I couldn’t handle this.
Grief rose in me, sharp and hungry as it threatened to eat me alive. I felt it taking over me, taking little bites.
What was happening to me?
But then Willow was in front of me. She had crossed the room. A light came from behind her, and I felt its warmth on me. Her vanilla-scented rose infused my nostrils, and she was so real. Tears slid down my face.
I wanted her to be real.
I wanted to see my sister one more time.
“Ssshh.” She touched my cheek, and all the pain was gone.
It was swept away, replaced with a warmth like sun touching my skin.
“Willow,” I choked out.
“I know. I know.” She traced her hand down the side of my face, tucking some of my hair behind my ear. “I know, Mac. I really do, and I am here. I am real. I’ll always be here.”
I was still crying. “You aren’t really here. I can’t laugh with you, grow with you. I can’t—I’m alone, and you know it.”
I didn’t know when I’d be able to touch her again.
“Why’d you go?”
I couldn’t bring myself to say the actual word for what she did, but I could see it all again.
My face: dark eyes, golden blonde hair, heart-shaped chin
My body: slender arms, long legs, and a petite frame
My heart: beautiful, broken, bleeding
All of it on the bathroom floor in a bloodied pile.
I was down there. I lay beside her, my palm in her blood, and my face turned toward hers.
“Don’t. Don’t, Mac.” She tried to soothe me, pull me back. Her hands kept tracing down my face, trying to shake my memories. “Don’t go there. Don’t remember me that way. I was sick. I was sad. I was hurting, and I didn’t ask for help. I was sick, Mackenzie. I was sick. You can’t understand because I never told you.”
There were warnings. I knew there had been.
Her dried puke on the toilet.
Her exercising at midnight.
How she cried when she got an A- on a test. Her spending whole weekends in bed.
“You shut yourself off from us.”
“Yes.” She made sure I maintained eye contact with her. If I stared at her, I couldn’t see her the way she’d been the last time I saw her. “I was sick, Mackenzie. That’s the best I can tell you. It was horrible what I did. I can’t go back. I can’t make things right. I can’t . . .” She broke off, and I saw her crying.
Could ghosts tear up? Could she do that, whatever she was?
She sniffled, shaking her head briskly to clear the tears. “I never talked. I never said what was going on with me, but you have to. You have to talk. You have to talk about me. You can’t keep yourself bottled up and suppressed. Nothing good will happen then. I know you don’t want to feel the grief. I know you don’t want to let me go, but you have to. You will make yourself sick like I was. I don’t want you here. You got it? I don’t want you with me. Not you. This is mine to carry. Not yours. I want to watch you live a long life. I want to see you married. I want to see my little nephews and nieces. I want to see what my children would’ve looked like—”
I gripped her arms and squeezed.
“Please. Please, stop. I don’t want this,” I whimpered.
She wasn’t letting me pull away. She wasn’t letting me fall back. The more she said, the more my grief rose and bubbled inside me.
I didn’t want to feel what she wanted me to. I wanted to stay like this, with her. She was happy. She was dancing. She was alive. I felt her sunshine against my face, and I only wanted that. I didn’t want to think about her gone.
If I started, that darkness might open again. I shoved it down. I’d gotten better the last two months. Things were better.
“No,” she snapped. Her eyes blazed with determination. “You aren’t better. You’re faking. I can’t let you do that. Feel me. Mourn me. Say goodbye to me. Then . . .” She was fading.
The warmth chilled. The room’s coldness returned.
The light was leaving. The shadows were returning.
I couldn’t smell her perfume anymore.
The song fell away, leaving the ticking of a clock from the hallway.
“Willow,” I cried out.
Her legs disappeared.
Her arms.
Her face—I clung to her eyes. I clung to the feel of her hands on my face, and then she said, “You have to tell them, Mac. You have to tell them.”
Her hands were gone.
So were her eyes.
I was alone.
But I heard her last words, “Remember me, and cherish me. That’s the last step, Mac. I love you . . .”
I collapsed, sobbing. My chest heaved. Salt filled my mouth, and not knowing what else to do, I crawled to where I remembered her lying as if we were back there, as if this was that same bathroom.
I lay there, my palm down, my face turned toward where she’d been.
And I stayed like that until I fell asleep.
Two more pieces fit. They fit right.
A bunch of things happened later that day.
I woke up before Ryan did, and I crawled back into the bed with him.
We went to school.
Robbie came home.
My mom and dad smiled at each other.
I didn’t know if Willow was real in that bathroom, though, I did know I wasn’t going to torture myself trying to explain it. I’d always thought I was going crazy, but when I woke that morning in Ryan’s arms, I felt a little less crazy.
I felt a little bit better.
And I felt a little more whole.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The stands were full. Almost literally.
People couldn’t line up against the court’s walls—it was a safety hazard—so at any given moment, ten people were huddled in the doorway. Their necks craned as they tried to watch the game. A few students hung out on the side of the bleachers, but every few minutes, someone acting all official would go and wave them away.
Basketball had been popular in Arizona, but not like this.
When I saw a woman wearing a basketball jersey with Jensen on the back, I assumed there was another Jensen on the team. She wasn’t his mother, and he hadn’t mentioned any other family coming to the game. But there wasn’t. There was no other Jensen on the team, and when the players came out to start warming up, the second Ryan was visible, a roar took over the gym. Both sides of the bleachers.
It was insane.
Cora saw my look and started laughing. She patted my knee. “Yeah. Get ready. Ryan isn’t like any other player on the team, on any team in the state.” She leaned across me, pointing to a bunch of guys sitting in the back who were all wearing baseball caps pulled low and writing on clipboards. A few other guys, wearing Portside apparel, sat with them. “Those guys aren’t college recruiters.”
I nodded, remembering the ceremony. “He already committed.”
“Those are professional guys.”
I knew Ryan was good, but I hadn’t thought he was that good. I sat up straighter, feeling proud of him, and as if he could feel me watching, he sank a three-pointer and glanced up to me.
My mouth watered for him; his hair was messily rumpled like I always loved. Some guys had shirts under their jerseys, but Ryan didn’t. I could see the definition in his shoulders and upper arms. As he caught the ball and jumped for another shot, his shirt bounced up. A nice glimpse of his stomach showed me what I already knew. He was tightly muscled, and it hit me. All the warnings I’d gotten about him—how intense basketball season was, how much he was loved by his friends and family—hit me like cement bricks.