Losing Hope Read online

  all about him, but I have to. I don’t want her regretting this any more than she already will. Than we both will.

  “Amy?” I whisper. “What about Thomas?”

  She whimpers slightly and keeps her eyes closed, bringing her palms up to my chest. “He’s at his house,” she mutters, giving no hint that the mention of his name is making her want to stop what we’re doing. “He had to go help his dad with some yard stuff after school.”

  Her exact repetition of the answer she gave me when I asked about him in the driveway makes me laugh. She opens her eyes and looks up at me, probably confused about why I would laugh at a time like this. She just smiles, though. I’m thankful she smiled, because I’m really sick of everyone’s tears. I’m so damn sick of all the tears.

  And shit. If she doesn’t feel guilty right this second, then I’m sure as hell not about to feel guilty. We can regret this all we need to later.

  I lower my mouth to hers at the exact moment she gasps, then moans loudly—completely and wholeheartedly forgetting all about her boyfriend. Every last bit of her attention is one hundred percent focused on the movement of my hand, and every last bit of my attention is one hundred percent focused on getting this condom on before she starts thinking about her boyfriend again.

  I ease myself on top of her, ease my mouth back to hers, ease myself inside her, and completely take advantage of the situation, knowing how much I’ll regret it later. Knowing how much I already regret it.

  But here I am, doing it anyway.

  • • •

  She’s dressed and sitting on the edge of my bed, putting on her shoes. I’ve already got my jeans on and I’m walking to the bedroom door, not sure what to say. I have no idea how or why any of that just happened, and based on the look on her face, neither does she. She stands up and walks toward the door, picking up the pictures she grabbed from Les’s room as she passes by my dresser. I hold the door open, unsure if I should follow her out or kiss her good-bye or tell her I’ll call her.

  What the hell did I just do?

  She walks into the hallway and pauses, then turns around to face me. She doesn’t make eye contact, though. She just stares at the pictures in her hands. “I just came for pictures, right?” she asks cautiously. A worried frown consumes her face and I realize she’s afraid I might think what just happened between us was more than it actually was.

  I want to reassure her that I’m not going to say anything. I lift her chin so that she’s looking me in the eyes and I smile at her. “You came for pictures. That’s it, Amy. And Thomas is at home, helping his dad with the yard work.”

  She laughs, if you can even call it that, then she looks at me appreciatively. There’s an awkward silence for a moment before she finally laughs again. “What the hell was that, anyway?” she says, waving her hand in the direction of my bedroom. “That’s not us, Holder. We’re not that type of people.”

  We’re not that type of people. I agree with that. I lean my head against the doorframe and already feel the regret seeping in. I don’t know what came over me or why the fact that she’s not remotely mine for the taking didn’t stop me in my tracks. The only excuse I can come up with is that whatever happened between us just now is a direct product of our grief. And our grief is a direct product of Les’s selfish decision.

  “Let’s blame it on Les,” I say, only half-teasing. “It wouldn’t have happened if she had been here.”

  Amy smiles. “Yeah,” she says, squinting playfully. “What a bitch, making us do something despicable like that. How dare she.”

  I laugh. “Right?”

  She holds up the pictures in her hand. “Thanks for . . .” she looks at the pictures and pauses for a moment, then brings her eyes back to mine. “Just . . . thank you, Holder. For listening.”

  I acknowledge her thanks with a single nod and watch as she turns to head down the stairs. I close the door and walk back to my bed, picking up the notebook on the way over. I open it up to the letter where I left off before Amy walked into my room an hour earlier.

  Chapter Three-and-three-quarters

  * * *

  Les,

  What happened with Amy just now was all your fault. Just so we’re clear.

  H

  Chapter Four

  * * *

  Les,

  Happy two-week deathiversary. Harsh? Maybe so, but I’m not apologizing. I have to go back to school Monday and I’m not looking forward to it at all. Daniel has been keeping me up to date on all the rumors, despite the fact that I keep telling him I don’t give a shit. Of course everyone thinks you killed yourself because of Grayson, but I know that isn’t true. You were pretending to be alive long before you ever met Grayson.

  And then there’s the whole incident that I still haven’t told you about. The one that involved me forcing Grayson to break up with you? It’s a complicated story, but because of that night, everyone is now saying that I was indirectly responsible for your suicide. Daniel says people are even sympathizing with Grayson and the asshole is eating it up.

  The best part about this particular rumor is that apparently my immense guilt over the hand I played in your suicide is causing me to be suicidal. And if that’s what the masses are saying, then it must be true, right?

  To be honest, I’m way too scared to kill myself. Don’t tell anyone that. (Not that you could now, even if you wanted to.) But it’s true. I’m a pussy when it comes to the fact that I have no idea what to expect after this life. What if the afterlife is worse than the life you’re running from? Willingly taking a dive headfirst into the unknown takes some serious courage. I have to hand it to you Les, you’re way braver than I am.

  Okay, I’m signing off. I’m not used to writing so much. Texting would be way more convenient, but you like to do everything the hard way, don’t you?

  If I see Grayson at school on Monday, I’ll rip his balls off and mail them to you. What’s your new address?

  H

  • • •

  Daniel is waiting for me by his car when I pull into the parking lot.

  “What’s the game plan?” he says as soon as I open my door.

  I’m racking my brain for anything I might have missed. I don’t remember anything significant about today that would require a game plan.

  “Game plan for what?” I ask.

  “The game plan for today, dipshit.” He points his clicker toward his car and locks his doors, then begins walking toward the school with me. “I know how much you didn’t want to come back, so maybe we need a game plan to counteract all the attention. Do you want me to be all sad and mopey with you so people won’t want to confront us? I doubt it,” he answers himself. “That might encourage people to approach you with words of encouragement that resemble condolences and I know you’re sick of that shit. If you want, I can be super excitable and take all the attention off you. As much as you don’t want to admit it, you’re all everyone’s been talking about for two weeks. I’m so fucking sick of it,” he says.

  I hate that people don’t have anything better to talk about, but I like that it bothers Daniel as much as it bothers me.

  “Or we could just be normal and hope people have better things to talk about than what happened with Les. Ooh! Ooh!” he says giddily, turning to face me while he walks backward. “I could act all pissed off and walk in front of you like a bodyguard, even though you’re bigger than me. And if anyone tries to approach you I’ll punch them in the face. Please? Will you play the part of pissed-off, grieving brother? For me? Please?”

  I laugh. “I think we’ll be just fine without a game plan.”

  He frowns at my unwillingness to participate. “You underestimate the enjoyment other people gain from gossip and speculation. Just stay quiet and if anything needs to be said today, I’ll be the one to say it. I’ve been dying to yell at these people for two weeks now.”

  I appreciate his concern, but I really anticipate today being just like any other day. If anything, I think it would b
e too awkward for people to mention it when I’m actually in their presence. They’ll be too uncomfortable to say anything to me at all, which is exactly how I prefer it.

  The bell for first period hasn’t rung yet, so everyone’s still standing outside. It’s the first time I’m walking into the school without Les by my side. Just the thought of her takes me right back to that moment when I walked into her bedroom and found her. I don’t want to relive that moment again. Not right now. I pull my phone out of my pocket and pretend to be interested in it for the sake of just taking my mind off the fact that Daniel could be right. Everyone around us is way too quiet and I hope to hell it’s back to normal soon.

  Daniel and I don’t have class together until third period so when we make it inside the building he waves me off and heads in the opposite direction. I open the door to my homeroom and almost immediately, a sudden hush falls over the classroom. Every single pair of eyes is staring back at me, quietly watching me walk to my desk.

  I keep my phone out and continue to pretend I’m engaged in it, but I’m acutely aware of everyone around me. It keeps me from having to make eye contact with anyone, though. If I don’t make eye contact, they’ll be less likely to approach me. I wonder if I’m just imagining a difference in the way people are acting today as opposed to before Les killed herself. Maybe it’s just me. I don’t want to think it’s just me, though. If that’s the case, then how long does this last? How long will I have to go through every second of the day thinking about her death and how it affects every aspect of my life?

  I compare losing Les to losing Hope all those years ago. It seemed back then that everything that happened for months after Hope was taken somehow led to thoughts of her. I would wake up in the morning and wonder where she was waking up. I would brush my teeth and wonder if whoever took her thought to buy her a new toothbrush, since she didn’t get to take anything with her. I would eat breakfast and wonder if whoever took her knew that Hope didn’t like orange juice and whether or not they were letting her have white milk, because that was her favorite. I would go to bed at night and look out my bedroom window that used to face hers, and I would wonder if she even had a bedroom window where she was.

  I try to think of when the thoughts finally stopped, but I’m not so sure they have. I still think about her more than I should. It’s been years now, but every time I look up at the sky I think about her. Every time someone calls me Dean instead of Holder, I think about her and how I used to laugh at the way she said my name when we were kids. Every time I see a bracelet on a girl I think about the bracelet Les gave her just minutes before she was taken from us.

  So many things remind me of her and I hate knowing that it’s just going to be worse now that Les is gone, too. Every single thing I think or see or do or say reminds me of Les. Then every single time I’m reminded of Les, it leads to thoughts of Hope. Then every single time I think about Hope, I’m reminded of how I let them down. I failed them both. It’s as if the day I gave them their nickname, I was somehow nicknaming myself the same. Because I sure as hell feel pretty fucking hopeless right now.

  • • •

  I’ve somehow made it through two classes without a single person speaking to me. Not that they aren’t discussing it, though. It’s like they think I’m not even here, the way they whisper and stare and speculate about what’s going on in my head.

  I take a seat next to Daniel once I arrive in Mr. Mulligan’s classroom. Daniel silently asks how I’m doing with just a look. Over the past few years we seem to have formed some sort of nonverbal communication between us. I shrug, letting him know that it’s going. Of course it sucks and I’d rather not be here at all right now, but what can I do? Suck it up. That’s what.

  “I heard Holder’s not speaking to anyone,” the girl in front of me whispers to the girl seated in front of her. “Like, at all. Not since he found her.”

  It’s obvious by the volume at which she’s speaking that she has no idea I’m sitting right behind her. Daniel lifts his head to look at them and I can see the disgust on his face, knowing I can hear their conversation.

  “Maybe he’s taking a vow of silence,” the other girl speculates.

  “Yeah, maybe. It wouldn’t have hurt Lesslie to take a vow of silence every now and then. Her laugh was so freaking annoying.”

  I instantly see red. I clench my fists and find myself wishing for the first time in my life that it wasn’t wrong for a guy to hit a girl. I’m not angry that they’re talking about her behind her back, I expected as much. I’m not even angry that they’re talking about her beyond the grave. I’m angry because the one thing I loved the most about Les was her laugh. If they’re going to say anything about her, they better not mention her fucking laugh again.

  Daniel grips the edges of his desk and lifts his leg, then kicks the girl’s desk as hard as he can, scooting her a good twelve inches across the floor. She squeals and immediately turns in her seat to face him.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, Daniel?”

  “What’s wrong with me?” he asks, raising his voice. He leans forward in his chair and glares at her. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me. I’m pissed that you’re a girl because if you had a dick, I’d be punching you in your disrespectful, fat mouth right now.”

  Her mouth drops open and it’s obvious she’s confused why he’s targeted her. Her confusion is instantly cleared up the second she notices that I’m right behind her, though. Her eyes grow wide and I smile at her, lifting my hand in a half-hearted wave.

  I don’t say anything, though. I don’t really feel the need to add to anything Daniel just said and apparently I’m taking a vow of silence, so I just keep my mouth shut. Besides, Daniel said he’s been dying to yell at these people for two weeks now. Today might be his only chance, so I just let him do his thing. The girl immediately turns and faces the front without even offering up the slightest hint of an apology.

  The classroom door opens and Mr. Mulligan enters, breaking up the tension and naturally replacing it with his own. Les and I did everything we could to avoid having him at all this year, but we weren’t very lucky. Well, I’m not, anyway. Les doesn’t have to worry about sitting through his tedious, hour-long lectures anymore.

  “Dean Holder,” he says as soon as he reaches his desk. “I’m still waiting for your research paper that was due last week. I hope you have it with you, because we’re presenting today.”

  Shit. I haven’t even thought about what I might have had due over the past two weeks.

  “No, I don’t have it with me.”

  He looks up from whatever it is he’s looking at on his desk and eyes me. “See me after class, then.”

  I nod and maybe even roll my eyes a little. Eye rolling is inevitable in his class. He’s a douchebag who gets off on the control he thinks he has over a classroom. It’s obvious he was bullied as a kid and anyone not wearing a pocket-protector is the recipient of his misguided revenge.

  I ignore the presentations during the rest of the period and try to make a list of what assignments I might have due. Les was the organized one of the two of us. She always let me know what was due and when it was due and which class it was due in.

  After what seems like hours, the bell finally rings. I remain seated until the class clears out so that Mr. Mulligan can practice his retaliation on me. Once the classroom is occupied by just the two of us, he walks to the front of his desk and leans against it, folding his arms over his chest.

  “I know your family has been through quite the ordeal and I’m sorry for your loss.” Here we go. “I just hope you understand that unfortunate things like this are going to happen throughout your life, but that doesn’t give you the excuse to not live up to what’s expected of you.”

  Jesus Christ. It’s a fucking research paper. It’s not like I’m rewriting the Constitution. I know I should just nod and agree with him, but he picked the wrong day to play preacher.

  “Mr. Mulligan, Les was the only sibling I had
, so I actually don’t foresee this happening again. As much as it seems like it happens repeatedly, she can only kill herself once.”

  The way his eyebrows crease together and his lips tighten into a firm line make it apparent that he doesn’t find me amusing at all. Which is good, because I wasn’t trying to be amusing.

  “Some situations should remain off-limits to your sarcasm,” he says flatly. “I would hope you would have a little more respect for your sister than that.”

  As much as I hate that I can’t hit girls today, I hate the fact that I can’t punch teachers even more. I immediately stand up and walk swiftly to where he’s standing, stopping just inches from him, my fists down at my sides. My proximity causes his body to go rigid and I can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction knowing I’ve scared him. I look him directly in the eyes, clench my teeth, and lower my voice.

  “I don’t give a shit if you’re a teacher, a student, or a goddamned priest. Don’t you ever mention my sister again.” I stare at him for several more seconds, seething, waiting on his reaction. When he fails to say anything, I turn around and grab my backpack. “You’ll get your report tomorrow,” I say, exiting the classroom.

  • • •

  I’ve been convinced I was minutes away from being expelled. However, Mr. Mulligan apparently chose not to report our little interaction, because nothing has been said or done and it’s now lunch break.

  Moving along.

  “Holder,” someone says from behind me in the hallway. I turn around to find Amy catching up to me.

  “Hey, Amy.” I wish her presence gave me even the slightest hint of comfort, but it doesn’t. Seeing her standing here just reminds me of two weeks ago, then that reminds me of the pictures she was at my house for, then that reminds me of Les, then that reminds me of Hope. Then of course I’m consumed with guilt again.

  “How are you?” she asks hesitantly. “I haven’t heard from you since . . .” Her voice trails off, so I answer her quickly, not wanting her to feel she has to go into more detail.

  “I’m okay,” I reply, feeling guilty that she seems disappointed I didn’t call her. I thought she was pretty clear with what happened between us. I hope she is, anyway. “Did you um . . .” I look down at my feet and sigh, unsure how to bring it up without sounding like a complete asshole. I shift my weight from one foot to the other and look back up at her. “Did you want me to call you? Because I thought what happened . . .”