Love is Hell. Melissa Marr

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       Eleven

      THE SUN BEAMS THROUGH my bedroom window. I squint against it and roll over in bed, wondering why my alarm clock didn’t go off, especially since today is the day I’ve planned to see Travis’s mother.

      Around ten, Craig comes to pick me up. He volunteered to take me to Mrs. Slather’s condo. Just a few days ago, I told him and Raina the full story—about the necklace, about my sister, Emma, and how my relationship with Travis has gone from zero to sixty in less than a week.

      “Are you nervous?” Craig asks, pulling up in front of her place.

      We’re in one of those condo parks, the kind where all the units, including the shrubbery that surrounds them, are cookie-cutter perfect. Mrs. Slather’s is the one on the end. There’s a rust-stained car parked out front and a few rolled-up newspapers on her welcome mat.

      “Do you want me to come with you?” Craig asks.

      I shake my head and climb out of the car, the necklace pressed in my palm. There are ten stairs up to her door. I climb them slowly, trying to calm myself down—to slow the pounding of my heart.

      At the eighth stair, I pause and look back at Craig’s car. He gives me a thumbs-up and I do the same back, grateful that he’s here. And that I’ve come this far.

      My fingers shaking slightly, I take a deep breath and continue to the door. Finally, I ring the bell. I can hear someone moving inside. The door opens a couple seconds later.

      “Can I help you?” the woman asks.

      She’s older than I imagined, maybe in her late sixties, with silvery hair and a crooked mouth.

      “Are you Jocelyn Slather?” I ask, hearing the quiver in my voice.

      “Who are you?” Her tiny blue eyes narrow on me. The deep lines that surround them branch out like tree limbs.

      “I think I have something of yours,” I say, ignoring the question.

      Her mouth tenses into a frown. “And I think you’ve got the wrong person.”

      She goes to shut the door, but I’m able to stop it by jamming my foot into the doorway. I dangle the necklace in front of her eyes.

      “Where did you get that?” She looks past me, toward the street, to see if I’m alone.

      “Travis wanted you to have this.”

      “Who are you?” she repeats.

      “I’m a friend of your son’s.”

      “Well, my son is dead.” She goes to shut the door again, but my foot is still jammed in the way.

      “Please,” I say. “I mean, I know it sounds crazy, but hear me out. I have dreams about him.”

      She shakes her head and leaves me at the door, tells me she’s going to go call the police.

      “Just wait,” I insist, flinging the door wide.

      Travis’s mother picks up the phone and clicks it on.

      And so I just spill it, blurting out every detail that Travis told me—about Mother’s Day and the soggy French toast, how he gave her wildflowers, and how the necklace was ripped from her neck. “It was thrown across the bathroom,” I tell her. “You looked for it everywhere, but couldn’t find it. It was in the radiator.”

      Mrs. Slather stops dialing and drops the phone. Her hand trembles over her mouth.

      “He wants you to know that he doesn’t blame you for his death,” I continue.

      “How do you know all this?” she asks, coming toward me again.

      “I dream about him,” I repeat, holding the necklace out to her.

      She takes it and tries to say something. Her mouth moves to form words, but nothing comes out.

      “I know it doesn’t make sense,” I say, “but maybe it doesn’t need to. Maybe the only thing that matters right now is that you stop living a life of guilt.”

      And maybe I’ll do the same.