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“And if you’d been at the swim lesson with them?”

Searing pain slices my heart. Words pour from me, unbidden. “My mom wouldn’t have panicked and left early when Phillip swallowed some water. They wouldn’t have been on the road when that dickwad decided to take a joy ride.”

Chastain is silent for a long time. Long enough that I watch the shadowy funeral guests file past the caskets and leave. Long enough that I see the caskets being cranked gently into their earthen beds.

Finally, he says, “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry no one was there to tell you that then. But I’m here now. And I’ll tell you every day until you believe it.”

“Why?” I breathe, not even knowing the real question I’m asking.

Dream-Chastain knows, though. “Because we’re only as sick as our secrets. It’s time for you to let someone else take care of them for you.”

I close my eyes against a swell of tears. “I don’t trust you,” I mumble.

I can hear the smile in his next words.

“Yes, you do.”

12

GROWING PAINS

DAY 10

I purposefully sleep through my standing appointment with Chastain. I’m honestly not ready to face him.

Embarrassed? Check. Ashamed? Check.

I’m also weirded out by his starring role in my dream last night. It’s making me question things I’d rather not question. Like, what if the dream means I do, in fact, trust him? What do I do about my attraction to him? And the biggest mind-fuck of the bunch: am I actually attracted to him, or have I manufactured my obsession in order to place distance between us?

Groaning, I roll out of bed and stumble into the shower. The hot water is delicious; I imagine it rinsing off the taint of last night’s mortification. I wash my hair three times.

After toweling off and dressing, I give my wan reflection a stare. The woman in the mirror doesn’t look young. Sure, her skin isn’t wrinkled, and the spattering of prematurely white strands of hair are camouflaged by varying shades of blond, but her eyes are dark and haunted.

Hunted.

I’m being stalked by an unnamed beast. Ghosts and memories, both those accessible and those hiding beneath the fog of forgetting.

When I leave my cabin around noon, I almost trip over Tiffany, who’s sitting cross-legged on my stoop. Her black hair is pulled up into a stump of a ponytail. Strands cling with sweat to her neck and around her pale ears.

She doesn’t turn around when I close the door behind me. “Uhh, hello?”

“I ate a whole pizza once,” she says in a flat tone.

I blink. “Say what?”

“A whole pizza, a pint of ice cream, and a super-sized bag of potato chips.”

Oh Lord.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out which end it all came out. She must be here for an eating disorder. A girl I went to high school with suffered from anorexia; she was hospitalized multiple times and nearly died. I briefly wonder what happened to her. If she made it past twenty-five.

My limbs strangely heavy, I walk slowly around Tiffany to see her face. It’s streaked with tears, mascara streaks fanning from her lower lashes.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, forcing the accusation from my tone.

I’m not heartless.

She sniffs. “I don’t know. I heard you last night—I’m right next door to Kinsey and you were”—a watery smile appears—“really loud. I heard how you put yourself on the line for her. To defend her.”