This is What Goodbye Looks Like (8 page)

Seth scoffs and slips into a chair two away from mine. It’s obviously a move he’s practiced hundreds of times, and if he didn’t have a guide dog at his side and wasn’t wearing sunglasses indoors, I would never guess he’s blind. He has a plate of bacon and eggs, and also a travel mug with a tea bag string hanging out the top, and he keeps chatting as he picks at his breakfast with a fork.

“You know,” he says, “I’m half-convinced that I’m actually incredibly ugly, and you’re all just messing with me about being hot.”

“Uh, definitely no,” Hannah says from across the table. “You’re hot. Although, let me tell you, you were totally
not
hot freshman year. At all. Like, think starving scarecrow with a mop for hair.”

“I still have a mop for hair,” he says.

“You have a hot mop for hair,” Maddie corrects.

Seth raises an eyebrow. “What’s the difference?”

Brie holds up a finger, like she’s a professor about to give a lecture. “Mop-hair Seth weighed about ninety pounds and was the embodiment of the phrase ‘awkward puberty.’ Hot-mop-hair Seth looks like a movie star and is really bad at discreetly fishing for compliments.”

His mouth twists into a smirk. “Hey, you’re giving them, so I’m taking.”

I watch their conversation with a mixture of fascination and gut-wrenching nausea. If I hadn’t seen his devastated expression at the trial, heard his grief-choked voice, I would never guess he’s recently lost his older brother.

“Oh, Lea’s here today,” Brie suddenly says. “Lea, make sure you say ‘hi’ to Seth when you first see him, okay? Otherwise he might have no idea you’re there, and you’ll end up scaring the crap out of him when you start talking.”

Seth gives an impatient sigh. “She doesn’t have to say ‘hi’ to me if she doesn’t want to, Brie.”

“Hi,” I squeak out, and my chest tightens like it’s being constricted with a spiked vice. We spent all of last summer trapped in the same courtroom, but I’ve never spoken directly to him before.

“Hey,” he says. “You feeling better? Brie says you were pretty sick.”

Sick. That’s one word to describe what I am. I know I’m a bitch for taking advantage of his blindness, but it’s too good of an opportunity to pass up. With my throat healed, my voice sounds completely different than it did during the trial. And since he can’t see what I look like, and I’m using a different name, there’s pretty much no way for him to recognize me.

“I’m fine,” I mumble. “Um...sorry I threw up all over your shoes.”

Hannah and Maddie giggle and exchange looks, apparently still thinking my nervousness has to do with his good looks. Brie shoots them a disapproving glance and then says to me, “Don’t apologize. He needed a new pair anyway. They were totally ugly.”

Seth chuckles a little. “Brie, they were black Vans. You can’t go wrong with black Vans.”

She sniffs indignantly. “And how would
you
know?”

“Because Hannah picked them out, and Hannah’s never wrong about anything,” Seth says. “And Lea, seriously, don’t apologize. I’m just glad you’re feeling better.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, suddenly hating him for treating me so nice. Lying to his face would be way easier if he was mean. And then I immediately hate myself even more for hating him. Shit, can’t any of this just be simple?

“Oh, Seth, guess what?” Brie suddenly says. “Lea’s a photographer.”

My throat tightens, and my breath freezes in my chest, and I whip my gaze toward Brie. How the hell does she know what I’m hiding? Did she look at the files on my camera while I was sleeping?

I must look as horrified as I feel, because she just bites at her lip and says, “Oh, sorry. Do you not like people knowing that?”

She sounds completely innocent, and I let out a breath as I realize she’s not about to accuse me of anything. But I can’t seem to fill my lungs again, and my voice is breathy as I say, “I...no, I don’t usually tell people. I’m, um, kind of quiet about it.”

At least it’s sort of true. I sell prints of my photos online, but I’ve never liked people from my personal life looking at my work. Even though I never directly aim my camera toward myself, I always find small bits of me in my photos, and I don’t like people I know being able to see them as well.

“Sorry,” Brie says again. “I totally didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s just, Seth’s been looking for someone to help him with a photo project, and none of us are any good with cameras. So I was sort of thinking you might help him.”

“Don’t feel obligated,” Seth says, and the dismissal in his tone is obvious. “It’d never work right if you didn’t want to show your stuff to other people.”

“Yeah, sorry, but I’m definitely not the person you’re looking for,” I say. “And I don’t even do much photography anymore. I just have too many things going on. Um, you know, senior year stuff and all that.”

Everyone groans in sympathy, and the subject switches to the colleges people are waiting to hear back from. I return to sitting in silence, grateful to let them sweep the conversation away from me. I scored high on my SATs right before the accident, but I didn’t even want to send in any applications last semester. It didn’t feel right to be planning my future while Camille was trapped in a hospital bed. Dad managed to convince me to send in a few apps, but I’ve been deliberately avoiding the envelopes he occasionally sets on my dresser, which I know are replies from admissions offices.

I spend the rest of breakfast poking at my eggs and watching Seth as discreetly as possible. He looks so different than he did in the courtroom—no swollen red eyes, no cringing whenever a door slams, no clutching at his dog’s scruff like she’s the only thing keeping him upright. He’s completely at ease, and it’s obvious Harting is a second home to him. He talks easily in that smooth voice of his, his tone casual and nonchalant, and it’s a strange contrast to the rest of him, which is all lean muscle and sharp features.

Every once in a while, Koda will nudge Seth’s knee, and he’ll reach down to offer her a scrap of bacon. The dog never seems to stop wagging her tail, which is a new sight to me. During the trial, she was like a statue next to Seth, seeming to know he needed something solid to lean on.

When a shrill bell announces the end of breakfast, it’s like someone’s flipped a lever, and the entire table switches from casual chatting into serious studying mode. People pull out schedules, double checking which classrooms they should be heading to, and Brie insists on giving me directions to my classes for the third time. Then she gives me a hug, and the group at the table disperses as people hurry off to their first classes of the semester.

I’ve just dumped my plate in the dirty-dish bin when Ms. Thorne approaches me. I noticed her earlier, sitting with a group of other teachers at a large table in the back of the cafeteria. Her lips are pulled tight with concern, and I bite back a curse. Great. I’ve barely made it two minutes into the official school day before upsetting someone.

“Good morning, hun,” Ms. Thorne says when she’s standing right in front of me.

“Good morning,” I say hesitantly.

“Did you have a good breakfast?”

I glance around her, watching the rest of the students file out of the cafeteria. Brie and her group of friends offer me quick waves before running off. I wave back a little and then turn my full attention to Ms. Thorne.

“Yeah,” I say. “Your cafeteria here is great.”

She just gives a distracted nod and says, “Can I see you in my office after you finish up your school day?”

“Am I in trouble?” I ask, mentally running through things I’ve done that could have broken the rules here. Nothing immediately comes to mind. While Brie was in town on Friday, I went to Ms. Thorne’s office and signed all the final paperwork, just like I was supposed to, and I can’t think of anything I could’ve done to upset anyone.

“No, don’t worry, hun,” Ms. Thorne says, shaking her head. “You haven’t done a thing wrong.”

But her face remains pinched, and I blurt out the next question that pops into my head: “Did my dad call?”

I can’t make myself say exactly what I’m thinking:
Did Camille finally give up, give out? Is it partially my fault, because I left her? Did she completely shut down on her own, like her doctors said might happen, or did Dad pull her life support?

My heart starts hammering in my chest so loud, I barely hear Ms. Thorne as she says, “I haven’t spoken to him since Thursday evening, when you first got here. And I only talked with him briefly to let him know you were doing okay, but frankly, that’s what I want to speak with you about, Lea. You seem like you haven’t been doing very good since then.” She glances at her watch and says, “I need to get to my class, but I hope you’ll stop by my office later.”

“I’m fine,” I assure her. “Really, I’ve just had the flu.”

She nods, but doesn’t look convinced. “Okay. But I also have a favor I’d like to ask you, so I’d appreciate it if you’d still come talk to me.”

“Sure,” I say, trying not to sound too grudging. “I’ll stop by your office after my last class.”

“Wonderful,” she says. “I’ll look forward to it. You have a good first day, okay?”

“I’m sure I will.”

I wonder if I’ll ever be able to have a conversation again without lying.

Chapter Nine

“So tell me, Miss Alessio.” Whittaker leaned back in his chair and folded his hands, his thumbs slowly tapping together. He seemed to be the only calm person in the entire courtroom, which was crammed with tense bodies and held breaths. “When you were leaving your uncle’s house on the night of May fourth, did you notice that your mother was at all unstable?”

“Unstable?” I repeated, my voice a quiet croak.

“Yes, unstable. Was she in an altered state, either emotionally or physically?”

“I already told you,” I said slowly. “She’d just been in a fight with my uncle. Of course she was upset.”

He nodded. “You also stated she’d had too much to drink that night.”

“Yes,” I said. “She’d been drinking.”

“And, tell me, is this common? For your mom to drink too much?”

I wanted to repeat the excuses I’d made so many times:
She’s a specialist in late-stage lung cancer. The clinic she manages has one of the highest survival rates in the nation, but they still lose over fifty-percent of patients to the disease. Her white coat is basically just a giant tissue for all the mourning people she has to console. Why
wouldn’t
she want to block that out? Who could possibly blame her for wanting to numb the pain of watching patient after patient die? And it’s not like she ever drinks on the job or gets mean. Sometimes she just has a bit too much in the evenings and acts a little weepy.

The excuses rolled around in my head, clattering against each other like glass marbles. Then I risked a glance at the Ashbury family, and all my logic shattered in the face of their tear-streaked expressions.

Every one of those excuses made sense. But none of them would ever bring back Parker Ashbury.

“My mom isn’t a bad person,” I murmured, although I wasn’t sure who I was talking to.

“I’d like to believe you’re right, Miss Alessio,” Whittaker said. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

I looked down at my hands, frail from all the weight I’d lost in the hospital, and watched tremors run through them. “She has a drinking problem, sir.”

“How often did she drink?”

“A couple times a week.”

At least
, I added in my head. Lately, I had been spending more time tucked away in my basement reading nook, curled up on the small couch down there with Camille. I’d play YouTube videos on my laptop with the volume on high, trying desperately to distract Camille from our crying mother upstairs.

Whittaker nodded, and I could tell he was trying not to look too excited that he was finally getting answers out of me. With Parker dead and Camille in a coma, I was the only witness left to testify. As Dad had stressed so many times, the verdict of this case pretty much depended on what I told the jury.

“Did anyone point out to your mother that she’d had too much to drink on the night of the fourth?” Whittaker asked. “Or that she shouldn’t drive?”

I flinched, remembering my angry words as I’d helped her out of my uncle’s house. My aunt and cousin had tried to hurry after us, but I’d waved them away, too embarrassed to accept their aid.
“You’re drunk,”
I’d snapped at Mom that night.
“Just shut up and let me drive, okay?”

“People tried to stop her,” I said out loud.

It was the truth: I tried. I really did. But she was so insistent on driving, saying I hadn’t had my license long enough to travel in the dark. And I gave in. All I could think about was my relatives inside, and the scene Mom was causing, and how desperate I was to escape the embarrassment of it all. So I stopped trying to snatch the keys from her hand and climbed in the passenger seat, growling at Camille to get in so we could just leave.

She hadn’t wanted to get in the car. Camille had been crying, but I’d just told her to calm down and demanded she get in the back seat.

“And why didn’t your mother stop?” Whittaker asked.