Dare Me to Live

Chapter 7

"Why would I want to talk to you?" I demanded. My right hand white-knuckled the door handle while the other planted firmly on the opposite frame to bar his path.

"I want to apologize for how I acted last week at Van's, but you've been ignoring all my calls." He sounded tired and a little sad. He was wearing the sweatshirt I always used to steal from him—the one I had dumped on his front step in the pouring rain the day after we broke up.

"Some people would interpret that as 'apology not accepted,'" I said.

"Please, Dash, I already feel like enough of an ass. I'm just asking for 10 minutes. If you're still sick of me after that, I promise I'll leave you alone." His face and voice were the most sincere I had seen them in a while, so unlike the cocky, arrogant boy who had been at Vanessa's party.

And even though I was nearly past my limit of talking today between my parents and Amber, I dropped my arm and stepped back to let him in. His blue eyes swept the room, taking in my unslept-in bed and Amber's explosion.

"Don't ask," I said. "Let me just shower quick."

Once I had rinsed last night's nightmares from my skin and scrubbed the mud from my feet and ankles, I walked back to my room to find Chris leaning against my lofted bed, trying to look occupied on his phone. He smiled when I walked in. It was a smile that brought back memories of happier times, ones I didn't want to suffer through. If anything they hurt more than the nightmares.

"Hey beautiful," he said softly, setting his phone aside.

"Sweet talking isn't going to help your case," I said, suppressing a yawn. I boosted myself up onto my bed so we were eye-level.

I absently finger-brushed my hair while we looked at each other. My mind was strangely blank and quiet for once. What did I say to this boy who had added his own pain to mine instead of facing it? Who had cast aside my feelings without so much as a second thought?

Who had the same weaknesses I did, but had the misfortune to get caught first?

I shoved that thought aside.

"This is different," he said, gently touching the blue and purple streaks in my hair. "I like it; it fits you."

"Thanks," I said. "Now, what did you actually come here to say?"

Chris ran his fingers through his brown hair; it was slightly longer than I remembered. I had been too angry at the party to notice or care.

"I wanted to apologize, really apologize for everything," he began.

"You already did that, remember?" I said, pointedly.

He rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. "We were both drunk and angry and I—"

"No, you were drunk and I was angry," I said. By now a bone-deep exhaustion was settling into my body, and I didn't want to fight about this anymore. It wouldn't change anything.

"Chris, listen, I don't want to talk about this. You've heard the saying 'forgive but don't forget'? I could tell you what you want to hear and forgive you so your bruised pride could heal, but I won't ever forget what you did. You kicked me when I was down, when I was dying, and you might as well have spit on Danny's grave. He was our friend, our best friend, and you walked away in his last moments. And I won't ever forget that."

"I know," said Chris, so softly at first I thought I had imagined it.

I realized that while I had been talking, I was looking through Chris and trying to picture Danny on the other side. With each passing day it seemed like his features were slipping in my memory, the little details of his face blurring like a low-quality photograph. When my eyes refocused on Chris, I saw that he had tears in his eyes.