Free The Death of Us by Alice Kuipers

haven’t seen you much.”
    “Yeah.” There’s no way she’ll let me go on the boat tomorrow, so I lie. “I’ve got work all day tomorrow too.”
    “At the gallery? Why don’t Cosmo and I come down and see you.”
    “Um, no.” I panic. “No, I mean, yes, please, but not right away. Give me a few days to settle in. Please?”
    She nods. “Of course.” She’s still sitting on the couch, but now she’s at the edge of it, hands on her knees. “About Ivy, I do mean it. I don’t want you seeing her.”
    I force myself to stay calm. “Yeah, I know. I haven’t.”
    “You wouldn’t lie to me?”
    “Mom, what is this? No, I wouldn’t lie. Can I go to bed now? I’ve got work tomorrow and I’m tired.”
    She appraises me, then nods again. “Okay, sweetheart. Sleep well.”
    On the way up the stairs, I’m fuming. Mom needs to take her foot off the pedal.

FIVE
JULY 31ST
Kurt
    X ander returns with one foam cup of coffee in each hand. Seeing Mrs. Foulds is gone, he puts one cup on the table next to me. He sips from the one meant for her. I guess he figures she’s not returning anytime soon. His cell beeps—beeps again.
    Switch it off.
    He checks the screen, silences it. The silence is worse.
    He says, as if to reassure himself, “They’ll tell us when they know something.”
    I say, “The doctor left with Mrs. Foulds. I didn’t even get to ask anything. Man, people don’t survive shit like that.”
    I’m not even sure he’s heard until he says, “Take it easy.”
    I fiddle with the remote but it doesn’t work. The TV keeps playing the same channel. Xander paces the corridor. Flat expression on his face. He could be on a grim hike. My head slams like the worst hangover.
    I rub the top of my nose. It’s a gesture from my dad. Not my birth-dad. He died when I was six months old—cancer. That was when my birth-mom started drinking, apparently. This gesture is from my adopted dad. Sometimes when I walk into that huge kitchen, my brothers scrapping on the floor, and Mom turns to me with a plate of fresh-cooked bacon, eggs and rye toast, I split in two. The person I was before they adopted me. And the person I am now. Took me years to stop being scared that my adopted family would make me go back to my birth-mom. I used todream of houses flooding, cracks appearing in the walls. I tried to explain it to Xander once. He took it in, the way he does. Solid. But I’m not sure he got it.
    When I visit my birth-mom, I’m a little kid. All over again. At the same time, I’m me. Able to protect myself. Ivy recognized this. Somehow, she understood.
    I think about what she told me on the boat. There’s something about vulnerable that makes me go soft. She sat on the prow, the water behind her like a blue canvas. Told me she wanted to start over. Said Callie was her “rock.”
    I said, “Callie’s like Xander—self-sufficient. More than she knows. They seem a good match.”
    Ivy said, “You’ll help me start over.”
    “You don’t need my help.”
    She laughed. “I don’t need anyone.”
    She sure knew how to flirt.
    Shit. I just used the past tense. But she can’t be dead. Not Ivy.
    TEN DAYS EARLIER
Ivy
    I pick at the paint chipping from my bedroom window frame. Kevin didn’t get this room redone, although the room he shares with Mom is spandangly new. I murmur into my phone, “It’s been a while, Diego.”
    He says, “I thought you’d call.”
    “You miss me, then.” Guys just need it told to them sometimes—it’s not like emotions are their strong point.
    He’s quiet.
    I flick a paint chip to the floor, grind it with my bare toes. “It sucks here without you,” I say. “I forgive you, you know.”
    “Shit, Ivy …”
    “I gotta go.” I press End before he can answer. Always, always leave them wanting more.
    I start my morning exercises, following the 60/60/60 routine my online CrossFit program sets me. Sixty burpees. Sixty lunges. Sixty sit-ups. Then I listen to a podcast about living