I crossed the street and smelled fresh asphalt. I walked up the rotting wooden steps to the wraparound porch, hearing my steps echo in the hollow space underneath. The rocking chairs were still, even though there was a breeze. Like the ghosts were leaning forward in their chairs, watching me.

The white curtains were pulled shut. There was no hollow face at the window, watching me. Something was wrong. I didn’t feel anything coming from the house. I stood in front of the brown door, my hands pressed flat against it. Then I pressed my finger to the doorbell and listened to its electrical buzz resonate through the house, knowing there’d be no answer.

Then I squeezed my eyes shut because someone was walking up the steps behind me, and I knew exactly who it was.

“They came for her a half hour ago,” Troy said.

I spun around and clenched my fists at my sides. “What did you do?” I said through my teeth.

Troy hunched his shoulders forward as a stiff breeze blew across the porch. “Does it matter?” Then he cocked his head to the side and said, “What are you doing here, Delaney? What were you planning to do?” His eyes looked even bluer, like he was seeing something. Hope, maybe. But then I realized that all he was hoping for was that I was becoming exactly like him. And I didn’t know how to explain what I was going to do—what I had hoped to do.

So I said, “I was planning to stop you,” and pushed past him, ran down the rickety steps, and took off. But instead of going home, I circled the block, parked behind the house, and watched. Something still called to me. So I sat and I watched, but nothing happened. And eventually I only felt the emptiness. Everything about it was dead.

The sun was setting when I made it back to Decker’s house. I pulled his car back into his driveway and tried to adjust the seat for his height. Then I crawled into the backseat and began to clean the mess. Soda had leaked all along the floor of the trunk and dribbled down the back window. I was collecting the trash from the floor when Decker slid open the side door.

I froze, candy bar in one hand, dented soda can in the other.

“You stole my car.”

I shoved the candy and empty can into my coat pockets. I didn’t want to talk about the funeral. “Stop calling it a car. It’s a minivan. You’re in denial.”

He tried not to smile, but he did, I saw it. “And you trashed it.”

“How can you even tell? When’s the last time you cleaned this piece of crap?”

We waited, not sure what to say or whether to say it. “So,” I said, “get some paper towels and Windex and give me a hand already.” And Decker, whether relieved or disappointed by our lack of conversation, listened.

He sprayed, I rubbed. He even laughed when I chucked the dirty paper towel in his face.

“So listen,” I said. “What I said yesterday?”

“You don’t have to do this.”

Except I did. I just couldn’t figure out how to undo it. How to cancel it out. How to tell him how I felt. And as I was thinking, Decker said, “I’m fine, Delaney.”

And there it was. He was fine being with Tara. Fine with us the way we were. He was going to be fine without me.

So I slid open the passenger door, said, “I’m glad,” and left.

I stood on my dark doorstep and watched Decker finish cleaning his car under the overhead light. I strained my eyes across the street, into the darkness. I knew Troy was out there. I knew he was waiting for me.

I went inside and locked the door securely behind me. I even locked my bedroom door, just in case. And I watched out my bedroom window until Decker made it back inside. Just in case.

Chapter 18

I slept in like a typical teenager, except I wasn’t a typical teenager, and I never slept this late. The smell of Mom cooking breakfast usually woke me up way earlier than this. When I got downstairs, Dad was fidgeting around the kitchen, scrounging for food, and it was obvious that Mom hadn’t made it downstairs yet.

“I’m kind of pathetic on my own,” Dad said. “I had cereal for breakfast. Now I’m thinking about toast for lunch.”

I turned for the pantry. “I can do it, Dad. What do you want?”

He looked at me carefully, and I tried to bury my face in the pantry—hiding my bloodshot eyes, my face swollen from tears. “Delaney,” he said. “How was the funeral?”

“Horrible,” I sputtered. “Isn’t that how funerals are supposed to be?” Then my breath started coming too rapidly and he put down the loaf of bread.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Let’s go out for lunch.”