Chapter 10- Freak Out

Eli rubbed his hand softly on the top of the girl's back as she pressed her face into his now-damp shoulder. "Hey, let's go get you changed, okay? Comfy clothes?" She answered him with a half-nod as he helped her to her uneasy feet and guided her up the rest of the stairs and into the girls' bedroom. After leading her to the bed, the boy walked over to their closet and opened its door to reveal a huge assortment of outfits. "Wow," he looked back at Imogen with a white smile, "I think this may be bigger than my dorm room was at NYU."

"Fiona wanted the house to have a large closet," she answered unemotionally.

"Should have known," Eli laughed, shaking his head from side to side. "That girl and her clothes—such a diva!" Still looking at the girl, he saw her gaze drop to the floor as her face held a resigned expression. His grin quickly faded away when his mind finally began to realize just how drastically adrift his quirky friend was. "Right…so outfits…" Shifting through the hanging garments, he pulled out the first comfortable looking item that he saw. "What about this?"

Imogen lifted her eyes to see the black sweatshirt with pink lettering that she had worn so many times hanging from the boy's outstretched hand; it was cruelly taunting her with all of the emotions she used to be able to feel. Just dangling there, it filled her head with enormous frustration and pressure—pressure to put on the sweatshirt; pressure to pretend that nothing horrible had happened; pressure to be the happy-go-lucky girl that everyone expected her to be. As her frustration shifted into anger, the girl pushed herself up off of the bed and snatched the shirt from the Eli's grasp. "No. Not this one."

Confused, his green eyes followed the girl as she stormed into the bathroom holding the black garment. He heard drawers being slid open and slammed shut from inside the tiled room and soon followed to see what was going on. "Imo? Whatcha doing?" The young girl turned around, startled by his voice. His eyes widened as he saw the silver scissors in her small hands ripping into the fabric.

"I am so sick of everyone trying to make me feel better!" The blades continued shredding the sweatshirt, slicing through each pink letter until it was unrecognizable. "My father is dead! I can't feel better!" her voice was frantic. The scissors shook in her trembling hands.

Eli moved cautiously towards the girl until he was close enough to maneuver the shears from her locked fingers. He placed them to the side of the sink as he pulled the mutilated shirt away from Imogen's possession and tossed it to the floor. Seeing the pain welling up in her chocolate brown eyes again, he drew her into a tight hug, holding her until her scattered breaths evened out. Upon her release, he offered up his long sleeve for her to wipe her drizzled face.

Accepting his offer, the distraught girl dabbed the white sleeve to her tan cheek and dispelled the anxiety in her chest through deep exhales. "Thanks," she whispered as she calmed herself. "Sorry."

"No need for apologies. But maybe an explanation?" he asked, signaling towards the tattered item on the floor.

Imogen shook her head in agreement as she walked out of the bathroom and propped herself up on the bed, waiting for her lanky friend to join. As he sat down on Fiona's side, the young girl's heart gave a tiny tug and briefly—very briefly—the bed felt empty.

"So the sweatshirt?" His voice broke through the silence.

Looking up to the ceiling, she let her emotionally heavy head settle deep into the pillow. "Fiona's."

"and we are mad at Fiona because…?" Eli's face changed into a perplexed expression as he watched her gaze continue to wander above. He nudged her with his arm, impatiently waiting for her response.

"I'm not mad at Fiona…I'm not anything at Fiona," she breathed, turning her head left to face the boy. "It's like every time I'm around her, I'm just a shell of who I was. I can remember how I felt; I just can't actually feel it. Instead, I look at her and I see all of the things my dad won't be here for."

He stared at her compassionately, as one side of his mouth drooped. "All of your feelings for her are still in there," his index finger pointed towards her heart. "They're just buried under a lot of crap right now. What you two have doesn't just disappear."

"You know what's kind of messed up? My dad could have been at our wedding if she didn't want to wait so long to get married. I mean what kind of engagement lasts for four years?"

The boy started to feel uncomfortable as he realized where this conversation could be going. "You can't blame her for your dad not being at your wedding, Im. She couldn't have seen anything like this coming."

"Yeah, I know…" Imogen refocused her eyes back up to the ceiling as the gears in her mind began to turn. "Actually, no. Even if she couldn't have expected anything like this to happen, she still knew how he was. She knew his mind was falling apart little-by-little each day. Why the wait?"

"I don't know." Shrugging his shoulders, Eli adjusted his position on the bed and crossed one foot over the other. "…Have you tried asking her? I'm sure she had her reasons."

She shook her head gently. "I don't want to ask her about it. It would probably just make her feel guilty or whatever."

The words entered his ear and immediately triggered his brain. "Imogen, listen to yourself—You don't want to make her feel guilty…" his mouth widened into a large smile and she looked at him confused. "—You still care about how she feels," the boy insinuated, while sending a playful poke to her tan arm. "There's a little life in you yet, Moreno." Eli searched her face for any glimmer of optimism. His brow began to furrow as he realized Imogen's expression was determined to remain unaffected.

"I want Fiona to go back to New York," Imogen blurted, ignoring her friend's hopeful observation. "I just need some space from everything… You need to convince her not to quit her job." She rose from the bed and crossed the room until she reached their open closet, leaving the Eli to stare at her speechlessly. After pulling out a t-shirt and some pants, Imogen walked back into the bathroom to finally change out of her black, tear-soaked dress.