If I Fix You. Abigail Johnson

her thermos back. “That’s your body crying out for more than milk shakes.”

      “Do I look like I pedaled through a drive-through on my way here?”

      “No, but that’s probably your plan for the ride home.”

      She had me there. “What did I just drink anyway?” I nodded toward her metal thermos.

      “Wheatgrass, kale and gingerroot.”

      I grimaced. “Seriously, Claire?”

      “What? It’s supposed to help detox and give you all this energy.” Claire took a whiff. “I found the recipe on this diabetes website that’s pretty good.”

      I noticed she was quick to put the lid back. “You need to start your own site. You could make something a million times better and it wouldn’t have to taste like grass and dog piss.”

      Claire widened her eyes, uncomfortable with anything that even hinted at crude language. She did brighten at my compliment though, which was completely true. In the two years since her type 2 diabetes diagnosis, Claire had transformed from an overweight spectator to a rather impressive athlete with an ever-expanding nutritional knowledge base.

      “I’ve been thinking about starting something...maybe.” She smiled at me. “I could definitely make a better juice.”

      “And I will definitely watch you drink it.”

      “So,” Claire said after I chained my bike, suddenly very interested in a rock by her foot. She nodded toward the end of the parking lot where a forest green Jetta was idling, its driver fast asleep behind the wheel.

      Sean.

      Unlike Claire and me, this was the end of his day, not the beginning. He came to the track straight from his summer job—the night shift working security at his dad’s construction site—so someone usually had to wake him. I kept waiting for the morning when the simple question “Do you want to get him today, or should I?” wouldn’t swirl misery through my gut.

      We’d been running together for five straight weeks, and I still didn’t know why Sean had agreed to run with us when Claire told him she wanted to go out for cross-country. There were days when I barely knew why I did.

      Actually, that wasn’t true. I knew exactly why.

      Sean had been sitting on my front porch the morning after my mother left, eyes as bloodshot as mine, waiting for me before I left for school. I hadn’t been surprised to find him there. He’d been calling and texting all night until I shut off my phone. He wasn’t the kind of person to give up easily. Growing up with four older siblings, he couldn’t afford to.

      But it had hurt, the sight of someone I used to love mired in a memory too fresh and painful to bear.

      He’d been wearing the same clothes from the night before, wrinkled and slept in; he hadn’t even fixed the button Mom had undone.

      “I don’t want to talk to you,” I’d said, in a voice that sounded stronger than I’d felt. I’d shut the front door behind me and kept a death grip on the knob.

      Sean had jumped up, never taking his gaze off me. “You don’t have to talk but I need you to listen.”

      I’d shook my head, feeling tears pricking my eyes as he drew closer.

      “I’m sorry.”

      And they’d spilled over, streams running down my cheeks. I’d wanted him to deny what I’d seen the night before. I’d needed him to make me believe my own eyes had lied. To tell me something, anything, that meant I could keep him, keep us. I’m sorry was a confession disguised in an apology.

      I’m sorry I was with your mom.

      I’m sorry you found out that way.

      I’m sorry I couldn’t love you back.

      I’m sorry you can’t tell your dad why his wife left him.

      I’m sorry your family was destroyed.

      I’m sorry.

      “I shouldn’t have left you last night,” he’d continued. “I panicked and I ran.” He’d taken a middling step forward. “I need to tell you what’s been going on. Your mom—”

      “Is gone.” My chin quivered. He was so close I’d had to look up. “And she’s not coming back.”

      His brows drew together then smoothed, and that easy acceptance had galled me. When he opened his mouth, I’d cut him off. My lips curled back. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry again.”

      He hadn’t. He’d shook his head and reached out a hand, brushing the back of his fingertips against mine. “I didn’t know. She said some things last night, but I didn’t know.”

      I’d pulled my hand back, breaking the contact with his skin. “I’m not talking to you about this.” I’d lowered my voice. “My dad is a mess and he doesn’t even know—” bile rose in my throat “—what I saw. That is the only reason I’m out here and not inside.”

      The muscle had tensed along Sean’s jaw. “That’s the only reason?”

      I hadn’t answered him; I didn’t have to. My cheeks were wet and my chin kept twitching.

      “I am sorry. It shouldn’t have happened. I should never have let it happen. But you have to believe that I—”

      “No!” I pushed his chest, but he’d caught my hand and kept it there, eyes unblinkingly focused on mine. His heartbeat had been wild beneath my palm. Guilt would do that. I’d pushed again and yanked free. “I don’t have to do anything.”

      I hadn’t push him hard, I hadn’t had the energy, but he’d staggered back a step. His eyes wet and welling up by the second.

      “How long have you known me? How long have we been—” he’d swallowed “—us? You won’t let me explain?”

      I’m sorry.

      He’d already said it. Nausea rose fast and high, forcing me to press a fist into my stomach. “My mom is gone and my family...isn’t anymore.” That bald admission had scraped at my throat and fresh tears needled my eyes. I’d dashed them away and blinked hard to keep any more from falling. “She was practically on your lap the moment it happened and there is not a single thing you can say to change that.”

      He’d bit both lips, nodding first at the ground and then at me. “Nothing I can say now or ever?”

      I couldn’t imagine a time when his words would change what had happened or the way I felt, but the anger and the sadness had burned through me and in their wake I was numb and done. “If I say I don’t know, will you leave?”

      He hadn’t, not right away. I’d watched the internal conflict flit back and forth across his features and expected him to rally for round two. But for once, Sean had done exactly what I asked, and like a masochist, I’d watched him leave.

      I wish I could say I hadn’t cried over Sean after that day, but I had. Like, Alice in Wonderland–level tears. I’d flooded my entire house and street and every place I’d ever stepped. I knew all the so-called stages of grief, so between pathetic bouts of sobbing, I’d waited for anger. I’d begged for its cleansing rage to overtake me and break me free from the fetal ball I reverted to whenever I was alone. I’d wanted to get to the stage where I burned things and cut his face out of photos.

      Where I dropped his things from my rooftop.

      But it never happened. My stage of grief over Sean was singular. I’d cried a lot until I didn’t.

      And it was all his fault.

      If Sean had been like Mom, he’d have switched his schedule at school so that we wouldn’t have any classes together. He’d have moved lockers so his wouldn’t be next to mine anymore. He’d have found a new lunch period, let alone a new table.