Paper Flowers (Pretty Plastic People) ★

048. Ghosts

He has my attention. There's no way I can go back upstairs now.

He takes a deep breath, and I can hear the rattling in his lungs. I wonder if he still smokes, or if he's dropped the nasty habit yet. "I did a lot of horrible, horrible things senior year," he says, setting his mac and cheese on the counter. "Most of those things involved you. So when I look at you, it reminds me what a screwed-up person I was."

I open my mouth to interrupt, but he holds up a hand. "It's not your fault. It just is what it is. I'm really sorry for everything I did. Everything. I hope you know I mean it. I'm not messing around anymore."

Another sob story. That's my first reaction, because it's what Taylor's best at. Luring me back with glazed-over, piercing eyes, with shoulders hunched from faux-regret. Then once I'm in his web, he tangles me up all over again. Traps me. I should know better by now.

But something seems different this time. His voice is cracking, his words shaking. Like maybe, for once, he really means it.

"Taylor, I'm not going to stand here and forgive you, if that's what you want."

"Maybe you should."

"Why?"

He takes a bite of his pasta. "Because. You're not me. You're better than me. You're actually a decent, kind person. And it would mean a lot to me if you forgave me. I'd like to think you have it in your heart to help me out."

How dare he stand here and talk about decency and forgiveness and my heart. Like they're things he's an expert at. "I think you're overestimating me," I say. "You don't just snap your fingers and earn my forgiveness."

"Come on, Erika. You're not who you were at the start of senior year."

"That girl would've ruined you already. Completely destroyed you. You're right—I'm not her anymore. But I have self-respect. The second I forgive you, I justify everything you did to me."

He chews thoughtfully, then swallows. Sets his spoon back down in the cup. "I don't think you know how forgiveness works."

Maybe he's right. I don't have a ton of practice. At Aquino High, injustice was met with revenge. Anger combatted with more anger. It's progress for me that instead of plotting my payback, I'm laying low. I stayed out of his way since graduation, and the only reason I'm talking to him now is because he showed up to this house uninvited.

"I convinced everyone to let you stay here," I say. "Isn't that enough?"

"It's a start, but it's not good enough for me."

His mac and cheese is almost gone. Soon he's going to go back to the couch and pull the too-small throw blanket over him. Maybe he'll turn on the TV and watch survival shows until he falls asleep—I know those used to be his favorite. The conversation will be over; I'll have denied him one last time. I'd like to think he'll never try again. We'll be strangers, coexisting in this house for the next three weeks and then going our separate ways. We'll never see each other again.

That's how I want this exchange to go. He used to be so important in my life—I'd almost ruined everything for him—and now I just want him gone. But there's a tiny voice in my gut that says otherwise.

I remember shortly after everyone found out Taylor helped blackmail me, Liam followed Taylor upstairs at a party. We all thought he was going to fight him. We waited in the basement with bated breath for a grunt that symbolized the first punch being thrown. When he came back downstairs, though, Liam told us that he didn't beat Taylor up. And then three words that I'll never forget: "I forgave him."