This is What Goodbye Looks Like by Olivia Rivers

any more questions.
    But then I heard a muffled sob, low and exhausted and so, so broken. This one came from the opposite side of the courtroom, right where Parker Ashbury’s mother was sitting.
    “Yes,” I whispered. “That’s correct.”
     

Chapter Seven
     
     
     
    I spend the weekend recovering from my “stomach flu” and telling Brie that, yes, I’m doing okay, and no, I don’t need any more Tylenol, and yes, I’ve been drinking enough water, and no, I really don’t need to see a doctor. If she wasn’t so damn sweet, I’d probably strangle her for being such a mother hen.
    Dad calls every day to check on me, but our conversations are as choked and short as usual. I’ve gotten into the habit of calling my brother every evening, but Jeremy never picks up, and the short texts he replies with would be laughable if they didn’t hurt so much.
    “In class, can’t talk.”
    “Sorry I missed your call, had my phone off.”
    “TTYL, cramming for test.”
    I want to tell him that I get it, that I understand no college student wants to spend their time dealing with family issues. But, more than that, I want to demand why a degree in Computer Science is more important than his little sister stuck at a new school across the country, and his baby sister stuck in a coma, and his parents stuck in denial about the whole thing.
    I spend Sunday evening with my nose buried in my copy of The Three Musketeers . I’m supposed to have already read it for my World Lit class, but I’m only halfway finished. After the accident, I started reading a bunch of poetry, since I could follow the short pieces even when I was on painkillers and had crappy concentration. I haven’t touched pain meds in months, but my poetry reading habit has stuck around, and it’s making The Three Musketeers seem impossibly long-winded.
    I keep my phone beside me, hoping Jeremy will call so I can talk to someone about how anxious I am about school starting tomorrow. But the screen remains blank.
    Brie leaves me in peace and stays on her side of the room, absently organizing her already-pristine nail polish collection as she chats with her mom. She talks with her family about once a day, using her iPad to video chat with them. I slip on my headphones on so I can listen to music and drown out their conversation, but then I can’t bring myself to start any of my playlists. Brie’s mom is telling her about her little brother’s favorite new stuffed toy, and it’s a meandering, mindless conversation with little point. But it’s exactly the sort of talk I miss.
    It’s only when Brie waves at me that I realize I haven’t turned the page of my book in probably ten minutes. I take my headphones off, and she gestures to her iPad.
    “Want to come meet my family?” she asks.
    I almost say “no”—I know exactly what I’ve lost, and I don’t need to have it flaunted in my face. But Brie’s smile is eager, and I don’t have the heart to tell her to keep her family to herself. So I nod, and she brings the iPad over to me, letting me stay on my bed so I don’t have to limp over to her side of the room.
    I do my best to plaster a smile on my face and wave at her mom through the screen. “Hi,” I say. “I’m Lea.”
    Brie is the spitting image of her mom—same heart-shaped face, same blue eyes, same exuberant voice as she introduces herself as Charlotte and gushes about how nice it is to meet me. In the background, I can see the living room of Brie’s home, with chic furniture and pale yellow walls. Charlotte disappears from the camera’s view for a minute, but quickly returns with a pudgy toddler boy in her arms.
    “This is Bailey,” she says, and the boy starts frantically waving at the camera with one hand and flapping around the other, which he’s using to grip a stuffed, polka-dotted elephant. Charlotte sets him down in front of the screen, and he keeps waving as he leans in closer.
    “Hi, Bailey,” I say, waving back at him.