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Five Months Later
I stare at the dress on my bed in contemplation as the late May glow shimmers in through the window. On the one side of my bed lies a white shirt – my usual uniform shirt – folded over a pair of black dress pants. It’s boring, because this is what I wear all the time, and it’s alternative in a way that doesn’t even match up to my personality. Either way it’s not what I want.
Yet looking at the pants option doesn’t make me feel like I’m about to vomit up my intestines, much unlike the dress. Whereas my Homecoming dress from three years ago was sweet, with its baby pink bodice and clouds of tulle, this dress is demure and sophisticated. It’s a full waterfall of black satin, starting right under my neck and draping all the way to the floor, with bare arms to expose my skin and a sweeping cowl back to… well, I suppose to do the exact same thing there, too. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not flashy – I’ll be utterly blend-in-able if I choose this dress – and it matches the Old Hollywood theme for our senior prom perfectly. But still, I can’t help the anxious flutter I feel in my stomach when I look down at it, nor the flashbacks that resurface.
No more skirts.
I pick up the hem and run the smooth material over my fingers. It’s so glossy that it almost glitters in the early evening sunlight streaming into my room from over the roof of Tate’sformer home. The warm summer scents of sweet-pea blossom and coconut suntan lotion drift in from outside, and I drop the dress from my hand as I fold my arms and look out across the street. My room is bigger than it used to be after the reno that Mitch’s guys did, but other than the extra space, it’s still pretty much exactly the same as it was before. The memories sure as hell have hung tight. The all-consuming tension in my chest dulled down after the first month, but it never seemed to fully go away. Once I get my exam results and I subsequently know whether or not I’ll be admitted to my college choices the pain will have to go. I’ll move away and I’ll move on. I’ll be so busy with school - a wholelifetimeof school – that I won’t have time to dwell on my desires. My mom will be happy. I won’t have to worry about Hudson.
But I won’t have Tate.
I suppose he will have already moved on, and I can’t blame him. If I was him, I would have moved on too. Why spend your time pining over somebody like me, someone who is too shocked to even sayI love youback, when you could have someone fun, beautiful, normal? I think that I may have pushed him away too hard this time.
And it’s not as if he didn’t try, for months, repeatedly. Hedidcome round to try and talk to my mom and shedidwarn him that she would slash his tyres if he didn’t get the hell away from her property. She didn’t need to confiscate my phone from me because I never had his number to begin with, but she has made an effort to fit me into her schedule more, mainly so that she can pick me up after school and ensure that I haven’t been whisked off my feet by the knight in denim jeans and a motorcycle jacket.
She has slowly been reintroducing Mitch back into her own life – they took a break for the first month and then started to see each other once every few weeks, whether as friends or partners I do not know, but he hasn’t been around here at all. She told methat Mitch wants to see me but she toldhimthat he shouldn’t hold his breath.
Overall, I feel very Bella Swan spinning-round-on-her-chair empty.
But at least my mom is happy.
There’s a knock on my door and I instantly check the time on my phone. It flashes 18:35. Doors open to our prom at seven so I need to get going soon. I promised Kit that I would be there, and it would be nice to see all of our efforts – making posters and banners and menus and playlists – having their moment after all.
“Yes?” I ask, and my mom opens the door. She’s been out all afternoon, which is weird because she wasn’t working today, and she looks a bit flushed, like maybe she caught the sun.
Or like maybe she’s been crying.
“You should just go like this,” she jokes, jerking her chin to gesture at my attire. I’m wearing plaid pyjama pants and a baby pink tank top, but my hair is floofed up out of its usual scrunchie prison, and I’ve applied some mascara and lip-gloss.
I nod in agreement, although my arms tighten across my chest. “It would be very me,” I admit.
“Kit would do something like that,” she remarks, but I don’t comment. I feel like I have a right to be slightly bitter.What do you know about my personal life, mom?
When she takes a step inside my room I know that something is up. I move closer to the window so that I can take in some deeper inhalations of the fresh May air, and I watch her cautiously as she moves to stand in front of my prom outfit choices, her hand pressed against her cheek. She rolls her lips into her mouth so that it becomes a tense flat line, and then she sighs as she lets it go.
“I met up with Mitch today,” she says.
My stomach instantly drops. Is she baiting me? This feels like a trick conversation starter, so I stare back at her in silence.
She rubs her palm up her forehead and then gestures down to an empty spot on my bed. “Can we sit?”
She can sense my suspicions from the waves of tension rolling off my body and she holds her hands up to me in surrender. My stomach drops further. “We had a conversation,” she continues, and her voice is a little shakier now. She takes a seat at the edge of my bed and nods her head for me to do the same. Immobilised, I ignore her and grip onto the window ledge for dear life. “About you,” she finishes.
I turn around and drop my elbows onto the window sill, gripping my hair in my fingers and willing myself not to ruin my amazing spidery mascara.Don’t cry, River. Do. Not. Cry.
“He told me that you had told him something – on that night… the night of the world’s most ironic housewarming party – and that it was really important that I asked you about it. It had something to do with his son and something to do with that boy who was there, too.”
She pauses for a minute, expecting me to turn around, but I don’t. I look up and stare across the street, right into the room that used to belong to Tate. How long will he haunt me? When will this feeling end?
“I’m going to admit this to you right now,” she says, matter-of-factly. “I absolutely forced him to tell me everything. I mean, I know that – gentleman that he is – he undeniably spared specific details for your sake, but I couldn’t risk younottelling me something that evenhebelieved to be highly significant. I’m really sorry that I did this behind your back, but I’m not sorry that I now know the truth.” She pauses again and a whole minute goes by without us saying a single word. For a moment, I think that I can hear her crying. “I can’t believe that this happened to you, and that you were so afraid of whatImay think that youdidn’t tell me. I wish it had never happened to you… and I wish that I had been there to help you through it.”
I shake my head but I actually feel a weight lift from my shoulders. Maybe Mitch was right – a problem shared is a problem halved. I feel powerful to be seen in the light of such naked truth.
I guess a guy with shoulders like Mitch’s would know a thing or two about carrying a heavy burden.
“I don’t want pity,” I say finally, turning back to her. My eyes are, to my own amazement, dry.
“I know, River. You’re a strong girl. Iwantedyou to be a strong girl, which is why I guess that you didn’t tell me. But, honey, I think that you were almosttoostrong. And then, on top of all of that, havingmemake you feel guilty about falling in love with Mitch’s son?” She puts her head in her hand for a moment, as if ashamed, and then looks up at me with pinched brows and a set jaw. “Who amIto dictate to you? I’m asingle mom, River. And, honestly, I have never seen a boy so dead-set on breaking a girl out of her house. You have no idea the amount of nights that I had to kick him off our front drive.”
