Page 17 of Into the Deep Blue

My room looks like I robbed an Ikea. I kind of did. It’s almost entirely white, peaceful and calm—a clean slate, everything I want to be. It’s like I’ve landed on the moon, and the only imprints made will be mine.

My new desk is the only thing not white because I didn’t want it to remind me of the last one. It’s an acacia wood slab that I got at the countertop section. Thank you, Pinterest. I’m assembling the metal legs now, and then I’ll drop the slab on top.

I bailed on work again last night, partly because I’m still furious at the parents, but mostly because of May. I texted her and Jaden and said I was still feeling tired. Kept it simple.

Which just leaves me to deal with Nick. There’s a meeting tonight, but there’s no way I’m going, so I told Grace I’m sick. Of course, she believed me, because I’ve never bailed on a meeting before. Then I told Dad that Grace was away again. And Nick? I still haven’t texted him back. I want to, but I don’t know what to say.

I’m sitting on the floor with the Ikea instructions open in front of me. I can’t figure them out and screw the leg pieces together the wrong way. Two attempts later, they look right.

There’s a soft tap at my door.

“Knock knock.”

Dad always says the words. I expect him to come in like usual, but he doesn’t.

“Come in,”

I call out for the first time ever.

He opens the door and checks out the table legs.

“Want a hand putting the top on?”

It’s the easiest part, but I feel like he needs a win here.

“Sure, yeah.”

We each take a side and gently lower the slab on top of the legs. He takes a step back and studies my room.

“Looks good, Fi, real good! A little stark.”

“It’s minimalism, not stark. And clutter’s bad for focus.”

He puts his hands on his hips. “Okay.”

“I didn’t spend a lot.”

“Didn’t ask.”

He picks up his cordless drill from the floor.

“I guess it does have a calmness to it.”

I nod. That’s because the cats are gone.

“Anyway, I’m heading to Rob’s for a few hours to watch the game. That okay?”

I can’t believe it. He’s going out.

“Yeah! Go . . . whoever. Rah.”

“Won’t be too late.”

He heads downstairs, his keys jingling in his pocket. The door closes, and the truck pulls out of the driveway. I should feel relieved, but I don’t. It’s peace all around me, but I feel like an imposter. Loneliness sets in, and I don’t want to be sad tonight. There’s only one thing to do: throw myself the world’s biggest pity party.

In the kitchen, I grab a bag of barbecue chips on the counter and, oh, look at that open bottle of red wine sitting right next to them, as if rays from heaven are shining around it. With the wine in one hand and the chips tucked under my arm, I grab my Legoland coffee mug from the cupboard.

The box is still on the counter with Mom’s camera inside. A few glasses of wine might be the liquid courage I need to look at the pictures. A few glasses more might be enough to forget them. It’s a slo-mo hero’s walk upstairs—my arms full of wine, chips, mug, camera, and no witnesses.

I kick my bedroom door closed and set everything up on the floor. The wine bottle has a screw cap so I twist it off, and soft glugs fill my mug like a meditation. Next up is music. My Spotify playlists are organized by months, which is basically a sliding scale of my descent into depression through music. I cue up a top-forty playlist instead and turn on my Bluetooth speaker.

The whole point of overhauling my room was to keep the sad out, but tonight, I already feel it. Sadness seeps through the cracks of my door and spreads across the walls. Thick black globs of sad drip from the ceiling like candle wax. The weight on my chest is heavier now.

“You need to relax,”

imaginary Nick says.

So I chug back hearty gulps of wine—to relax.

And now that I’ve let a sliver of Nick invade my thoughts, May pushes her way through the cracks with him. Did they go to our chip truck? Is she hanging out at his house? Did she meet his dad? Fucking Brooklyn? Did they swing on our swing? I imagine her replacing me entirely, and I should be happy for them because isn’t that what I wanted? For both of them to be happy? Maybe not with each other.

The half-eaten bag of gummy bears sits on my nightstand, and I feel so guilty for hating her. How can I hate her when she was there for me after Mom died? We’ve been friends forever. Yeah, sometimes she knocks me down a peg for her benefit, but I don’t think she means to, and does that cancel out the good parts?

“I don’t know how you can be friends with her. Seriously, Fi, she’s nuts,”

imaginary Nick says.

I nod in agreement. I mean, what is the line between a flawed friend and a toxic one?

Maybe I can stay in this room forever. I don’t need to go to New York for school in January. What’s so great about traveling, anyway? It sounds horrible.

“Traveling’s fun, ,”

imaginary Nick says.

“That’s bullshit,”

I say out loud to myself.

My mouth fills with velvety red wine. I hold it in my cheeks for a minute before swallowing. It’s creating a cocoon on top of my cocoon. Thousands of fluffy white cotton balls expand around me, and the world grows fuzzier. I turn up the music.

I’m done with you, Nick. I can do or not do whatever I want. I don’t judge you for being anti-social in group.

“Yes, you do,”

imaginary Nick says.

My phone buzzes against the hardwood, and the timing is so freaky I jump a little.

Nick: Yo

It’s seven-thirty. They’re well into the meeting. I guess he figured out I’m not going. Seconds later, it buzzes again.

Nick: !

I know you’re there

I know you’re reading these

WTF

Answer me!

Are you okay?

The texts are stressing me out, so I click off my phone and slide it across the floor, cupping my wine mug in both hands.

The music stops. My room plunges into quiet. I pick up Mom’s camera and play with the aperture wheel on the metal body. It’s scratched and dented in places. Is it charged? All I have to do is press the power button. My thumb hovers over it, but I’m hit with a wave of panic, so I put it on the floor and slide my laptop closer.

On Spotify, I search for a my-mom-is-dead playlist. I get a few hits. Deadmau5 comes up, followed by my mom is dumb, but underneath is a dead-mom playlist. Someone’s as twisted as I am. I get goosebumps when I see the songs. Some of these have been played in my car before, and the few Bowie tracks make me positive it’s Nick’s. It’s like finding his diary. I didn’t know he had this. I shouldn’t read into it, but I want to. I don’t know what this is.

I don’t know what this is.

I play it from the top.

More wine glugs into my mug, and I question for a second how many glasses might be in a mug. I’m already tired but don’t want to sleep, so I get up.

The house is dark. We have three rooms upstairs, and I head for Mom and Dad’s at the end of the hall.

I never come in here. The air is thick and stagnant; it’s all kinds of creepy. If one of those ghost hunters ever came over, their ghost-o-meter would go haywire. The bed is made, probably from a week ago since Dad usually sleeps on the couch.

I go into their bathroom and open Mom’s makeup drawer. Everything is stacked in neat rows with tubes and pots from Glossier and Maybelline. Nothing fancy. I press a pink lipstick into my lips. The color is too bright, so I open another and apply layer upon layer of pinks, reds, nudes, and plums while singing off-key to some random song blaring from my room, where all the words have become Noooboody loooves you, .

Before I close the drawer, I spot a frosted glass bottle with French writing—a lotion she bought in Paris on a work trip and secretly ordered ever since. Dad would’ve flipped if he knew how much it cost. I pump an opalescent dewdrop onto my finger. It’s like Mom’s entire being is in this tiny orb. I press it into my cheeks.

My eyes are closing, so I drift back to my room and flop into bed.

Sleep comes instantly.

Rain hammers against the roof. I wish I could crack it open and let it inside. Maybe it could wash the sadness off the walls.

“!”

Imaginary Nick’s voice pierces the air.

“!”

My eyes spring open.

“! Open the door!”

Not imaginary Nick.

I stumble out of bed and peek through my curtains. The doorbell rings incessantly, but I don’t see anyone. Then Nick takes a few steps back and looks up. He’s soaked. He sees me and clutches his heart like he’s relieved. The relief morphs into looking really pissed.

“Open the door!” he yells.

The room sways when I turn around, and shaking my head doesn’t help. I throw on my ratty blue oversized robe and take a breath before flying down the stairs.

I swing open the door, and Nick charges through, bringing in sideways sheets of rain. He scans my living room for evidence that the world is ending. In the driveway, I spot his toppled-over bike. He biked here. In the rain. Which is crazy. I close the door, and he sweeps his rain-soaked hair away from his face.

“You weren’t at the meeting!”

He sputters, still breathless.

“I know.”

He heads for the kitchen, his sneakers squeaking against the floor and grabs a dish towel from the oven door. He rubs it through his hair and wipes his face.

“I thought you drove into a car or jumped off a railing or something.”

“Well, that would be hard because the railing’s at your house.”

I think it’s pretty funny, but he shoots me a look.

That’s when he notices my face. He narrows his eyes at my lips.

“Oh, shit.”

I drag my sleeve across the clown show of lipstick streaked across my mouth.

As if that’ll do anything.

“You’re drunk,”

he says, draping the wet towel over a chair.

That’s debatable. I’m in the trying-not-to-be-sick phase. There’s a whole conversation happening in my head. It goes Don’t be sick, don’t be sick, don’t be sick, eat something, don’t be sick.

But yeah, I’m still drunk. I brush by him on my way to the kitchen and attack a loaf of bread on the counter, shoving a slice into my mouth and dropping a second in the toaster.

“Where’s Bob?”

Chew. Chew. Chew. I hate this. I hate what he’s doing. He’s playing Mr. Responsible.

“Why aren’t you talking to me?”

“I am talking to you.”

“You know what I mean. I don’t mean now.”

Yeah, I know what he means, but why is he putting this on me.

“Why aren’t you talking to me?”

“What?! I haven’t heard a word from you, Fi!”

he fires back.

“May said you had strep.”

It’s a dagger to my chest. So they have been texting.

My toast pops. It’s burnt. I scrape off the charred bits, letting them fall to the counter like ashes from my torched heart and eat it. Dry.

“What the hell? Was I supposed to come over? May said you like to be alone when you’re sick, and you go into this whole hiber—”

He stops, and a lightbulb goes off.

“You’re not even sick. You were never sick!”

He throws his hands in the air.

“What is wrong with you?”

It’s the statement to end all statements, and what can I say to that? It’s like the world’s biggest insult.

“Oh, wow. Well, how much time do you have?”

“You’ve been lying to everyone!”

“Hey, I never said I had strep. May assumed I had strep. I just didn’t disagree.”

“What?”

I push past him and go to the living room.

“Why didn’t you answer my texts?”

His voice is getting louder now.

“What texts?”

“I texted you like a hundred times tonight.”

“My phone was off.”

“Bullshit.”

He lunges for me and grabs my robe, searching for the pockets. We fight over the fabric, but it’s an easy victory for him. He pulls out my phone.

“Give it back.”

He holds it high above his head, and there’s no way I can reach it. He towers above me. He opens my texts because stupid me doesn’t password-protect my phone, and all of his messages fill the screen.

“Oh, look at that! There they are!”

He glares at me and thrusts my phone back into my hands.

“Okay, what the fuck is going on? Did something happen? Are you okay?”

He’s genuinely concerned, and it’s sad. I’m sad. “No.”

“No, what?”

“To all of the above.”

He waits for more, but I backpedal.

“I’m fine. Forget it.”

“Honestly?”

He’s standing a foot away, and we stare each other down. Honesty hangs in the space between us, but neither of us wants to reach for it.

“Yeah.”

He’s thinking it. I can see it in his eyes. We’re on the cusp of a whole other conversation. It’s like a game of chess, only totally unfair on account of my chess board hanging diagonally in the air.

“So that’s it? You obviously don’t want to talk to me.”

“Why do you keep saying that? I am talking to you.”

He paces across my living room and stops, raising a finger.

“This is about May.”

He actually does it. He moves his queen across the board. It sounds so petty to hear it said out loud.

“No!”

I say, as if it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, but it’s so transparent even I don’t believe it.

“We went out for coffee! She said you didn’t give a shit.”

My stomach twists. I can’t even look at him, so I head back to the kitchen.

“No, I’m super happy you guys are connecting. It’s so cool that you’re talking about what kind of shits I give.”

“I thought you would be there. Then, I thought you were setting us up!”

I spin around to face him.

“Why would I do that?!”

“What am I supposed to think, ? You gave her my number!”

“Crazy me! I guess I assumed you wouldn’t jump at the chance!”

He takes a step back.

“What are you talking about?”

He’s genuinely confused, and my heart breaks a little.

“Why did you give her my number?”

“She asked! What was I supposed to do?”

He shakes his head.

“Uh, I don’t know. Tell me, maybe? Give me a heads up—”

“But why? You made plans instantly!”

“So I wouldn’t be blindsided!”

he says, throwing his hands in the air.

I pace back into the living room, and he follows two steps behind.

“Whatever. You know, I think it’s great! It’s really great!” I say.

“Great. I’m glad it’s great.”

We face each other at a stalemate.

“So now you’re done? You can cut me loose, just like that? If it’s so easy for you to get over things, why did you ever go to those meetings in the first place? Why not just hit the restart?”

Every drop of rational thought leaves me.

“You come in here throwing your honestly, honesty, bullshit at me, and then you give me some crap about not wanting to bother me—”

“That wasn’t bullshit,”

he interrupts, but I’m so not done.

“I hope you’ll be happy together! She’s totally crazy, by the way, and you abandoned me at that party like an asshole when I back you up all the time. And you didn’t even text me before that. I flat out texted I love you, and you didn’t even reply.”

It’s an incomprehensible disaster of a rant. His eyes are so wide he looks like his head might explode. “What?”

“So don’t give me honestly as if honestly is just for me, okay? You’re not the fucking honestly police.”

“What?”

“Nothing, forget it.”

I try to walk by him, but he grabs my arm.

“No, and you didn’t text I love you. You texted love you like every other girl on the planet.”

I shake my arm free.

“Wow! How unoriginal of me.”

“It’s a throwaway, Fi. Did you mean I love you?”

Checkmate. Why is he so good at this? I raged myself into a corner. I shake my head and don’t stop like a bobblehead stuck in a crosswind. I’m way too tipsy for this conversation. This isn’t happening. No, I don’t love you. No, no, no.

“Did you mean I love you?”

“No!”

I shout as if it’s a ludicrous idea.

“It’s just, you could have texted it back is all.”

He runs his hands through his hair.

“Wow. Tell me we’re not dissecting my shitty texting skills right now. I hate texting.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t hate texting.”

“Oh, you got me, I love it. I love texting.”

“I’m just saying you could have texted it back.”

He stops and flutters his eyes for a flabbergasted second, cocks his head to the side and pulls out his phone. Two seconds later my phone dings in my robe pocket. I pull it out to see Love you on my screen. It’s cold—cardboard and meaningless.

“Are we good?”

“Great. Thanks.”

But I’m not done. One more drunken gem springs free before I can stop myself.

“Did you tell her about your mom?”

He steps back, as if he’s been slapped, letting the full dysfunction of the question sink in. He’s trying to work out why I would ask this. He’s Nick. Of course he knows why.

“No.”

His face softens, and his voice is calm. He puts the fighting gloves down and takes a step toward me.

“Fi, what do you want from me?”

His eyes plead with me. He’s throwing me a lifeline in the form of a question, and all I have to do is answer it. Honestly. But I can’t. I’d rather drown.

“Nothing. I didn’t ask you to come here.”

He absorbs the rejection. The smell of burnt toast wafts through the air, and it’s all I can think about. Anything but what just happened here.

“You know you weren’t the only one who didn’t show tonight. That girl Maddie, she OD’d a few days ago.”

I close my eyes. No.

“I’m not going back anymore. I’m done,”

he says, and somehow I know I won’t, either. This feels like the end.

Headlights flood the driveway. We hold a look like our entire relationship depends on these next thirty seconds of privacy, but neither of us utters a word. Dad’s truck door slams. The front door opens, and he comes in carrying a paper bag of groceries. The tension washes over him like a tsunami. “Nick?”

He shifts his gaze between us. Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything about the state of my face.

“Sir.”

“Everything okay?”

I have to give him something.

“Girl from group died.”

It’s the perfect answer. He’ll want nothing to do with that.

“Sorry to hear.”

He lowers his head and goes into the kitchen to unpack.

Nick crosses the room to the stairs where I’m standing, and I move one step up, so I’m taller than him. He narrows his eyes at me like I’m the devil in disguise.

“Wow. Bravo. That was amazing. Maybe you should be the writer because you always know exactly what to say.”

It’s a bitter whisper.

I lean in and whisper back.

“I learned from the best!”

He steps away and draws his mouth into a tight line.

“Nick, you staying the night?”

Dad calls out.

“No, sir, I was just on my way out.”

“You sure? It’s coming down pretty hard out there.”

“I’m sure.”

He opens the door to the downpour and doesn’t look back.

In my head, I’m screaming—stop! Don’t leave! I’m sorry. But the relief I feel when the door closes wins.

I find Dad in the kitchen and hug him. He assumes it’s about death. How can I explain it’s about life?