47. Hope

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As I sat at the bus stop I had every intention of going to June's and waiting for Miles. That was his usual after school hang out, so I was sure he'd be there. The longer I sat on that bench and the longer I thought about what I would say to him the more I didn't want to tell him.

Every scenario I played in my head ended with him hating me. I couldn't handle that. I didn't want to have to tell him. I didn't want to have him look at me differently or to not be able to look at me at all.

If I hadn't snuck out of the house to see Jerrell that night then my dad would've still been sitting on the couch, beer in hand, watching whatever was on tv. Elizabeth would still be alive. They all would be.

I thought about Tasha. She lost her brother that night and, for whatever reason, she forgave me.

I reached for my phone, only to remember it was still sitting in my the drawer of Mom's night stand. I didn't know what time it was or if she'd even be at the dance studio today, but that didn't matter.

When I got on the bus I didn't get off at the usual stop in front of June's. After three transfers I had finally arrived at the Clover dance studio.

The familiar building, wedged between a dentist office and and thrift shop, brought back so many memories of Tasha, Shannon and I doing warm ups or making up our own steps to different songs. That felt like a million years ago.

I had arrived just in time, people were just starting to show up for the class. Girls and boys, dressed in their dance clothes, were filing into the building. Tasha was sitting out front, on the hood of her beat-up old car looking down at her phone as I walked over.

She looked up before I had the chance to announce myself. "Loren?"

I couldn't tell if that was meant to be negative or positive or just general curiosity. I didn't dwell on it. "I needed to talk to you."

"About what?"

The entire bus ride over I'd thought about what I'd say. Now that I was there in front of her I was drawing a blank. What did I even expect her to say or do to help me?

She slid off the car and readjusted her glasses. "Look, practice is about to start. So, if you don't have nothing to say..."

"Why'd you forgive me?" I asked. "When I told you everything that happened that night, that I knew my dad was drunk, you blamed me. Then you invited me to the sleepover like everything was fine."

She let out a sigh, shoving her hands into the front pocket of her red pullover. "I was pissed when I heard my brother was gone and I just wanted someone to take that frustration out on someone. You were the obvious option. But my dad reminded me that it wasn't anyone's fault. It was an accident."

"An accident that could've been avoided if I stayed home that night."

"Oh, so you left the house that night with the intention of having your dad crash his car into my brother's?"

"No, but—"

"Then you need to stop blaming yourself," she told me. "It was an accident. Just a string of crap that resulted in both of us losing people we loved."

I'd heard a variation of that many times over the years. Everyone from relatives to strangers who heard the news had told me accidents like that happened all the time. I didn't want to hear it, choosing to believe that my poor actions were the cause.

Hearing it at that moment was exactly I needed. Which was weird. I'd spent the last four years wanting everyone to see things how I saw them and agree that the accident was my fault. That wasn't what I wanted to hear anymore.

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