I tear up instantly in response to the worry in her voice. “Nothing, I . . .” I take a deep breath, try to keep my voice steady, but the way she’s looking at me does me in. I crumble completely, tears and all. “I ran into a car, and my face hit the steering wheel, and—”
“You were in an accident?” She pulls me back by my shoulders, eyes scanning the rest of me for damage. “Why on earth didn’t you call me? Was anyone else hurt?”
“No, nobody else got hurt. It was a parked car, and nobody was there, so I left a note, and—”
“Where did this happen?”
I hesitate for a moment, not wanting to have to explain why I was in Shelter Cove. But there’s no way around the truth on this, not between the bus I hit and the trip to the hospital. “Shelter Cove,” I say. I shrug. Teary. Pathetic.
My mom’s brows crash together, creasing her forehead. “What were you doing there? Why didn’t you at least leave me a note? Or answer your phone when I called? Quinn, you can’t just disappear like that.”
There’s no way I can answer these questions honestly. Both of my parents have stuck by me since the day day of Trent’s accident. They’ve been so, so patient with me. They were even supportive of the idea of me meeting the recipients, though I knew it made them more than a little uncomfortable. I think they hoped as much as I did, or maybe even more, that all of it would help me find some sort of closure. They’ve given me nothing but love and time. Stood by and waited to see what I needed. Understood when I wanted space and when I needed to talk. Didn’t push. But I know that behind all their patience with me there has been both the hope that I will move on, and the worry that maybe I won’t. Telling my mom that I was in Shelter Cove searching for the recipient of Trent’s heart isn’t something I can do, so I don’t.
“‘I’m sorry,” I say. “I should’ve told you where I was going. I just . . . had to get away for the day, and I started driving, and I ended up there, at the beach.” I pause and watch her mull over this explanation, and it feels terrible, because I know what the tone of my voice implies—that it was one of “those” days when it’s achingly clear that I haven’t moved on, like a few weeks ago on the 365th day since Trent’s death when I came home from his parents’ house and didn’t leave my room for three days.
“I’m so sorry,” I repeat, and the tears flow again. Genuine tears, because I am genuinely sorry—for worrying her, and for using grief as an excuse this way, and for what I did today by going there. I’m sorry for all of it.
Her eyes search my face. Finally, she takes a deep breath, lets it out in a sigh. “Did you call the insurance company? Or the police?”
I shake my head, and she takes another deep breath and nods stiffly, and I know I’m pushing the limits of her sympathy.
“Why don’t you go upstairs and get cleaned up, then come down for dinner, and we’ll get this sorted out.”
I wrap my arms around her in a grateful hug. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
She hugs me back without hesitating. “I know. But you need to be honest with me, Quinn. If you’re having a hard day, and you need to get away or want to be alone, you need to talk to me. Let me know. Just be honest with me, that’s all I ask.”
“Okay,” I say into her shoulder, and I make a silent promise to myself that I will.
After my shower and a dinner I push around my plate instead of eat, I am completely honest with her when I say that I’m drained from the day and just want to go to bed. It’s too quiet up in my room, and stuffy with the day’s heat. I open the window all the way and breathe in the cool air and the smell of the hills that drifts in with it. Outside, the crickets break up the silence, and the first few stars twinkle high in the dusky sky.
I cross the room to my dresser, almost afraid to look at my reflection. I avoided facing myself in the bathroom mirror, but here, alone in my room, I can’t. I step in front of my dresser mirror, and my eyes go straight to my still-swollen lip, where the tiny black stitches stand out in sharp contrast against my pale skin. Proof that today happened. That I’d found Colton Thomas and that, despite all the rules I’d come up with for myself, I’d met him. Spoken to him. Spent time with him. I bring my fingertips to my three stitches and wonder for a second how many it took to close Trent’s heart into his chest. The thought chokes me up for too many reasons to sort out.
My eyes drift over the pictures tucked all along the edge of my mirror, silly group photos from dances, shots of us from trips with the friends we used to share. All the people I’ve pushed away trying to hold on to him. It didn’t take long for me to realize that as much as they’d loved him too, their worlds didn’t stop the way mine did when he died. They slowed momentarily, long enough to mourn the loss of their friend, but slowly, they picked up again. Fell back into the rhythms and routines of life. Took new pictures. Planned their futures.
A lump forms in my throat, and my eyes fall on my favorite picture of us. It was taken at one of his swim meets last spring. The sun is shining, lighting up the bright aqua patch of the pool in the background. Trent stands behind me, strong, tan arms wrapped around my shoulders, chin tucked into the crook of my neck, smiling right at the camera. I’m leaned back into his chest, laughing. I don’t remember why—if it was something he said or did. And now, as hard as I try to hold on to it, I’ve started to forget the feeling of being wrapped up in his arms like that and the way it could make everything else disappear.