If that isn’t the definition of a day of suck, I don’t know what is.

I climb out of the Jeep, and Kane comes around to the driver’s side, standing there as if he wants to say something. When we were fifteen, he was about my height. Now, he’s a solid nine inches taller than me, and I hold my own at 5’6”. It’s a good thing he’s this tall, because from down here, it’s easier to avoid his eyes. I look at the scuffed toes of my black Converse high tops and tell him I’ll see him later.

Halfway up the drive to my house, Kane’s stepmom calls to me.

I’ve talked to Mrs. Weeks about a dozen times since our worlds collectively turned to crap. Funny, she used to be such a straight-laced, business-suit-wearing, un-Californian person. Since she left the West Coast, though, she’s become about as California hippie as you can imagine, with wild blond hair and a soft, faraway voice that makes you think she’s been sucking on some really strong weed. The only feature she shares with her son is the arched, expressive shape of their eyebrows, though his were black as tar and hers are the color of honey.

But it’s enough. Enough to make me see his face in hers, every single time.

It’s both sad and pathetic that something as innocuous as an eyebrow tears me apart.

She waddles down the drive toward me, the bottom of her amorphous maxi skirt dusting the asphalt, her expanding belly poking out the front of her cardigan. I break into a run, because she looks like she’s about to give birth on the sidewalk. When I get across the street, I notice the bulging black garbage bags on the porch. “We’re getting ready to paint the nursery,” she huffs out.

The nursery, a.k.a. no-man’s-land. Hell of a time to clean out Declan’s room. But she’s said before that keeping busy helps her cope. In the past eight months, she’s remodeled the house from top to bottom.

All except for one room.

Since I’ve gotten out of the hospital, that room has had its door closed every time I’ve stopped by. It’s at the end of the hall and is visible from the foyer, right when you walk inside. Inescapable.

Mrs. Weeks told me, months ago, that I could take anything I wanted, anytime I wanted.

I didn’t want.

I take a breath.

I fasten my eyes on a patch of gray snow on the sidewalk as she hands me a large Yuengling beer box. “I know you’d like to keep these things.” Wrong. “But come on up and see what else.”