with it. I don’t know. Either would work.”

Mom stands up and starts making my bed, folding the sheets into their proper place. “It’s not going to look good on your school transcript,” she says. “Jumping around schools so much, I mean. I really think you should consider going back and finishing your semester at Harting.”

“No,” I say. “I’m done with that school.”

She raises an eyebrow, silently requesting an explanation.

“It’s a tough school,” I say. “Harder than I was expecting. It’s just not what I need right now, and besides, my grades are good enough to make up for a few rough spots on my transcript.”

She gives her throat a dainty clear, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s where I picked the habit up from. “I’ve done some very stupid things, Lea,” she says. “But that doesn’t make me a complete idiot.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’d bet anything you didn’t leave because it was too hard or you were homesick. Something obviously went wrong there. So what was it?”

“What does it matter?”

She lets out a long breath. “You’re my daughter. If something happened to you, I need to know.”

I stare at her for a long minute, and the sincerity in her expression makes my gut twist. She’s telling the truth—she wants to know. But the thing is, she can’t know. Because sitting behind the protectiveness in her gaze is a web of cracks, the sort of fault lines threatening to crumble at any moment. She’s already shattered; it wouldn’t take much to disintegrate what’s left of her into dust.

“I was stupid,” I say, knowing she’s not going to let me just drop the topic. “I started dating a guy. It didn’t work out.”

Understatement of the year. But it seems to appease Mom, because now instead of looking suspicious, she just looks pitying. Before I know what’s happening, she’s at my side and swooping me into a tight hug.

“Oh, sweetie,” she says quietly. “I’m so sorry. Breakups are always rough.”

“Thanks,” I choke out, trying not to sound too dismayed.

I expected her to disbelieve me at least a little, to try to coax a more complete answer out of me. Doesn’t she remember who I am? Not the sort of girl to fall apart because of a simple, mundane breakup, that’s for sure.

I open my mouth, tempted to tell her just how complex the whole situation is. But I slowly close my mouth and force myself to return her hug. There’s a reason she’s falling for my heavily edited version of the truth—on some unconscious level, I think she knows she can’t handle anything more serious.

Mom pulls away from the hug and then hesitantly asks, “Do you... want to talk about it?”

Yes. If there’s anything I want, it’s to spill my guts. I want to confess how badly I screwed up, tell her I wish I could take it all back. I want to admit that as much as I’m desperate to redo everything, I don’t regret the moments I spent with Seth. That I can’t bring myself to.

I swallow hard. “I need some more time to think about it. Maybe later?”

She lets out a small sigh, although I can’t tell if it’s from frustration that I won’t talk or relief that she doesn’t have to.

“Of course, sweetie. Whenever you want to discuss it, I’ll be here.” Mom goes back to making the bed, fluffing one of my pillows and setting it carefully on top of the now-folded sheets. “But are you really so dead-set on home studying? I don’t know if it’d be good for you to be cooped up at the house for the rest of the semester.”

“I think I can decide for myself what’s good for me.”

She doesn’t argue.

“I’ll call my old home study counselor tomorrow,” I say in a slightly gentler tone. “It shouldn’t be too hard to get enrolled again.”

Mom shakes her head. “No. Let me do it. I’m the parent, I should call.”

I almost argue, but then I stop myself. She needs this. I can see it in her desperate gaze. For once, she needs to feel like she’s taking care of me.

So I just say, “Yeah. Sure.”

She nods, gives my sheets one more tug to straighten them, and then comes over to offer me another awkward hug. “I’m glad we talked.”

“Me, too,” I lie.

She strides out of my room faster than necessary, and the door closing sounds louder than usual. More final. My eyes feel grainy all of the sudden, like my tears tried to escape but froze before they could get out.

Ever since the accident, I’ve been shoving Mom back, desperate for space from her. I’ve told myself
I
was the one keeping her away.

It never fully dawned on me that I couldn’t have Mom back, even if I wanted her.

Her footsteps retreat down the hall, leaving me alone in my too-silent room. I turn back to my laptop and refresh the campaign page one more time.

It’s only then that I see the message. It sits at the very bottom of my inbox, obviously sent well before the others. My breath freezes when I see Seth’s name, and my fingers tremble as I click the email open. His message is simple, so unlike everything else between us:

“No one deserves to lose someone they love.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

I wake up the next morning after getting barely five hours of sleep, and the first thing I do is check the campaign page. I don’t even have to haul myself over to my desk first—after spending the whole day answering and sending messages for Camille’s campaign, I fell asleep with my laptop resting on my stomach.

As my laptop reboots, I have a mild panic attack as I wonder if I’d dreamed everything that happened yesterday. Maybe it was just wishful thinking and jet lag that created the events. But as I click open my internet browser, I find Camille’s page is still there.

$1,270 has been raised so far. It’s $200 more than it was last night, but it’s a bittersweet victory. The rate of donations has been slowing since yesterday afternoon, and it looks like it’s gotten even worse while I was sleeping.

Shit.

I take out my phone and stare at it for a long minute, debating whether or not to try contacting anyone at Harting. I have a feeling I know exactly who is working on the campaign, and I heave in a deep breath to steel myself before I send Brie a text message.

“Are you the one updating Camille’s campaign page?”

I half expect her to not respond, but then a message pops up on my screen.

“Yeah. Seth asked me to. And I’ll talk to you only because I want to help your sister.”

“I understand.”

“I don’t. What the hell did you want from Seth anyway? Haven’t you already hurt him enough?”

“I seriously messed up.”

“Damn right you did.”

I cringe and wrack my brain for something to say, anything that might make this conversation even slightly less screwed up.

“Thank you for still helping Camille. And for being a good friend to me, even though I never deserved it.”

“What we were wasn’t friends. I was friends with Lea Holder, the fictional character, not Leandra Alessio, the bitch who broke Seth’s heart in about twenty ways.”

“Is he okay?”
I hesitate and then quickly send another message.
“And did he get the photos I emailed him for Parker’s project?”

There’s a long pause before her reply comes.

“He made me promise only two things. The first was that I’d still help out your little sister, because he doesn’t want her to die. And the second was that I’d never speak about him to you ever again. So don’t ask any more questions about him if you want my help.”

I didn’t expect anything less, and I know I deserve every ounce of his anger, but it’s still a punch in the gut. I gulp in a lungful of air, trying to breathe past the pain.

“I screwed up so bad. I know it’d be idiotic to ask for anyone’s forgiveness, but I just hope you know I’ll never forgive myself either.”

“That makes me feel surprisingly better. But I still think you’re a total bitch. So let’s talk about Camille’s campaign so I don’t just spend the next twenty minutes calling you a bitch. Her webpage isn’t getting as many donations today as it was yesterday. We need solutions.”

My fingers hover over my keyboard, and I consider giving a full apology along with a more in-depth explanation. But that’s clearly not the conversation Brie wants to have, so I go along with her switch in topic.

“Obviously you’ve been doing something right, because $1200 is amazing. But I’ve got no clue why it’s slowing down or what to do. You?”

“It’s slowing down because the internet is incredibly ADHD. Things hold people’s attentions for half a second. Camille’s page has been up for two days and not much about it has changed. That’s why not as many people are visiting it now.”

“So what do we do?”

“Make it seem new again. Put up new content in the blog and picture section of the site. Maddie and I found enough material to fill in the blanks and get the site running, but we just had media articles to go off. We need personal stuff posted on there. And I mean real personal stuff. None of this hit-her-head-cheerleading shit. People are going to be a thousand times more likely to support a girl they feel like they actually know.”

“How about pictures from before the accident? I have about 10 million of them.”

“Perfect. Post some on the campaign site pronto. And leave a little explanation of each picture and also some sort of reminder asking people to share the page on social media after they donate.”

“Okay. Do you have any other ideas?”

“No. I studied this crowdfunding stuff for four weeks in a high school course. It’s not like I actually know what the hell I’m doing. But let’s start there and cross our fingers it helps. If not... I don’t know. Maddie might have more ideas, but she’s beyond pissed at you, so I wouldn’t be surprised if she quits helping.”

“I’m sorry,”
I reply, unable to help myself. And I wish I could somehow send Camille the same message. Our campaign needs to go smoothly if it’s going to work, and already it’s starting to crumble.

“Whatever,”
Brie replies.
“Now go post those pictures so I can stop talking to you.”

“Okay. But thank you, Brie. Really. I can’t say that enough.”

She doesn’t bother with another response.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

I follow Brie’s directions and put up three pictures on the blog portion of the campaign site—one of Camille at the beach creating a sand-angel, one of her performing at a gymnastics competition, and one collage of half a dozen more pictures pushed together into a single frame. I took the pictures with different settings, lighting, backgrounds, you name it. The only thing that’s the same in every single image is Camille’s dazzling, contagious smile.

The pictures don’t have much affect the first day, but they work their magic overnight. When I check the site the next morning, the donation amount has risen to $2,720, and about twenty comments have been posted on the images. They come from people all over the country, and a couple aren’t even written in English, but the gist of things is the same: A girl with that much passion for life shouldn’t have to face death.

Before I can lose my nerve, I scoop up my laptop and carry it down the hall, heading for Dad’s home office. It’s time to show him the campaign. He’s going to be furious, and I know it, but I also want to be the one to break the news to him about it. I don’t want him to stumble across it on his own.

I knock on his office door, something I never used to do. But it doesn’t feel right anymore to just walk in, so I wait until I hear a mumbled, “Come in,” and then push open the door.

All the blinds are pulled down, but the overhead lights illuminate the room, gleaming a sickly white off the stuffed bookcases.

“Are you okay?” I ask, pausing in the doorway. Dad hasn’t bothered to ask me that question since I got home, but I can’t stop myself from saying the words to him. The bags under his eyes are even darker, and his face is pale and gaunt.

“I got an email from your Uncle Jack this morning,” he says, his tone a raspy mixture of anger and pain. “He linked me to your campaign site.”

I cringe as I watch his eyes cast away. “I don’t want to hurt you,” I murmur, because it seems like the only truth that can’t do more damage. “That’s not the point of this.”

He lets out a sigh, and I don’t know how such a small sound can hold so much defeat. “I know, Lea,” he says. “But what you’re doing isn’t right.”

“I disagree,” I say. “And Uncle Jack does, too. He donated a hundred dollars this morning, and he emailed and said he’d give more when he gets his paycheck this Friday.”

“Jack just feels guilty,” Dad says, his words slow as he struggles to form a response. “He still blames himself for getting in that argument with your mom. He thinks she never would have left the reunion so upset if he had just held his tongue.”

Sometimes it seems like there isn’t a single person who doesn’t blame themselves for some part of the accident. And I think everyone’s probably right—we did screw up by not stopping Mom. But even if it was a failure, it was a failure we never should have had to face, because Mom never should have put us in that situation.