Page 1 of If We Say Goodbye

CHAPTERONE

Despite popular belief,and the fact that I hold in my feelings like they’re the CIA’s most classified secret, I’m not a robot. My emotions are there but buried deep inside my icy exterior. It’s safer that way. More comfortable.

I hate when people try to tap into them—as if trying to figure out what I’m thinking is some kind of game. Because of that, I’ve learned it’s sometimes easier to avoid others. Like I’m doing it right now.

One minute and fifty-three seconds. That’s the average time it takes me to get all the way down to the kitchen, grab my food, and race back to my room. The tricky part is getting down there without being noticed. Small talk is the epitome of social torture, and I will do just about anything to avoid it.

And, normally, I would. But the syrupy sweet smell of Mom’s over-the-top breakfast has invaded my room. I can almost taste the buttery pancakes from here. My stomach cries out as if there’s an earthquake inside of me demanding food.

I crack my door open and peer into the empty hallway. My foot hovers above the hardwood floors that line the second story of our house, contemplating my first step.

If I had more self-control, I’d wait for Mom to leave for work, but I’m withering by the second. Normally, she’s gone by now. I could play it safe and wait another ten minutes, but what if she doesn’t plan on going today? That would mean that all this waiting would be pointless. I’d be depriving myself of happiness for nothing.

I weigh my options one more time—food and possible conversational discomfort or die of starvation.

Man, this choice is hard.

Mom is predictable. Without fail, she tries to pry into my emotions every chance she gets.How are you feeling? Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want to try going to school today?

Fine. Yes. No.

My answers are always the same, so I wish she’d stop asking. It’s not like I’m going to magically open up. Besides, we’ve never been that close. There was always a clear divide in our family, separating us. Mom had Ethan—who enjoyed staying up late talking about everything under the sun. Dad and I, on the other hand, are the quiet ones. We don’t have to say much to understand each other.

My stomach growls again, forcing me to make a decision.

I internally groan as I step out of the safety of my room.

At the end of the hallway, the staircase leading down to our front door looms with our living room around the corner. The two large windows in the entryway light up the whole space, burning my eyes.

I blink to adjust to the disturbing sunshine I’ve managed to keep off my radar until now.

I avoid the creaks in the floor with strategic steps. After living in the same house for so many years, I’ve grown well acquainted with each and every one of its quirks. Like how the back screen door needs to be pulled up otherwise it won’t open. Or how if you flush the toilet in the downstairs bathroom, the shower upstairs goes ice cold. My parents call these things part of the house’s “charm”and “personality,”but I know an excuse when I hear one. They don’t have the time or money to fix them.

I keep my eyes laser focused as I sneak forward.

I won’t look at it.

But that’s easier said than done.

Ethan’s closed door is a like neon sign in my peripheral vision. It doesn’t matter how far I turn my head in the opposite direction, its gnawing presence demands my attention. My gaze flickers to it for a split second, and my heart plummets like a bowling ball from the sky. The air drains from my lungs, and I stagger in the wrong direction. My misfired steps cause the floor to creak beneath my toes.

My heart jumps into my throat, and I bite my bottom lip, hoping Mom didn’t hear it.

Thankfully, the only sound competing with my drumming heartbeat is the slow drip from the coffee maker.

I breathe out slowly.

With regained control, I continue to creep forward until my hands reach the white railing on the side of the stairs. The uneven texture of worn paint greets my palm, and I lean over to get a clear view through the living room and into the kitchen. A stack of fresh pancakes sit on the island counter. Next to it is a large glass pitcher of orange juice.

Mom is nowhere to be seen.

My shoulders relax, and I let out a sigh of relief.

I continue my journey downstairs and enter the living room with my target locked in.

Buddy sits on the couch, surrounded by a sea of bright pillows. His ears perk up the closer I get. Bringing my finger to my lips, I shush him. Still, his chest pushes out, fully prepared to let out a very inconveniently timed bark.

I rush to his side. Hoping to keep him quiet, I glide my hand over his short fur. “Be quiet. I’m just trying to get my breakfast,” I whisper.