The Edge of Falling Read Online Free PDF Page A

would be different.
    “I don’t even know where he’s been,” I tell Peter, leaning against the sink and taking a long swig of water. “I don’t even know if he’s coming back.”
    “He’s . . .” Peter crosses his arms. “Of course he’s coming back.”
    “Yeah? How can you be so sure?”
    Peter takes a pear out of a basket on the counter and flicks it in the air. “I saw him today.”
    My chest feels like it’s an elastic band that’s just been snapped. I swallow. “Where?”
    “On the street by his place. Seventy-Second, right?”
    I nod. “Did he say anything?”
    “Not really,” he says. “But I didn’t ask.”
    Peter is the kind of guy who would run into Oprah and comment on the weather. He doesn’t push people, or seek out answers. It’s one of the things I love most about him: You never feel like he’s going to corner you. But right now I’m annoyed with him for taking everything so lightly. Some things in life require anger and sadness and pain. When Peter acts so carefree, I can’t help but feel like he’s lying.
    “I guess I’ll see him at school—”
    “Look, Caggs,” he says. “I’m not going to tell you what to do.”
    “Good,” I snap.
    “ But ,” he continues, “you should cut the guy some slack. It’s been a tough year.”
    “Really? I had no idea.” I cross my arms and look at him.
    “I’m just trying to tell you it’s okay to move forward,” he says.
    My annoyance at him blooms into full-on anger. “Justbecause I don’t feel like spending the summer frolicking around her grave site doesn’t mean I’m not moving on,” I shoot back.
    As soon as the words are out, I feel horrible. It’s a familiar feeling, that acid in my stomach—like some small balloon of poison that’s been punctured.
    Peter looks at me, unblinking. “Is that what you think?”
    I shake my head. “No,” I say. “It’s not.”
    “Good, because I wasn’t frolicking.”
    “Whatever,” I mumble. “I know you love it out there.”
    “Caggie, listen to me.” Peter’s voice is stern. “I went out there to pack up the house. Mom can’t do it, and I doubt Dad would either. Who else is going to sort through that stuff ?”
    “They’re selling it?” I ask stupidly.
    Peter nods. “Yes.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t blame you, but try to think a little bit before you just assume things.”
    I had no idea my parents were selling the house. I guess I should have figured they would, but I kind of saw it as sitting there, untouched. Which is why it was so disturbing to me that Peter would want to spend the summer out there—cooking there, sleeping there. I wanted, if I’m honest, for everything to stay the same. Maybe if we didn’t move anything, if we kept it exactly as it was—the overturned chair, the back door slightly ajar—then she would find her way home.
    But that’s not the way it is. She didn’t run away.
    “Sorry,” I mumble.
    Peter nods. “Fair enough.”
    “Is anyone interested yet?”
    Peter bites into the pear. “I mean, we’re talking prime beachfront, Caggs. It’ll go quickly.”
    “Right.”
    He sets the fruit down and comes over to the sink. “Hey, it’s okay. It was actually not so bad being out there. I found some of her old paintings.” He runs a hand over his forehead and smiles. “She’s was such a crazy little artist.”
    “A good one,” I say.
    Hayley loved to paint. There is this room off her bedroom that our mother always thought was a closet but that was actually more the size of a study. I helped Hayley turn it into an art studio. We bought everything: oil paints, big canvases, brushes, smocks. I’ve never seen anyone as happy in my life as she was when we brought it all home.
    She’d spend hours in there. Her big thing was birds. Huge canvases of them. She was a total amateur ornithologist; she knew every species. We’d be watching a movie and there would be a bird noise, like a background sound, and