Jack snorts a laugh. “You’re weird.”

“Are you sure? Because no one’s ever told me that before.”

“And you’re not the worst.”

“Likewise,” I say. “You’re very not the worst.”

I stand to go, but when I walk behind the couch, a sharp lift in my abdomen doubles me over, and when I cut my eyes back to Jack, he’s gone. The house is dark, the windows along the deck a glare-ridden midnight blue, and a soft yellow circle glows on the kitchen table, just under the hanging stained glass lamp over its center. I feel swayed by a slow motion, like the world’s swirling around me at half-speed.

My mom sits at the end of the table alone, her face pressed into her hands and her shoulders shaking. She pulls her feet up onto the chair and hugs her legs to her chest, letting her forehead dip against her knees. She looks young, a lot younger really, or at least like she’s dyed her hair.

Oh, God. Why is she crying? Who is she crying for?

I don’t want to see this. I can’t. I stumble backward down the hall and run up the stairs, time jolting back into place as I push back my bedroom door to find my hideous Raider staring at me from behind one eye patch. The floor is bare, apart from the cardboard boxes stacked in the corner, but I still feel too crowded to breathe.

I try to focus on anything other than the pain in my chest and the multicolored dots popping across my vision: The nights Megan and I spent watching thunderstorms from the garage, searching the sky for shooting stars from the roof of the porch. The hours I slept in Beau’s arms on the floor in the closet. The stories Grandmother told from the rocking chair. The bus stop where I waited in the dark, in the sweltering heat and burning cold on school mornings.

Still can’t breathe, can’t calm down.

The sledding hill in the backyard, and the creek at the bottom that nearly gave me frostbite. The sprinklers we ran through in summertime. Sneaking downstairs with the twins on Christmas Eve to see whether Mom and Dad had put our presents out yet. The series of clues Mom spread throughout the house that led me to the garage, where my birthday present, a Saint Bernard puppy in a blue bow, waited for me.

And the night I climbed through the window and looked back to find that Beau had vanished. The slow passage of minutes ever since then that I’ve spent waiting.

I’m in a house full of ghosts. I can’t take the thought of adding another. I bring my hand to touch the wall. “Grandmother,” I whisper into the emptiness. “If you can hear me, find me.”

Megan’s mom is an anesthesiologist, and her dad’s an architect who loves hunting, so their house is not only enormous but remote, hidden down a long gravel road and a beautiful perimeter of forest. As a kid, its spaciousness and its white columns reminded me of the White House, but the floor plan is surprisingly open and modern.

Mr. and Mrs. Phillips escort us all down to Megan’s room, which takes up the majority of the basement, its sliding back doors stepping onto a big patio that overlooks a manmade fishing lake. The room has a distinct princessy feel that Megan neither had anything to do with nor ever worked to change or keep up. The floor, usually covered in clothes and paper and books, is now spotless, and I feel a twinge of sadness.

“Can’t believe we agreed to let you skip out on us,” Dad says from behind me.

“You guys thought it was a good idea,” I remind him. “Independence and mental health and all that.”

“No, your mom thought that,” he says. “She’s the fun, laid-back one. I’m the disciplinarian.”

I snort. “Yeah, that sounds like you. You should consider changing the title on your business cards from Horse Whisperer to Horse Fascist.”

“You know what, that has a ring to it. Not a bad idea, sugar cube.” He kisses the top of my head, and Mom releases a little whimper.

“We’ll give you a minute,” Mrs. Phillips says, then slips back up the stairs with Mr. Phillips.

Mom pulls me into a hug. “It’s only for a few weeks,” I remind her.

“And then you’ll go off to college,” she says. “You’re too grown up. Stop that.”

“Trust me, I tried.”

Mom laughs, and snorts back her accumulating tear-snot. “We really are so proud of you.”

“Thanks.”

“Call us, sugar,” Dad says, nudging my chin with his hand.

They leave, and I dissolve onto the bed. If only Beau were here, I wouldn’t feel so scared or empty. If only I knew where Grandmother had gone.

26

Joyce Kincaid calls me Saturday morning to remind me about the benefit tonight. They’ve combined it with Raider Madness, a portion of the proceeds going to Matt’s medical expenses and the rest to the football team.

“I just hope that, wherever he is, he knows,” she sniffles. “That he sees how much everyone cares. And I’m so happy you could stay through all of this. It would mean so much to him.”

“Yeah,” I say, “I’m happy I could stay too.”

Truthfully, I’d been desperately trying to convince myself I didn’t have to go to the benefit, while driving myself insane with the thought that, very likely, Beau would be there, if in another universe. Even standing on the other side of an impassable veil from him sounds better than the last couple of days without him. When I hang up with Joyce, I slip out the back of Megan’s room onto the patio. The air is cooler than I expected, and dark clouds hang in low clumps over the pond and the woods. Everything’s completely distorted by fog, but I set out anyway, taking my phone with me. I try to get ahold of Beau again, but the call won’t go through, and I’m left trudging aimlessly through the forest, straining my mind in an attempt to open his world again.

My phone starts buzzing in my hand, and I nearly drop it before accepting the call and planting it against my face just as I process the name onscreen.

“Rachel?”

“Well, hello to you too,” Rachel says, apparently indignant at my surprise.

I sigh. “Is there a reason you’re calling, Rachel?”

She lets out an even longer sigh. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened between me and Matt. He was wasted, and I guess I was . . . curious.”

“It’s fine,” I say sharply. “Is that all?”

“God, Natalie, I’m trying to apologize.”