Page 5 of 72 Hours of You

Emma slips into her desk chair and Sophia leans down over her, her long blond hair framing both their faces. They squish together and take a selfie. Then they take three more. Emma scrolls through a few filters, slaps one on, and hits post.

I pull out my phone and there it is, right at the top of my feed. Their faces in black and white, their eyes round and wide. The perfect picture of mourning.

21 days without you babe. U r so missed.

I swipe. There’s another black-and-white photo of an empty desk by the window. Jesus, they tagged him in the seat. That wasn’t even his desk! I swear to god they’re one step away from geotagging the Burger King.

“Hey.” Peter slides into the seat next to me, letting his backpack drop from his shoulder and setting today’s book of choice on his desk. The last couple of days it was a Winston Churchill biography, but he must’ve finished that, because today it’s an Emily Henry rom-com. He either has exquisite taste or none at all. I haven’t decided yet.

He glances at my phone. His eyebrows go up and he looks from Emma and Sophia back to me, staring for like three full seconds. I untuck my long dark hair from behind my ear, making a barrier between me and Peter.

Emma turns around and makes a crumpled-up worried face at me, her lip gloss pooling on her puckered lips. “And how are you two?” She grabs my hand and Peter’s.

I slide my hand out from under Emma’s perfectly manicured, black-polished grip. “I’m fine.”

She lets out an aggressively long sigh. “I just can’t believe it’s his three-week anniversary.” Three-week anniversary. As if she and Liam’s death are in a middle school relationship.

“You know,” she says, leaning closer to Peter, “a few of us have started a grief group. It meets every Friday night. Sometimes Saturdays. You should come.” She looks up at him from under her eyelashes in this affected way that she’s clearly worked on in the mirror. “Noah always brings a keg. It’s very healing.”

Ah, there it is. Using Liam’s Tragic Death To Try And Get Laid. I know I have that one on my Fucked-Up Shit bingo card somewhere. I want to stab my eyes out with my #2 pencil from secondhand embarrassment.

“That sounds like … something,” Peter says. Jesus Christ, she is actually rubbing her thumb in circles on his palm. He removes his hand from Emma’s grip and runs it through his hair. “I’ll definitely think about it.”

I’m not sure Emma registers that he hasn’t actually committed to anything, because she looks pretty pleased with herself.

“Oh,” she says, turning to me like she just remembered I exist. “You’re obviously super welcome to come too.”

I don’t have to go to this “grief group” thing to know exactly what it’s like. The upperclassmen sprawled out on the couch at Noah’s, in their all-black outfits, getting stoned and watching Bluey cartoons and pretending that what they’re doing is grieving. Hey guys, let’s roll a blunt in Liam’s honor. You know how he adored weed. It’s what he would’ve wanted.

“Wow, Emma,” I say, making my voice go as high as hers. “I seriously appreciate the offer. So, so much. I actually have another grief group that night. You know? At the Spaghetti Factory? But otherwise I would totes be there.”

Peter lets out the tiniest snort but Emma doesn’t notice. She nods solemnly as if I’m making complete sense. “Well, if either of you need anything …” She turns back around, and busies herself with her phone, probably drafting a TikTok on Grief Fits that Hit!

Peter drags his desk a little closer to mine, and I resist the urge to scoot farther away. “So …” He drops his voice. “What are you actually doing this Friday?”

“Washing my hair,” I say, pretending to focus on drawing today’s Doom Doodle (a trampled-on cheeseburger with x’d-out eyes).

“That’s funny, because I’m going to be racing my dad’s car for pinks,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Racing for pinks?”

“I thought we were doing a 1950s bit.”

“We are not doing anything. I am minding my business. Which is what you should also be doing.” I push the ballpoint pen down so hard I can feel it making a ghostly imprint on the pages underneath it. I don’t need anyone seeing Peter and me talking to each other. It only makes things worse.

When Liam died, this weird thing happened where everyone at school became high-key obsessed with Peter and me. And not each of us as individuals, but as like, a combined thing.

Apparently, being “the last two people to see him alive” made us part of the narrative.

PeterAndSydney saw him right before he died.

PeterAndSydney were there.

Ugh, if only PeterAndSydney had stopped him from going to that Burger King!

Do you know what kind of burger he ordered? I bet PeterAndSydney know.

Yet another reason never witnessing a Zero Hour is one of my rules. We weren’t even actually the last two people to see him alive. That title goes to Cameron (but she’s not exactly taking questions at the moment) and the guy driving the truck. He’d probably be able to tell you exactly what kind of burger Liam went with. I’m sure it was smeared across his windshield.