I crutch over to the ticket booth and buy a ticket to the next showing, not bothering to even ask what it is. It doesn’t matter.
There are a dozen or so people in the theater, scattered all around, trying to beat the midday summer heat, but no one I recognize. I catch sight of a young couple giggling in the very back, their hands interlaced, and make it a point to sit as far away from them as possible.
Just a minute later, the lights dim and I stare blankly at the screen, watching the characters float in and out of their scenes while my mind does the exact opposite. It stays stubbornly on the throbbing pain in my leg, the sore skin under my arm, the fact that Kimberly isn’t sitting next to me trying to guess the plot and ruin it.
A belly laugh from the guy in the middle of my row snaps me out of my attempt to stretch my leg, and I realize what an enormous waste of time this is.
What an enormous waste of time everything is.
Grabbing my crutches, I shift my weight out of the squeaking red chair and toss the practically full tub of popcorn in the trash on my way out.
* * *
By the time I get home, every part of my body is on fire, my T-shirt completely drenched with sweat.
I stand on the front porch, my hand on the doorknob, lungs heaving as I steady myself before I push inside.
From the entryway, I glance into the living room to see my mom getting up from the couch, concern tugging at the corners of her mouth and the crease in her brow. “I’ve been so worried about you—”
“I’m fine.” I cut her off, meaning for my voice to sound certain, but it comes out all wrong, harsh and whiny.
The wooden floors creak as she comes over to me and holds up my cell phone. The screen lights up to show me a series of missed calls and texts. “You left without your phone. I had no way to call you, to find you if something happened.”
I grab it from her and try to move past her to the door leading down to the basement, but as I sidestep, I come face-to-face with a picture on the wall. It’s the two of us from the summer after my dad died, her arms wrapped around me as I give a toothless smile to the camera. Only this time I see something behind her smile. Something I now recognize. Loss.
I take a step back and give her a hug, smelling that familiar perfume she always wears.
When her arms wrap around me, the same arms that held me close that summer, I blink furiously to keep it together.
I pull away and hurry to my room, my breathing coming in uneven gasps, images from the ice cream shop and the movie theater and the moment before the crash all blurring together as the room tilts and I crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head.
Everything is the same except in the only way that matters.
But the world can keep going on if it wants to.
I won’t.
5
“Kyle. Wake up.”
It’s Kimberly’s voice. A shooting pain cuts across my forehead and sweat clings to my arms and back and legs. I reach quickly for the lamp and snap the light on. I scan the room to see a shadow disappear up the steps.
Frantically, I throw back the covers and limp as quickly as I can up the stairs to fling open the door. “Kimberly!” I call after her. “Kim.”
I look around, but only silence answers me, the darkness echoing loudly in my ears.
I heard her. Felt the weight of her hand on my arm. She was here. I’m sure of it.
Just as sure as I am that that doesn’t make any sense.
I hobble down the hall, gripping the wall for support as I stumble into the living room and flick on the light to reveal…
Nothing.
The couch is empty. No one’s here.
Like an idiot, I try the front door, twisting the knob right and left, but the lock is firmly in place. It’s only then that I remember Kim never had a key.
I let out a shaky exhale and rest my head against the worn wood, my temples pounding from the sudden jolt out of bed, the adrenaline draining into defeat. I will my breathing to slow down, but when I turn to head back to bed, that hard-fought breath rushes out of me on a loud whoosh.
Kimberly.
She’s sitting on the couch, a fuzzy white blanket draped around her shoulders. She pulls the blanket a little tighter, its blue butterfly pattern moving as if the little insects were alive. Kimberly. Right here in front of me.
It can’t be real. I know it can’t. I know that it can only mean my head is definitely more messed up than the doctors thought.
But I need it to be real.
I rush toward her so quickly that I trip on the rug in the entryway. I reach out to grab the wall before I topple over.
By the time I right myself, she’s gone, leaving only couch cushions, bare and unoccupied.