Every Moment After by Joseph Moldover

Author:Joseph Moldover
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HMH Books

Nine

— Cole —

I’ve barely slept in three days, and when I climb out my bedroom window into the very early morning light, I have to pause for a moment to make sure I’m steady.

I stand straight and take a few deep breaths. It’s still cool, though I feel the heat of the day lurking, waiting to come on. Looking down, I see the layer of green on the surface of the pond and how badly the grass needs to be mowed. I glance back. No light on in Mom’s window, but still, I’m not taking any chances this morning. Her sleep patterns are as unpredictable as her anxiety, and this is not a morning when I can stay home with her. I make my way to the edge of the roof, put on my backpack, and very gingerly reach over the side, find the trellis, and lower my weight onto it.

Why haven’t I been sleeping? Fear of what I’m going to be doing this morning, I’ll admit. Fear of flying is a hard one to shake, and I’m heading to a flight. My dad isn’t here to strap me into a seat the way Matt’s was. If I do take a plane out to California in the fall, I’ll probably have to be medicated for it.

That’s not the only thing, though. It’s not even the main thing. The main thing is that I’m furious with Matt, and my anger won’t let me rest.

I’m just over halfway down when I feel the wood begin to bow under my weight and the trellis starts to pull away from the house. I let go with one hand, look down, and decide to go for it. I drop into the tall, wet grass below, landing feet first and stumbling, falling onto my side. My left ankle twists, and I have to bite my lip to keep from calling out. I pause for a moment, resting on one knee, feeling like I might start crying.

It’s stupid, I know. My ankle doesn’t hurt all that badly, not after the initial impact. I just have these moments, more of them lately, when I feel . . . I just feel lonely. I feel like I’m the only person in the world and like I always will be. I blink my eyes, don’t let myself rub them, and stare hard at the grass in front of me. I can spot three types of clover and name two of them. I get to my feet, adjust my backpack, glance up at the damaged trellis, take one tentative step on the ankle and then another.

Matt’s truck is parked behind my car in the driveway. I limp up to the driver’s-side window, and he rolls it down.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him.

“Did you get my texts?”

“Yeah. I thought we were going to meet there.”

“I told you I’d pick you up.” He takes out his phone and swipes at the screen. “Oh, I forgot to send that one. Whatever. Get in.

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