When we arrive, she’s the first one off the bus. I grab my backpack and fly up the aisle, following just behind her, a few people sliding out of their seats in between us. She notices me when I step off and makes a sharp turn in the opposite direction, grabbing her duffel quickly from the underneath compartment and beelining for her truck.
“Blake,” I say, pushing through the throngs of students as I run across the parking lot after her.
She doesn’t stop when I call her name. She just keeps her head down, ignoring the sound of my voice.
“Blake!” I call again, reaching out, my fingertips barely meeting the skin of her arm before she pulls it away.
“Leave me alone, Emily,” she says, without even slowing down, her voice low.
“Blake, please. I just want to talk about—” I reach out, grabbing for her hand again, but her fingers slip through my grip.
“I don’t want to talk about it!” she says, whirling around to face me, her brown eyes angry as she rips out one of her earbuds in frustration. “Okay? I don’t want to talk about the list, or about Matt, or about the kiss. I don’t want to talk about how you were my friend all summer long because your friends ditched you, and then you dropped me and ignored me when it was no longer convenient for you. I get it, okay? You got what you wanted.”
“Blake, I’m sorry, I—”
“I don’t want to talk to you at all, Emily,” she says, finally making it abundantly clear. “I don’t want to talk to you,” she repeats, softer this time, her voice crackling slightly on the “you,” her words making me feel sick to my stomach.
We stare at each other for a long moment before she turns on her heel and walks away from me, throwing her bag into the back of her truck and slamming the car door loudly behind her.
I feel like my legs might give out from under me.
I watch her drive away, her truck fading into the distance. My head swims as I turn around, willing myself to walk back over to the bus, one foot in front of the other. Right, left. Right, left.
I fight through the sea of arms and legs for my bag, breaking out into the open air, my eyes landing on my dad’s truck in the parking lot.
I hear Matt saying my name, but I keep moving, keep walking.
Dad waves enthusiastically out the window at me, calling out to me as I get closer, still trying his best to patch things up after our fight.
“Well, how was it?” he asks as I close the truck door behind me, a huge smile on his face.
“Fine,” I say. I put my seat belt on, pulling my legs up and wrapping my arms around them as we drive away, hoping I can literally hold myself together until we get there. Until we get home.
“You okay, Em? Midnight bonfire got you a bit tired?” he asks, shooting me a concerned look. “Did something happen? Are you still upset about the house, or—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
I wait for him to ask another question, to say something, but like always, he doesn’t push.
For once, though, some part of me wishes he would.
But I shove that aside, focusing on the only certainty I have. The only thing that can get me through this drive, and through all of this, is my mom’s closet. Being completely surrounded by the one place I can feel her. The only safe place I still have in the entire world.
If I can make it to the closet one last time, I’ll be fine. I’ll be able to make sense of everything if I can just get there.
My dad pulls onto our street and into the driveway, and the second we’re parked, I unfurl and head inside.
I drop my bag in the entryway, my vision blurring as I run up the stairs and down the hall. My hands reach out for the handle to my parents’ bedroom, and pushing inside, I stumble to the closet, yanking the door open with a desperation that fills every single fiber of my body. I step through the doorframe and turn on the light to see…
Nothing.
The shelves are completely cleared. The wire hangers are empty, pushed into the far corner.
“Oh my God,” I say as I rip open the drawers, jerking them all the way out of the dresser as I try to find something. Anything. They clatter to the ground as I spin around and around, searching. “Oh my God. No, no, no.”
There’s nothing left.
This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.
My dad appears in the doorway, a concerned look on his face. “Emily?”
“Where are her clothes?” I shout at him, frantic. I stoop down and pull out the last dresser drawer, the last empty dresser drawer, his voice stopping me dead in my tracks.
“I donated them. About two or three weeks ago… I guess you haven’t been in here for a bit, but I noticed there was still some stuff left after you were in here with Blake, and you kept pushing it off, so I thought I’d make it easier on you by—”
I whirl around to face him, my ears ringing. “You what?”
“I donated them,” he repeats.
“Everything?” I whisper.
“Yes, but, Emily, I—”
“No,” I say, shaking my head as the room begins to tip, my insides concaving. He reaches out, his hand gently wrapping around my arm. “Get off me!” I yell, pushing past him and out into the hallway.
I have to get them back. I have to get the clothes back.
I grab my bike from up against the porch, my dad calling out my name behind me, but I ignore him. Houses and cars whizz by, my tears blending everything together as I go.
They can’t be gone.
They can’t be gone.
I
