“I don’t know, Rowe. Your dad…he didn’t want you to find out until the semester was over. He was afraid this might set you back. He only told me because he wanted me to be here for you when you found out. But I just can’t know this and not tell you. You deserve to know…”

“You shouldn’t have,” she bites back. “You should have kept this to yourself!” She’s not looking at me any more, and her stare is wide, and off somewhere else entirely. Her knees are pulled tightly to her body, and her arms are wrapped completely around herself.

“Rowe…” I begin, but I don’t know what to say, so I just sit there and wait for her hate to grow.

“I was better off not knowing,” she says, her voice an angry kind of calm. Minutes pass before she speaks again. “Are they even selling the house?”

“Yes, that part’s true,” I say. “But the trip—” I’m unable to stop myself, and the second I say it, I know I shouldn’t have let out so much. But it’s too late. Her eyes are on me like lasers.

“There’s no trip.” Her face has gone through so many emotions in the last few seconds, and the one looking back at me now is full of anger. All I can do is shake my head no, and when I do, Rowe is quick to get to her feet, and she starts shoving all of her belongings into her suitcase, not even taking time to change from her pajamas.

“Rowe, you can’t go back,” I say, reaching for her arm, but she jerks it away from me.

“Watch me.” She’s so angry, and I know I’m going to get the brunt of it, so I close my eyes and take a deep breath, readying myself.

“I’m coming with you,” I start again, but she cuts me off.

“I don’t want you to,” she says, her fingers already dialing her phone.

“Rowe, you need to process this. Stop. Just wait until morning, and then we can call your parents and figure out what to do.”

“Ha! Don’t you think the three of you have figured enough out for me? ...Hi, I need a cab,” she’s says, snapping her fingers at me suddenly and holding the phone away from her ear. “Address.”

“Don’t. Do. This,” I whisper one more time, pleading with her. I reach to touch her arm, but everything about her is cold. I may as well be touching a statue. She looks down where my fingers wrap lightly around her arm, but her stare is blank, and Rowe…Rowe is gone.

“Address,” she says once again, her voice seething, and her eyes narrow, and so very angry. Everything about the way she’s looking at me right now is killing me, but I take it. Because I know as soon as she’s done being angry, she’s going to be destroyed. And I guess I’d rather see her mad at me instead.

“Seventy-four seventy-one North Meadow Drive,” I relent, then listen to her repeat it to the person on the other line. I sit back and let my head rest against the window while I watch her make her arrangements to leave my parents’ home—to leave me. I’m helpless. I could bully her, because I’m stronger. I could physically keep her from leaving. But then what?

This…this…has to happen. My only hope is somehow, in the end, she’ll come through her broken heart completely. And still want me.

I watch her wheel her luggage down the hall, and I stand several feet away from her in the foyer, just watching her pull her jacket tight from the chill. I would give anything to be able to close this gap, to put my arms around her and let her cry on me for hours. But I’m not the one she needs right now. And unfortunately, the person she does, is gone—forever.

Chapter 29

Rowe

Flying angry makes flying easier, too. Maybe it was because I hadn’t slept much, or because it was six in the morning when my plane took off. Whatever the reason, I barely even registered the five hours it took me to get to Phoenix from Baton Rouge. I charged the American Airlines ticket, and it was pricey. And my parents would pay it. They owe me that much.

I was ready to walk through this door and rip into them. I pushed my key in, my face showing everything I’m feeling. But then nobody was home, so I started looking around, and all of my verve completely deflated.

Boxes take up places where furniture used to sit. The walls are empty, dust and dirt on the walls outlining places that used to showcase family photos. Even the simple things are strange—like the fact that the cord from the lamp that used to sit behind our sofa is no longer taped along the floor to the other side of the wall. Everything—everything—is gone.

I take a trip upstairs, because I like torturing myself. It feels good, takes away the other things I’m trying not to let simmer to the top of my mind. I’ll be angry about this instead. My room is nothing more than a pile of boxes, stacked neatly in the middle, and labeled “North Room 2.” My parents’ room is pretty much the same, except there’s a tattered looking air mattress with a few rumpled blankets sitting in the middle of the room. The move, it seems, is happening very soon.