“Sorry to interrupt,” he muttered.
And then he was gone.
Erik raised a brow mischievously, reached for her arm again. In an instant, he reminded her of Peter—every false, smarmy, two-faced, upward-climbing ounce.
“So where were we?”
Rebecca shot him a glare, shoved him away.
“No thanks, Wennerman,” she said over her shoulder.
But try as she might, she couldn’t find Josh anywhere at the party, inside or out.
Forget it, she told herself. Focus on Granny. It’s Girls’ Night Out, remember?
Still, as she went to bed that night, she couldn’t stop thinking about the wounded expression on Josh’s face, the smile that had turned sour in an instant.
CHAPTER 34
Devon
He thought about them, wondered if they’d ever been real at all or just made-up characters, his very own book he’d invented to keep him going, keep him from going cuckoo.
Maybe that was it. Maybe he was going crazy now. It didn’t really matter.
He was safe there. Safe in his tunnel. T wouldn’t ever find him out here.
He closed his eyes as he listened to the river slosh and splash below, tried to picture Miss Marla, her soft caramel skin, her warm arms, her scent that reminded him of vanilla and spices and everything good and right and true.
Tried to picture Rev with his crisp button-down shirts and dark, dark skin, his voice that sounded like music and his rumbly, deep belly laugh, the kind of laugh that made you want to laugh with him, that made you feel like everything was okay and you didn’t need to worry about a single thing in the whole wide world.
Tried to picture Miss Becca, with her kind, caring eyes that crinkled a little at the corners, the way she leaned in when she talked, like she wanted to really touch your heart and feel what youfelt, think what you thought.
Tried to picture CJ, Shenise, Gabby. Mariana. JJ and his dad. Tried to remember what they ever even talked about, what they did.
But it felt like he’d made it all up, like they hadn’t actually existed at all. The pictures in his mind were flat, one-dimensional, like an old coloring book.
It was just him and his Bible, there in the tunnel. Him and God.
And right now, God felt like he was very far away.
He wouldn’t let himself think about Memaw. If he did, he thought he’d break for good. It was all his fault, he realized now. If he’d just stayed quiet like he was supposed to and let Memaw and T talk it out, none of this would have happened. Memaw would be fast asleep in her bed and not in some intensive-care hospital room fighting for her life.
If she was still even alive. For all he knew, he’d killed her. Killed his very own Memaw, who he’d promised Mama he’d always take care of.
He’d let Mama down, he’d let Memaw down, and he’d let God down.
That was why God felt far-off, he realized. God was mad at him, mad because he’d stepped in and gotten in the way, taken matters into his own hands.
Devon realized his cheeks were wet, which surprised him. He hadn’t cried at all, not since the bike ride, before his talk with Memaw. Before everything came tumbling down worse than he ever could have imagined.
But now the tears wouldn’t stop, and he was shuddering and shaking and gasping and on his knees and there was nothing in the world he could do to hold them back.
After, he slept. When he woke, he was hungrier than he’d ever been in his life.
He dug in his backpack, found a pop-top can of ravioli, fished out the little squares with his fingers. Ate two more after that, and one of those strawberry cereal bars, and a little plastic container of applesauce, washed it all down with a juice box. Grape. His least favorite flavor, but it tasted amazing now, and he wondered why he’d never liked it before.
Then he picked up his Bible again, read it until the light faded and he collapsed into sleep once more.
