| photo by Keagan Henman from Unsplash |



"Lindsay wanted to tell me that she answered Noah's call that day," I tell Dad. "It's been killing her not to—but Mom forced her keep the secret. She was so focused on protecting me that she couldn't see how it was destroying Lindsay to hold in all that guilt."

"No, Allyson," Dad says, instantly defensive. "No parent wants to be in the position to have to choose the well-being of one child over another. But when one of those children is especially vulnerable, you have to protect the one who needs it the most."

"I know that. I'm not blaming Mom. She didn't know what the guilt was doing because Lindsay kept it hidden from everyone but me. She smoked pot right in front of me the day I left Faircrest—and I knew about her crush on Drew, but I didn't tell anyone. I'm blaming me, Dad. All of this is my fault."

The nurse knocks as she pushes through the door. And I'm pretty sure she heard what I said because her "smile" is a grimace with slightly lifted corners. She examines my IV port—the tape is spotted with blood—and sucks her tongue against her teeth to let me know she disapproves of the mess I've made.

And she's right—more than she can possibly know. Every single thing I've done since I left Faircrest has been wrong—including my decision to leave in the first place. Dr. Greene wasn't convinced that I was emotionally prepared to make the transition, and she was right, I was holding back. I never told her about the scary text from Samantha. But I should have. I should've asked my therapist to help me deal with my feelings.

"Your release papers have been signed," the nurse says. She waits for me to make eye contact before she turns to Dad. "Do I need to send Dr. Shah back in to reevaluate?"

"No, thank you. We're ready to go home."

"All right then," she says, perky again. "A follow-up appointment with Dr. Dabney has been scheduled for next week. Your wife has the details. You can go ahead and bring your car around to the covered walkway. I'll get a wheelchair and we'll meet you at the door."

Dad nods, but he doesn't move. He watches with unfocused eyes while the nurse extracts the gigantic needle from the angry hole in my arm. "Hold this for me, hon," she says, pressing a cotton ball over my bleeding wound. I secure it with two fingers while she peels a strip of medical tape off the roll.

The ripping sound seems to jolt Dad out of his mini trance. He digs into his pocket and comes up with my purple phone. "Your mom promised Samantha you'd check in with her," he says, touching it to my palm. I close my fist, he gives me a smile that's probably meant to be reassuring and walks out of the room.

Nurse Chirpy tapes an X over the cotton ball. Then she lowers the bedrail and offers a hand to help me sit up. "How does that feel?" she asks. "Any dizziness, nausea?"

Dizziness, no. Nausea, yeah—but it's not because of the medicine. "I'm fine," I say.

She doesn't recognize my lie. She just gives me a satisfied smile and says, "Stay put. I'll be back in a flash with your wheelchair."

The moment she turns away, I wake up my phone. There's a text bubble hovering over my lock screen. Three purple hearts followed by the words: I'm here when and if you need me.

I do need Samantha, and I want to tell her—that, and so much more. But I don't have the energy to find those words. I unlock the phone and scroll back through her thread, past all those hearts. She must send purple because it was my favorite color. I'll have to let her know that's changed—once I figure out my new favorite. I search through the list of emojis and send Samantha three pink hearts to match her umbrella.

<> <> <>

The rain has stopped but the clouds are still heavy. So the sky is darker than it should be—darker than dusk. And the air is so thick with moisture, there are foggy halos around the streetlights in the hospital's parking lot. The nurse rolls me to the end of the covered walkway. Dad is there, as instructed, exhaust fumes puffing out of the tail of his beater pick-up truck. He's sitting in the cab, one arm raised to his head. Like he's holding his phone against his ear.

What is he saying to Mom? What is she telling him?

How are we ever going to get this mess sorted out?

Nurse Chirpy knocks on the window to get his attention. He gets out apologizing, and helps with the transfer. Not that I need it. I have so much pent up nervous energy I feel like I could run home. I settle into the passenger seat, buckling my seatbelt as he closes the door—and I would swear I smell chocolate.

My stomach makes the effort to flip, but the thrill is eclipsed by acute regret. And it occurs to me that when I checked my phone, there wasn't a text from Noah. Not that I really expected one. Nope. What's hitting me now is how very much I wanted it—a text at the very least. My eyes sting and I have to close them tight. Which is a mistake, because now I have a visual: Noah, squatting beside his car. Eyes intense, like the storm over his head.

"I can't leave until I know you're safe. And after that..."

After that he might've heard every detail of what I did to Lindsay. What I did with Drew Watterson.

Or maybe Noah was gone by then. I don't know. The whole incident has fuzzy edges now.

But even if he didn't—if he managed to get out of that house before all those horrible truths were told—he's going to find out eventually, and he's going to hate me for real this time. He's going to hate me forever.

God. Why couldn't I have just listened to my sister and contacted Samantha first. Then I would've known better than to let myself fall in love with him—if that's even what happened. Maybe Mom was right and my connection to Noah was strong enough to survive my stupid amnesia.

I open my eyes when the car comes to a stop. Dad turns off the engine—but we're still in the hospital parking lot. Why?

"Your mom told me about the phone call while I was driving here today," he says.

Oh. I get it. Dad's finally going to answer my question.

"At first, I didn't like the way she handled the situation," he says. "But the more we talked—and then, I had a few hours in the car to think about what I might've done differently under the circumstances and I couldn't come up with anything better. I don't understand how Lindsay became this person."

"What about me, Dad—what about you and Mom? We're an entire family of people who don't deal with our problems. Did you know I quit running because you stopped coming to my track meets?"

Dad shakes his head, but his frown makes it seem more like a rejection of the idea than an answer to my question. "Your mom said you joined the swim team because of Noah Dodge," he says.

"That may be, but the only reason he started talking to me again was because he saw that I'd been crying. I told him I'd been on the swim team for five weeks and you still hadn't noticed I'd quit track."

"That's not true," Dad says.

"Okay. But it's what I thought. Noah let me read a conversation on his phone. I was texting him from my car—which is where I was hiding because I needed to get away from the screaming inside our house. That's how I met Drew. I was out on the street when he happened to walk by. I don't know if that was my first time getting high, but Drew said I smoked weed with him on a regular basis after that—and I was doing it because I was trying to escape the reality that my parents were getting a divorce."

"No, sweetie."

"Yes, Dad. All of this is my fault—then and now. I left Faircrest for the wrong reason. I convinced myself that if I could figure out what was bothering Lindsay, then everything—our family—would go back to being normal. But that was never going to happen, because I'm the person who is broken. And I'm not just talking about the accident. I reinvented the past I can remember so I could just...like...skip over all the bad parts. But I can't do it anymore, and I'm not going to let Lindsay do it either. She might've been looking for weed in Drew's car this morning, but it was me who got her started on it. And that happened months ago."

Dad studies me for a long moment, then cranks the car. "In all the disagreements your mom and I have had over the last four years," he says. "Neither one of us has ever mentioned the word divorce."

"Okay. But again, it's what I believed. And it's what Lindsay believes now. So."

"I hear you loud and clear," he says, nodding. "We'll sit down when we get home—as a family. I promise we'll get this sorted out."