Page 30 of Ghosts Don't Cry
Cassidy: LILY ELIZABETH GLADWIN answer your fucking phone.
Despite the exhaustion, the ache in my chest, and the way I feel like I’m unraveling, I smile. Cassidy has known me long enough to know when to be gentle and when to bulldoze through my defenses with her own special brand of humor.
My thumbs move across the screen.
Me: Not dead. Just processing.
The three dots appear immediately.
Cassidy: Processing what? Did something happen? Are you okay?
I stare at the message, at those three simple questions that have three very complicated answers. My fingers hover over the keyboard. I could lie, and tell her everything is fine. But Cassidy has been my best friend since before I could write my own name. She held me through everything. She was there when I fell in love so completely I didn’t recognize myself. And she was there when it fell apart.
She never judged. She never said ‘I told you so,’ even though she’d warned me. She just held me when I cried, brought me coffee and tissues and chocolate.
I type slowly.
Me: Him. Yes. No.
Her response comes through immediately.
Cassidy: I’m coming over.
It doesn’t matter that it’s barely 6 A.M. on a Sunday morning.
Me: Okay.
I glance around at my disaster of a bedroom, catching my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. I’m still in yesterday’s clothes, my hair is a mess, and my eyes swollen from tears I refused to acknowledge. The physical evidence of my breakdown is everywhere.
Fifteen minutes pass without me noticing. I should get up, try to pull myself together before she arrives. At the very least, I should have coffee waiting for her. But I can’t seem to move from this spot.
My phone rings, shattering the quiet. Mom’s name flashes on the screen.
Why is everyone awake at this hour?
I consider letting it go to voicemail, but that will only make things worse. She’ll show up at my door, determined to fix what’s broken. I clear my throat twice before answering, trying to sound normal. “Hi, Mom.”
“Lily.”
That’s all she says. Just my name. But there’s a note to her voice, and she doesn’t need to say anything else.
She knows.
“How are you?” I can picture her perfectly. She’ll be standing in her kitchen with her phone pressed to her ear, dressed in her favorite tartan pajamas, and fluffy pink slippers. If she’s up thisearly, then she’ll be pulling ingredients out of the refrigerator. Stress baking is her love language, her way of feeling useful when the world spins out of control.
“I’m fine.” The words come easily, a lie I’ve said a thousand times.
There’s a pause. I hear the soft thud of something being set on her counter. My stomach twists. I’ve caused this.
“Honey …” Another pause. “I heard?—”
“I know.” I cut her off before she can say his name. “I’m fine. Really.”
She’s quiet for a moment. I can hear her breathing, hear the soft sounds of her kitchen in the background. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant tick of the grandfather clock she inherited from Grandma. All familiar sounds that should be comforting.
“Are you still coming over?” The question is careful, giving me an out if I need it.
“Of course.”
