The silence stretched out, and then I heard what I had been dreading—the sound of her crying. It was soft, heartbreakingly gentle, not wanting to intrude but unable to be completely silent.

My throat tightened, the sound of her tears like a weight on my chest. I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms.

I wanted to pull her into my arms and whisper that everything would be okay, even if I didn’t believe it myself. But I couldn’t. Opening that door felt like opening a gate to a flood I couldn’t control.

Pressing my palms against my ears, I shut my eyes tightly, trying to block out the sound of her crying. It was self-preservation; it was cowardice. I leaned forward, my head bowed as I fought the tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.

“I’m sorry, B,” I whispered to no one, to the four walls that offered no comfort, to the door that kept her out. More tears welled in my eyes, a hot, painful sting that I fought to hold back. I buried my face into my pillow, my body shaking with silent sobs.

Beverly’s crying stopped, but she didn’t leave. I could feel her, just beyond the door, as if waiting for any sign that I was still there, still hers. But I couldn’t give her that. Not now.

Not when everything was so fraught with pain and fear.

I bit down on my lip, hard enough to hurt, hard enough to stop myself from calling her name. Even as my body shook. Even as I heard her break down again on the other side of the door.

Even as my own tears fell, silent and bitter.

Finally, I heard her move—her footsteps soft as she walked away. The finality in that small sound, the soft echo of her retreat, was a sharp ache in my already fractured heart.

I lay there in the growing darkness, as the evening crept in and the shadows grew longer. The door next to mine clicked shut.

I shuddered, feeling everything inside me collapse.

She was right there.

But she may as well have been a thousand miles away.

“I’m sorry, B,” I whispered into the emptiness.

But there was no one there to hear it, just the echo of my own regrets, bouncing off the cold walls of my room.

28

BEVERLY, 1999

17 years old

I spent my seventeenth birthday alone. Not entirely alone—Mom and Dad were there, of course. They gave me a card and a new pair of dance shoes, and we had cake after dinner, but it wasn’t the same. It didn’t feel right. Not this year.