Page 76 of Bring You Back

“Do you think she’s hurting herself?” Tommy questions with gloom in his voice, an echo of my own feelings.

That was the first conclusion my brain had come to. But I know it’s not right. Camille wouldn’t hurt herself.

Then again, her brother is dead. All bets are technically off.

I just shake my head.

Your problems are our problems.

None of us are alone.

With a deep, thawing breath, I assure him, “Shewillbe okay.” He releases a breath of his own. “We’ll make sure of it.”

I don’t know when, and I don’t know how, but I’m speaking its truth. Hopefully the universe will work with me.

I slap the ball from Tommy’s hands and chase it across the driveway, bouncing it into my own. I shoot, I miss.

He laughs. “Lame. Try again.”

I shoot, I … miss. “This sport sucks.”

“It’s good to me,” Tommy gloats as he pushes off the brick. He meets me in the center, moving in position to start a game.

“Thanks for talking to me,” I say. He holds my stare a moment, then nods at the double meaning. “And I’m sorry.”

He swipes the ball from my hands and makes a shot. Right over my head. I laugh as he jogs to retrieve it, and until the last of the light leaves the sky, we forget about our shitty present and impending future, and we play ball.

17

It’s a Start

Camille

I jolt awake, weight lifted from my legs as Grumbles leaps off through my jerk, my hands gripping the sheets in immediate frustration. I squeeze my eyes shut to try to force my body back to sleep, screaming on the inside.

Just let me sleep! It’s not that fucking hard!

Right on cue, the nausea starts. My pulse pounds.Thump, thump, thump.

I pop my eyes back open, wait for them to adjust to the soft white glow from the window to scan my surroundings. Fowler house. Guest room. Queen size bed. Lampshade. Chest of drawers.

Caleb is dead.

I inhale deep breaths, let them out slowly. It’s not working. The sick feeling rolls through me, my heart thumps roughly against its cage.

I’min a cage. I’m trapped. Suspended.

Every organ, muscle, limb hurts as I move to the edge of the bed. My breathing is strained. I’m gasping to get air. I put my head between my knees and suck in breaths, waiting for my throat to relax, my chest to loosen. A small, warm body rubs against my back, meows.

I’m not getting better. This isn’t getting better.

Fuck the nights.

Fuck sleeping pills.

Fuck careless drivers.

Fuck my brother.

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