“Of course,” he says. “Goodnight, Natalia.”
“Goodnight, Rowan.”
The phone rests on my ear and cheek, static still coming through the phone, providing a lifeline.
“You still there?”
“Yeah,” I breathe.
I wish I could keep him on all night, or have him here with me. He may insistently ask if I’m okay, but if my only reply was a cry, he wouldn’t ask anymore questions, he’d just hold me. I know he would.
I’ve wondered before—about us. It was around our prom. Lana and Christian had just starting dating, and then Nico asked Isa, Luca invited Elena, but I went alone, technically. And so did Rowan.
I kept imagining going to prom with him, acting out all of the clichés of the prom-posals, love confessions, and losing your virginity on prom night.
But it was also around the same time I’d begun planning my funeral.
“Natalia?” Rowan whispers.
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
“If I tell you no, will you leave me alone?”
“No,” he says. “Definitely not.”
I sigh and lick my lips, tasting the salty tears that fall in all directions across my face. “I’m okay, Rowan.”
“If I hang up this phone…” Rowan knows, but doesn’t know it all.
“I’ll be okay.”
“Can I trust you?” he asks.
“Yeah.”Maybe not.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m trusting you. Goodnight, sweetheart.”
The term of endearment he’s only started using tonight is a salt on a gaping, bloody wound.
“Goodnight, Rowan.” I hang up first.
I don’t deserve to be anyone’s sweet-anything.
CHAPTER 6
Rowan
We were seventeen whenithappened. She never liked to give it a name, and neither did I. Labeling it for what it was would hurt more, I think. Even if it was exactly that—a suicide attempt. A failed one, thank goodness.
I remember visiting Natalia after her first week in the hospital. It was an unbelievable heartbreak, seeing her like that. I’d never wanted to cry so badly than when she came into the room where visitations were commonly held and sat adjacent to me. The bags under her eyes were puffy and dark, her eyelids were heavy and her eyes were missing the spark I looked forward to seeing every day.
The seventeen freckles—the ones that form a constellation—were dim. I wanted to kiss all seventeen of them to see if they’d come back to life. She was moving so slow and she wore baggy sweats with the string removed, fuzzy socks inside of fuzzy slippers, and her hair was parted in two French braids, and I just wanted to hold her. I saw her and knew what she had been feeling. I just wished I could have saved her fromwhatever monster was plaguing her head that made her think she needed to die. Or made herwantto die.
When she opened her mouth to speak, her voice was hoarse and broken, the darkness that entrapped her making itself known with each word she spoke—even when she said,hey.But even with that weak greeting, my entire life brightened.
I wondered then if it would always be like that with her. That if every time she glanced my way or whispered any word in any language the sun would come out or my broken heart would mend just a bit each time. Every smile from her would be a stitch closing an open wound. Every smileisa stitch closing an open wound.
