Page 62 of Before We're More Than Friends
“I’m sorry.” I rubbed his shoulder, not knowing what else to do.
“It’s okay. Birthdays are just the anniversary of your birth when you think about it.”
“Well, what else would a birthday be?”
He chuckled. “I’m glad you’re acting more like yourself now.” He put his hand on my leg again, warmth spreading through my leggings. “Seeing you cry broke my heart a little.”
“Oh, I have enough of an effect on you to break your heart?” I put a hand to my chest. “I’m honored.”
He glanced at the friendship bracelet on my wrist and back at me. “You do.”
The hairs on my neck prickled at the sincerity in his voice. “That was a joke.”
“I know.” He swallowed and shifted away from me as if he were lying, his cheeks redder than before. “Um, I should get back to this disaster of a party.” He got up from the bench. “I really hope things get better for you. I mean it.”
“I’d hope that you wouldn’t be lying.” I beamed, though something unfamiliar fluttered in my stomach.
He gave me a shy wave before scurrying to who-knew-where.
A wave of my sadness crashed over me once he was out of my sight, the fluttering feeling in my stomach refusing to subside. We’d only known each other for a week, but something about the way he talked to me felt like home.
Like I’d known him for much longer.
Mom was drinking lemonade vodka in the living room when we got home. From the way she nodded off, I could tell she was still wasted. She’d only stay awake for so long before puking her guts out the next morning.
“Why didn’t you answer our calls?” Arielle demanded, grabbing the remote and pausing the TV. “Raina got hurt while ice skating!”
Mom’s eyelids fluttered as she jerked awake. “Oh, I lost my phone.”
“It’s right there.” Arielle pointed to her phone underneath the couch.
“Oh, there it is.” Mom didn’t even look at it. “I guess I had it on silent.”
“Mom, you need to get help,” Arielle said, pain in her voice. “I’ll make Nonno come down here if I have to.” Our divorced grandparents, Nonno and Nonna, still lived in Venice, almost a five-hour drive from here. Nonno sometimes drove over, and I knew he’d come if Mom needed to go to rehab.
But I hated the idea of that happening in the first place.
“I don’t need help,” Mom muttered before taking another sip of her vodka. “I’m processing my emotions.”
“Thisis not the right way to process your emotions!” Ariellethrew her hands up. “You know what, I can’t deal with this right now.” She kicked her shoes off and stormed up the stairs.
A pained frown spread across Mom’s lips before her lashes fluttered closed.
I shook my head, frustration welling inside me, before taking off my shoes and going upstairs as well. Penrose greeted me at my door, wagging her tail back and forth. I rubbed behind her ears to calm my blood pressure.
Even from the other side of the loft, I heard a fast-clicking noise coming from Arielle’s room. I knocked and creaked open her door to see her at her desk, typing away at her laptop. “What are you doing?”
“I’m looking for programs to put Mom in,” she said, too fixated on the screen to face me. “And we won’t let her quit this time.”
“We won’t,” I agreed, sitting in one of her pink chairs. I rarely came into Arielle’s room—it was full of pink and had a different layout than mine, the atmosphere just as cheery as the façade she always put on in public. “I want her back.”
“Me too.” Arielle let out a frustrated sigh and opened another tab. “I’m scared, Raina. I’m scared she’ll always be stuck in this pattern. I’m scared because Dad is in prison, and we don’t have him to take care of us. I’m scared that . . .” She sniffled. “I’m scared that our family is gone.”
“Me too,” I said, fighting the tears that threatened to resurface. Dallas’s warm hand on my knee came to my mind, but I shook the image away. “I’m terrified.”
Arielle and I sat in silence for the next few minutes as she clicked through tabs and typed. I got a notification from Connections, and I perked up, hoping it was from Alex. It was just some bot informing me about new updates.
Stupid bot. I wanted my best friend.
