Why isn’t she talking?
Cora finally intakes a long, unsteady breath, then inches down the bed until her face is smooshed against the front of my chest. “Sing to me.”
For a moment, I’m brought back to that basement. I travel back to those dark November nights when I could hardly see her through the black hole between us. It killed me that I couldn’t touch her. I couldn’t reach out and grab her or hold her in my arms, bring her comfort, or whisper into her ear that it was going to be okay.
My voice was all she had.
I sing Hey Jude as I cradle the back of her head with one hand, feeling her tiny hairs tickle my chin with every breathy note. We fall asleep curled up together, clinging to one another, heartbeats aligned, but this time there are no sleeping pills. There is no alcohol. There are no vices or excuses or things to blame except ourselves and the confusing feelings that have burrowed inside our hearts.
And while there are still so many questions swimming around my brain, I finally feel like I have an answer to one of them.
I know what I have to do.
Chapter Twenty
F I F T E E N Y E A R S E A R L I E R
Mr. Adilman is such a douche-nozzle.
I flick the eraser side of my pencil up and down against the blank page of my notebook with a giant yawn, resting my head on my opposite hand. Mr. Adilman is prattling on about some book we were supposed to read as he simultaneously checks out Miss French when she stops in to give him a message about a new student. Gross.
“Listen up, everyone. We have a new student joining us today. Let’s make her feel welcome here at Cary-Grove High,” Mr. Adilman announces.
I glance up from my serious lack of note taking and my mouth goes dry.
In walks an angel.
Seriously. I think she’s a real-life angel with wings and a halo and maybe even a harp.
There’s definitely a harp.
Her hair is spun with gold, partially pulled up with a flower barrette. Her denim skirt almost touches her knees, and a lavender blazer sits over her baby blue tank top. She’s wearing chunky sandals and the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen.
I’m blatantly staring, possibly drooling, as Mr. Adilman directs the petite blonde to a desk much too far away from mine. She clutches her books to her chest with nervous hands, quietly taking a seat.
“Class, say hello to Corabelle Lawson. Her family just moved here from Rockford.”
She clears her throat. “Um, it’s Cora.”
“Oh.” Mr. Adilman looks down at his notes. “I’m sorry. This says Corabelle.”
“Yeah, but I go by Cora.”
The class mutters a bored ‘hello’ as I continue to plan out our future in my mind. Homecoming and Prom are a given. It would be great if we end up going to the same college together, but long distance relationships aren’t so bad. We’ll make it work. We’ll be married by thirty, buy a big house in the suburbs, and have three blonde-haired babies by thirty-five. We’ll travel a lot, then move right by the ocean when we retire.
I wonder if she likes the ocean.
Cora glances over in my direction and our eyes meet for the very first time.
Green.
Angels have green eyes.
She smiles at me, that same sweet smile, and this one is all mine. It fills me up and lights me on fire, and I know, I just know…
I’m going to marry this girl one day.
I’m sitting on Mandy’s couch after work that Friday, guzzling down a water bottle as I try to collect my thoughts. I squeeze the bottle in my fist, listening to the crinkling plastic mingle with the sound of Mandy’s chipper voice floating through the apartment.
“…and I can’t believe Margo is retiring…”
I open and close my hand around the empty bottle.
Crinkle. Crinkle. Crinkle.
“…she’s basically our mama bear…”
Crinkle. Crinkle. Crinkle.
“…definitely going to… Dean? Are you listening?”
I snap my head up as Mandy saunters into the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“Everything okay?” She cocks her head to one side, her hazel eyes shimmering with concern. “You look a little pale.”
That’s probably because I’ve been holding back my vomit for the last fifteen minutes.
My throat bobs as I swallow. “We need to talk, Mandy.” I set the bottle down next to me and wipe my hands along the front of my denim pants.
Mandy stares at me for a moment, registering my words. She nibbles on her top lip as she wrings the towel between her fingers. “About what?”
She knows about what. I can see it all over her face.
Fuck.
“Shit… this is the hardest conversation of my life.”
“Dean.” My name comes out as a tiny cry—a plea. “Don’t do this.”
I stand from the couch, stepping towards her with outstretched hands. She moves back to avoid my reach and I pause my feet, my arms falling at my sides, defeated. “I don’t want to hurt you…”
“Then don’t. I don’t want you to hurt me.” She folds her arms across her chest, her body already trembling. “We can work through this.”
“We can’t. And it’s not because I don’t care about you… we’ve had an amazing run, and I don’t regret a single moment of the last fifteen years.”
“Please stop…”
“But I feel like a completely different person right now. I know it was only three weeks. I get it, but I can’t explain what happened to me. I just… I don’t feel that connection, that spark, and you deserve that. You deserve so much more than what I can give you.”
God, I hope that didn’t come off like I’m feeding her bullshit because it’s the fucking truth.
Mandy closes her eyes, holding them shut as her emotions begin to peak. I see her hands curl into fists, and she asks, “Is it because of her?”
“What? Who?”
“My sister.”
The word spits out between clenched teeth, like it was nearly impossible to say.
My jaw ticks in reply. This isn’t about Cora. This is about me and Mandy. We’re not well-suited. It doesn’t work.
Not anymore.
“No,” I say.
“You’re a liar. Something happened between you two in that basement,” she says. “That guy was called The Matchmaker, Dean. I’ve tried to tell myself that you two hated each other and nothing would have happened, but now I’m just feeling like a huge idiot…”
I sigh. “I’m not saying I don’t have a strong connection with Cora—I do. We went through a horrible trauma together, and it’s impossible not to come back different from that.” I run a hand along the nape of my neck, scratching at my hairline as I try to piece together words and sentences that make sense to both of us. “We were forced to do some fucked up shit, and… it bonded us.”
She swallows, almost choking on the words. “Do you have feelings for her?”
Feelings.
God, of course I have feelings for her. She makes me feel a lot of things—she always has.
But I realize Mandy is referencing something more specific.