New Girl in Town

Chapter 7

Some things you have to forget so you can keep going. Otherwise they haunt you. I never understood it before—maybe if I had, I could've helped my mom more—but I do now. I understand the thoughts you can't run away from, and I'm trying to learn how to live with them, but it's so hard.

Everything has been so hard since that day.

"Lisa?"

I jump at the knock on my door, the notebook in my hand falling into the mess of blankets as Marco opens the door and peers inside.

"You up?"

"Obviously," I say, gesturing to my awake self. He can't tell, can he? He can't tell I was about to crumble right here, wrapped in the comforter my mom bought me when I was thirteen. He doesn't know me well enough to see the signs. He never bothered to try to know me.

"I made coffee, if you want some."

I frown at him. "I thought it was gonna stunt my growth."

"Guess you're done growing, like you said," he says with a shrug, and then leaves. I crawl out of bed and change, listening to him rustle around the kitchen. When the clock ticks past nine and he still doesn't leave for work, I realize he must have the day off.

My need for caffeine outweighs my need to be left alone, so I go into the kitchen and pour myself a cup. He leans against the counter, sipping his own.

"What are you planning on doing today?" he asks.

"Um."

"Because we could..."

Oh no. Not the dreaded we. There is no we. There's him and there's me—that's it.

"I was actually going to unpack," I cut him off. Anything to keep him from finishing whatever we plan he has.

"I can help you?" he suggests.

The idea of him going through my things sends a flash of cold through me. I shake my head.

"No! No, it's okay. I'll do it. I'll just—" I look around the kitchen, landing on the bag of chips on the counter. I grab them. "I just need sustenance. You know. Keep my energy up."

Before he can respond, I hustle out of the kitchen, coffee in one hand, salt-and-vinegar chips in the other. I don't even like this flavor; what the hell am I thinking? But now I'm stuck, doing what I said I was going to do. I should've told him I was going out or something—not like there's anywhere to go or anything to do. There might've been if I hadn't screwed up Jennie's number. My stomach drops every time I think about it, no matter how many times I tell myself it doesn't matter.

I close myself up in my room and shut the curtains so it feels even more like a little cave. Sunlight streaming in through the windows seems wrong as I unpack a life I'll never get back.

The first box I grab is heavy, so it's gotta be my books. I don't know why I brought my old textbooks. Maybe it was because the idea of throwing anything out as I tossed my life into fifteen boxes was too hard. Now it seems stupid. Why would I need my old history book?

Pushing the textbooks to the side, I set the stack of paperback mysteries on top of my dresser. There are some cinder blocks in the backyard. If I scrounge up some planks or something, I could make a little bookcase for them. I don't want to ask Marco for anything if I don't have to. I need to remember he's not that guy, you know? He only showed up when the worst happened, and that's what I need to expect: to get anything only at the worst moments.

I grab the second, much-lighter box from the stack taking up half of my room and pull the tape off. I'd actually labeled this one—CLOTHES scrawled on one side.

I've been living in the clothes I'd tossed in my suitcase, so it's kind of nice to see the rest of my stuff. The miniature bunny wearing a pink kimono my grandmother gave me.

My favorite pair of black Converse, my gray Henley that's three sizes too big and softer than anything, and all my tank tops, which is good because it's just as hot as Southern California up here—and a little muggy to boot. I pull out a few sleep shirts, and that's when I see it, tucked between a pair of pajamas and a hoodie: a jean jacket, classic Levi's, the material worn to ragged soft perfection by a woman who loved hard and lived hard in it.

That's what she always told me. You've gotta love hard and live hard, Lisa.

I pull the jacket toward me, pressing the material against my cheek. Rose oil—faint, but there—fills my senses, and my eyes burn as I sit on the floor, holding it against me like I held her on the floor of the apartment, trying to hold it all in.

Some things you need to forget to keep going. But I don't know how to do that without forgetting her, too.

Breathing around the burn in my throat and eyes, I unclench my fingers around the jacket and pull it on. I have to fold up the cuffs on the arms— Mom was a lot taller than me—but when I'm done, the jacket holds me like an embrace.

I lean against my dresser, wrapped up in memories, knowing the rose smell will fade someday, but the ache of losing her never will. I want to be a girl who rises to the occasion, who lives out her mother's motto ... the one she couldn't embody.

But how can you love hard and live hard when the hurt is all you feel?