This is What Goodbye Looks Like

by Olivia Rivers

  The first series of pictures show an old maple tree with a tire swing hanging from it. About twenty images capture the swing at every angle imaginable, but none of them focus on the mounds of snow piled in the background, which makes me doubt Brie’s theory even more.

  I zoom in on one of the pictures. Even though it’s just an old swing, Parker managed to capture its hidden beauty. Shadows pool beneath the tree, frost glistens along the edge of the tire, and a snowy branch perfectly frames the image. I half expect to see the swing swaying in an icy breeze. Seth wasn’t exaggerating when he said Parker had talent—taking pictures to match his level of skill is going to be more difficult than I anticipated.

  I flick through the rest of the files, finding that the first three sets of images show a pretty clear progression of winter. After the swing, the second shoot shows the gates of Harting right after a snowstorm. The setting sun lights the photos from behind, so the mounds of snow glimmer in shades of reds and oranges and pinks. The third photo set is almost completely white, except for an intricate pattern twining around the center. I have to squint for a moment to figure out what I’m looking at, but then I realize it’s the brick wall that surrounds Harting. Snow has piled nearly to its top, but tendrils of ivy poke out from the whiteness to form an exotic-looking pattern.

  “Looks like there was a lot more snow last year,” I say hesitantly. “That’s going to make it hard for me to match any new shots I take to these.”

  Seth sighs. “I know. We had record snow fall last year. Parker actually mentioned that was part of the reason he wanted to do the project here.”

  “What were the other reasons?” I ask as I flick to the last set of photos.

  “He missed home.”

  I flinch and shove back my aching guilt, forcing myself to focus on the fourth set of images. I bite back a curse as soon as I see them. They completely break the pattern of the first three. The snow in these is much lighter, with only a few inches on the ground. Plus, it’s no longer just nature shots, since these photos feature Koda romping around in a park. A light dusting of snow swirls around her, tangling in the long strands of her coat, and her tongue lolls out in a smile. Even though I can make out the sprinkling of grey on her snout, Parker managed to capture her with a gleeful look that makes her seem like a puppy.

  “This isn’t a progression of the seasons,” I say, trying not to sound frustrated. “You’re right. The fourth photo set doesn’t fit at all.”

  Seth groans and rubs his face. “Dammit. If I could just look at them for two minutes... Brie’s described them to me a million times, but it’s useless. We have no other ideas about what Parker was trying to show.”

  “You said the project is due in April?”

  “Yeah. With the extension I got, April sixteenth is now the deadline.”

  I carefully exit out of the files and hand Seth his phone back. “I can work with that.”

  Seth nods, but he still looks miserable, his head in his hands and his shoulders slumped. Beside him, Koda rests her head on his knee and whines. He reaches down and pats her, but the movement is slow and stilted.

  “We could always come up with a different journey to show,” I suggest hesitantly. “I mean, even if it’s not exactly what Parker had planned for the project, if we—”

  “No,” Seth says, cutting me off. “Absolutely not. It’s his degree I’m trying to get. It has to be his ideas we use.”

  The door to the back kitchen slams open then, and Tanya comes in balancing two trays in her hands, a burger and a soda on each. “Lunch is served!” she announces.

  She points to Seth’s burger as she sets it in front of him. “No mustard, extra mayo, just how you like it.” With a pivot of her heel, she turns and places my meal in front of me. “And extra house sauce for yours, because it’s the best sauce on the East Coast, and you have to experience it in full the first time you eat here.”

  “Um, thanks,” I say. “But I ordered a—”

  “—a salad. Yeah, I know.” She taps the top of my burger. “I fixed that for you.”

  “Tanya,” Seth groans. “Come on. Just get her a salad.”

  Tanya shakes her head and points an accusing finger at Seth. “Nope, no way. I am not letting your date eat the cheapest thing on the menu. I raised you better than that.”

  “It’s not a date,” Seth and I say at the same time.

  Tanya beams at us. “Just listen to that. You already know exactly what the other is thinking. So cute.”

  Seth gives an exasperated sigh, but Tanya just laughs. “Enjoy your meal, kids,” she says with a wink, then disappears back into the kitchen.

  “You’re wrong, you know,” I say when I hear the door close behind her. “She’s your big sister. I don’t think you get a say in the matter.”

  Seth smirks and picks up his burger. “I can’t argue with that.”

  “Did she date Parker? I mean, you said they were close...”

  I don’t know why I’m asking, but it suddenly feels important to know. I’ve spent so much time dwelling on Parker’s death, but I still hardly know anything about his life.

  “Parker and Tanya?” Seth smiles a little as he takes a bite of his burger. “Um, no. Definitely not.”

  “Why? She obviously thought he was an awesome guy.”

  “Yeah, except for in eighth grade. That was when they both had a crush on the same girl.”

  “Oh.” I muffle a laugh by biting into my burger. It’s as good as Tanya promised, and I’m instantly glad for her being so pushy about it.

  Koda gives a small whine, and I pluck one of the pickles off the side of my plate and hand it to her. Her tail thunks against the table’s leg as she munches on the treat.

  “She’s not supposed to beg,” Seth mutters, but there’s still a shadow of a smile on his lips as he reaches down to pet his dog. His hand ends up brushing against mine, and he gives it a light squeeze.

  “Thanks for helping me,” he says.

  His skin is warm against mine, and I fight the urge to lace my fingers through his. Instead, I pull away from him, trying to make it seem as natural as possible.

  “Sure,” I say. “No problem.” And then I carefully add, “We’ll finish Parker’s project. I promise.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think that’s really a promise you have control over.”

  “I’m not always very good at fulfilling promises,” I admit. “But I am good at not giving up on them.”

  He gives a sad smile. “I’m glad you’re the one helping me with this,” he says quietly. “Parker would have liked you. A lot, I think.”

  I set my burger down, my appetite suddenly gone. “I’m not so sure about that,” I murmur.

  “I am.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugs, and as a long moment of silence passes, I almost give up on getting a real answer. But then he quietly says, “Because we always liked the same things.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I wake to the sound of my phone ringing and let out a groggy groan. It’s eight o’clock. Saturday. I didn’t even bother setting an alarm, because this is when Dad has promised to call every weekend. And he is many things, but “late” is never one of them.

  I blink the blurriness out of my eyes and peer over at Brie’s bed. She’s gone, probably already at some club meeting or study session. But, for once, her constant business makes me feel relieved instead of inadequate. At least she’s not going to be around to hear me get snippy with Dad.

  I snatch up the phone and answer it right before it hits voicemail.

  “What?” I grumble, bringing the phone to my ear.

  “Lea?”

  I roll my eyes, even though I know full well he can’t see me. “No, Dad, this is Scarlett.”

  There’s a long pause. Then, “You sound like you’re drunk.”

  The accusation is almost enough for me to hang up right then. But I force in a deep breath and resist the urge, knowing that if I end our conversation now, Dad wil
l just end up calling Ms. Thorne and getting her involved. Which is definitely not how I want to start off my weekend.

  “Dad, it’s eight,” I snap. “I just woke up two seconds ago. Forgive me if my sarcasm doesn’t sound as brilliant as usual.”

  “Ah.” There’s another pause. “I just thought because—”

  “I don’t even drink!”

  He sighs. “Right. Okay. Sorry.” I can picture him rubbing his temples and pinching the bridge of his nose, like he always does when he’s trying to keep his patience. “Look, Lea, I think I have a right to be worried about you. You’re on the complete opposite side of the country, and you’re only picking up half the time when I call you.”

  “Dad, I’m at one of the most elite high schools on the East Coast. Just about the most dangerous things here are papercuts. You have no reason to be worried about me.”

  He doesn’t reply right away, telling me that I’m doing a terrible job at convincing him. Then he just asks, “How’s your knee?”

  “Better,” I lie. Walking around on the icy paths has made it ache worse than it has in weeks, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to admit that to Dad.

  “You’re keeping up on your physical therapy exercises?”

  “Yeah, I’m doing them every morning.”

  At least that’s true, since I’ve gotten back into the habit of doing them the past few days. The exercises hurt like hell while I do them, but they keep the pain manageable for the rest of the day.

  “Good,” he says.

  “Yeah. Everything’s good here. You can quit worrying.”

  He lets out a long sigh, his breath crackling through the speakers. “Lea, I wanted to let you know that Doctor Adachi did his second examination of Camille’s case.”

  My heart immediately starts pounding, and I sit up straight in bed, clutching the phone close. Doctor Adachi is a specialist from a hospital in San Antonio, and he’d first offered to examine Camille’s case file a few months ago. His results had been far from encouraging—according to him, most patients who experienced brain injuries like Camille’s never woke up from their comas. But he said he’d be willing to re-examine her files and medical information in a few months, once Camille’s body had more time to heal and her local doctors had more time to run additional tests.

  “What did he say?” I demand.

  “The same as before,” Dad replies, his voice sad and quiet. “He says there’s no change.”

  My gut sinks, and I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice even as I say, “But he’s going to look at her case again, right? He’s going to re-examine it in a few months?”

  “Lea, I... I don’t think he’ll do it for a third time.”

  “He’s a doctor. He’ll do anything as long as it’s legal and you pay him to, right?”

  “Lea...”

  I bite my lip to hold in a curse. “You’re not going to pay him, are you?”

  Dad clears his throat and then quietly says, “Lea, you know the chances of Camille ever coming out of that coma are practically nonexistent. There was just too much swelling in her brain.”

  “I’ve heard this a million times already.”

  He groans, not even trying to hide his frustration. “And you still don’t think it’s right to take her off life support?”

  “No, I don’t think it’s right to kill my sister. Not when there’s still a chance she’ll wake up.”

  “A practically nonexistent chance.”

  “Which means the chances aren’t completely nonexistent, and I’m not giving up on her.”

  It’s what she would have wanted, and I know it. Everyone has always underestimated Camille since she’s so tiny and frail looking, and it drives her insane. Mom and Dad have always babied her, but I’ve never done it, and I think that’s why we’re so close. She’s naturally a spitfire, and I’ve always encouraged that side of her, whether it’s standing up to bullies at school or trying out for the most competitive gymnastics team in San Diego. And it’s honestly not hard to encourage her, because she always comes out on top.

  “Lea, you’ve always been protective of Camille,” Dad says. “But this isn’t her you’re protecting. She’s just a shell now.”

  “She’s my baby sister, and she always will be,” I snap. “Now did you need something? Because I’d like to go now.”

  He hesitates a moment and then says, “I wish you’d just go to a school around here. I hate having you all the way across the country.”

  I heave in a deep breath. As far as Dad knows, I came to this school solely because of its academics. He has no idea that Seth goes here, no idea what my actual goal is. Part of me wants to explain to him how important it is to me that I stay here, but instead, I just say, “I know. But you keep telling me that I need to move on from the accident. So this is me moving on, okay?”

  “Okay,” Dad says grudgingly. “But pick up the next time I call. I don’t want to have to be worried about you this entire semester. And if you decide at any point you want to come home—”

  “I’ll let you know the second I want to come home,” I say. ‘But, like I said, I’ll be fine.”

  He lets out a frustrated sigh. “Okay. Just let me know if that changes.” He sounds a little choked up as he adds, “I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  But the words sound practiced and robotic, and for not the first time, I wonder if they’re just as much of a lie as everything else I say to him these days.

  Chapter Eighteen

  My camera is a comforting weight in my hands as I stare out the library’s window, watching the drifting snow. The sun has broken through a small part of the cloud cover, but snowflakes continue to fall like slow-motion diamonds, and my hands itch with the urge to take a picture of the glittering image. Landon drove back to the shop and picked up my camera on Tuesday, but I haven’t had the guts to take any pictures yet. After so many months of abandoning my photography, a mixture of dread and excitement fills me at the thought of restarting.

  “It’s one of those days, isn’t it?” Seth says from behind me.

  I jump a little at his voice. He’s strangely sneaky for a blind guy, although it’s probably just because he’s late to practically everything, so I never quite know when to expect him.

  “One of what days?” I ask.

  “One of the days when the snow is perfect. Everyone’s always in a better mood on days like this.” He strides over to my side and then adds, “Except you. You’re in a bad mood today.”

  “Frustrated mood,” I correct. I don’t bother asking how he knows something’s off with me—he seems infinitely sensitive to changes in people’s tones, and I’ve probably sounded pissed off ever since I hung up on Dad earlier this morning.

  “Want to tell me why?”

  “No.”

  I expect him to argue, but instead he just reaches out and touches my arm, letting his fingers gently glide along the sleeve of my hoodie until he finds my shoulder. He lets his hand rest there, and my breath catches for a moment, but I don’t move away.

  “Are you going to go all quiet on me today?” he asks. “Because I thought we were over that.”

  “We are,” I say, and it feels good to know it’s not a lie.

  An entire week has passed since we visited the camera store, and I’ve spent time with him almost every day, either in the cafeteria or in class or during our tutoring sessions. Being around him is becoming easier and easier, but it’s also getting harder and harder to remember why it’s such a bad idea to befriend him.

  “I’m just...” I rub at my temples, trying to clear my head. “Like I said, I’m frustrated today, and I’m not talkative when I’m frustrated.”

  “Well, then let’s add an item to today’s agenda,” Seth says. “First, we’ll work on the thesis project. And then we’ll try to figure out how to get you to relax.”

  “Good luck with that,” I say, but I take a seat at our usual table, figuring we can at least get started on the first age
nda item.

  “Pancakes or waffles?” Seth asks as he sits across from me. Koda settles at his feet, but not before leaning over to gently lick my hand.

  I give the dog a pat on her head as I say, “I think breakfast already ended.”

  “No,” Seth says. “I mean, do you like pancakes or waffles better?”

  A smile creeps up on me, and I can’t fight it back. He’s been asking me these either-or questions all week, saying it’s the only way he’ll ever get to know me, since I’m always so quiet. It started off with relevant questions: Did I find Chemistry or Physics easier? (Chemistry, always.) Was I planning to go straight to college or pause for a gap year? (Gap year, definitely, since I’ve hardly paid attention to any college admission stuff.) East Coast or West Coast for vacations? (Wherever I can most easily forget the past year of my existence.) Now he’s running out of questions that are even slightly relevant to our lives at Harting, but he still won’t stop asking any either-or question that pops into his head.

  “You know, most people ease into the whole getting-to-know-you thing,” I remind him. “It’s not supposed to be an interrogation.”

  “I’m impatient. So sue me.”

  I sigh a little, but carefully consider my answer. “Waffles. They’re better because they’re symmetrical.”

  He makes a tsk-ing sound and shakes his head. “Pancakes. They’re better because you get more of them.”

  “Well, it’s official then,” I say. “We’re completely incompatible.”

  I mean it as a lame joke, but as soon as I say the words, I realize it’s a valid reminder. I clear my throat and say, “So. We have Parker’s photos, we have his notes, and we have my camera. Does this mean we’re ready to start with the rest of the pictures?”

  “Not unless you’ve figured out his thesis yet.”

  I tap a finger against the table, beating a dull rhythm against the wood. I suddenly feel antsy, and lounging around the warm library doesn’t seem nearly as appealing with my nerves full of anxiety. “Two of Parker’s photo sets were taken on campus, right?”