Play On - Michelle Smith Page 0,49
it to her. “Now you can be one of the guys. And it’s garnet, just like our team colors. You’ll fit right in.”
She rolls her eyes, but shrugs off her jacket anyway. My heart jumps into my throat. For the first time since that night at the pond, her scars are out in the open. She doesn’t notice me staring, thank God. She tugs on the hoodie, laughing when it practically swallows her whole.
“Dude,” she says. “You’re a giant.”
“I’m not that tall. You’re just that short.”
She swats my arm and settles back against her seat, kicking her boots up on the dashboard. “I wish I’d known you were coming into town. I would’ve invited you to eat with me and my parents.”
I shake my head. “Nah. I wouldn’t have been able to come anyway. I had—” I clear my throat. “I had a thing today.”
Looking down at my lap, I force away the thought of nearly making my momma cry, again, in the exact seat that Marisa’s sitting in. I’ll be the first to admit it: I’m a momma’s boy. She was my best friend for a long, long time, and she’s been my number one fan from day one. The last thing I want to do is make the woman upset. But it ties with the other last thing I want to do, which is getting out of my truck when we’re at the cemetery. It’s a vicious cycle.
“Do you want the whole truth and nothing but the truth?” Marisa asks.
I’m about to ask what she’s talking about when I realize I’m flat-out staring at her wrists. Crap. I look up at her, but she doesn’t seem bothered at all. I grab her hand, lacing my fingers through hers.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” Hanging my head, I groan. This day keeps getting better. “I’m sorry.”
She pushes up her sleeve on the arm of the hand I’m holding—the arm. “It’s okay. We’re more than friends now, right? And more-than-friends should know these things.”
I nod, urging her to go on. Ready or not, here comes the truth, I guess.
“The night you picked me up was the one-year anniversary of all this,” she says, holding up her arm.
I don’t think I can handle the truth.
“It’s weird,” she continues, “and you’ll probably think I’m a freak, but that night is kind of like a birthday, I guess? I wanted it to be a celebration. It didn’t exactly pan out like a celebration, considering I cried my eyes out until you picked me up, but whatever. A girl can try.”
Really don’t think I can handle it. “You’re losing me already,” I admit, my voice cracking. Keep it together, Braxton. “I thought your birthday was in December.”
She lets out a breathless laugh. “’Kay. From the beginning. I’ve had depression for as long as I can remember. It’s something I’ve always just kind of dealt with, you know?”
Not at all, but I nod anyway.
Her gaze falls to our fingers, which are still entwined. “Last year, I spiraled downhill. Way downhill. At, like, supersonic speed.” She presses her lips together, her cheeks flushing. I squeeze her hand gently, hoping it gives her some sort of relief. “I was in the bathroom,” she continues softly, “exactly like some stupid clichéd movie scene. I was curled up in the bathtub, sobbing my eyes out, with the shower pounding on me. The water had gone Arctic-cold. I remember praying for God to make it hot again because I was too weak to turn it off. You see, there’s this darkness that comes with rock bottom. It sucks you in like a black hole. It just—it swallowed me whole.”
Her eyes meet mine again. My heart stutters at the pain there. I can’t imagine. I don’t want to imagine.
“It hurts,” she whispers. “You have no idea how much it hurts when that happens.” She sniffles. Shakes her head. “All I wanted was for the pain to go away, no matter what it took. The razor was there, and something inside me snapped. That’s the only way I know how to describe it. My parents found me right on time, but it was—” She pauses. “It was bad. A mess.”
Red clouds my vision. All I can see is Marisa covered in blood. Marisa’s parents freaking the eff out. Marisa not breathing. And now I can’t breathe. I. Can. Not. Breathe. God, please don’t let her notice.
“Breathe, Austin.” She gestures for me to take a deep breath, which I do.
This has nothing to