“Releasing the episodes. I’m not sure I want to.”
Okay, that actually surprises me. I scramble, trying to figure out the logic. “You spent all those hours recording and editing. Why let it go to waste?”
“Because it’s not real?” He looks at me and I can see it again. The shell-shocked way he looked weeks ago, after we were free of the boathouse. “I still have nightmares. All the things he did, what he tried to do to me—I think about it all the time.”
I reach over the fence and take his hand, because I know what he means. I think about it, too. So does Valencia. The constant thoughts ofWhat if the gun wasn’tloaded?What if he didn’t want to brag about killing Nate to his parents and killed us all instead of gloating? What if I didn’t have the house key in my pocket or couldn’t get free?
But none of that is helpful because the gunwasloaded. We did get free, and Easton’s own pride really was his downfall.
The verse from Proverbs echoes in my mind:Be assured, he will not go unpunished.
“Do you want to know what helps me when I start to freak out about all that?” I ask him. He doesn’t answer but gives me a curious look that tells me to go on. “How lucky I am to still be here. And yes, like your podcast, there are parts of my life that aren’t real. But the important parts are. Valencia loves me, and that’s nice to have.”
Miles looks... almost impressed? And when he smiles at me, it’s genuine. “Well, that settles it. I’m deleting the episodes.”
I flinch, and my jaw hangs open as I try to understand him. “Wait, why?”
He takes my other hand and pulls me closer to the fence. “Because you’re right. The important parts are real, like Valencia and... also you.”
“Obviously that’s not true.”
“It is.” He stares at me, and it takes me a second to realize what he’s saying. “I know you came here as Nate and... well, yeah, technically you’re still Nate.”
“My real name—”
“Doesn’t matter anymore. You said the important parts are real, but what’s the point in telling the story if it’s not all true?”
“That’s some strong journalistic integrity you got there.”
“I know, I should get a Pulitzer. Too bad no one will ever know.” He looks down. “Except me, because I know who you are. Who you really are, Nate. And I’m glad you’re here.”
His eyes meet mine. Maybe I am happy I’m here, too. Miles leans forward and I meet him. Our lips touch, gently at first, like we both aren’t sure if we should be doing this. But then it’s like our bodies have been wanting this our whole lives. And Miles is the first boy I’ve ever kissed, so yes. For me, Ihavebeen wanting this my whole life.
His hands go to my cheek and my neck. I reach around to the small of his back and pull him against the fence separating us. Our lips open to each other. At first, Miles’s body is tense and taut, but as our kiss continues, he relaxes into me. And me into him. The nervousenergy is eventually pushed aside and all I feel is the explosion of excitement in my stomach, the beat of my heart, and every amazing thing all at once.
Because yeah, when I wake up from those nightmares about Easton where the gun isn’t loaded or I can’t free myself—in the darkest parts of the night—I think maybe I should have just stayed with my real family, and we would have avoided all that trauma.
But in moments like this, where I’m being more myself than ever before, it’s worth it. Despite every awful thing, I can finally be who I really am.
Valencia and I beach the kayak on the island and hop out. This time, we brought backpacks with water and tied the shovels to them. I untie the shovel on my pack and lead her into the woods in silence.
We reach the clearing with the felled tree, and it’s kind of a mess. The holes Miles and I dug six weeks ago are still there, and the broken fort is shoved against the tree.
Valencia looks back at me, and I take her to the hole where Nate still lies.
I expect her to react like Miles did. Knowing Nate is out here is one thing, butseeingwhat’s left of Nate makes it all so much more real. But all she does is sigh and crouch down at the edge of the hole. She reaches out carefully to put a hand on the center of Nate’s chest.
Then she closes her eyes and holds it there.
This feels like a private moment, like I shouldn’t be here. But IamNate now. We’re brothers. So I stay.
“Okay,” Valencia says. “Let’s get him buried.” I help her lift whatremains of Nate’s small, nearly weightless body out of the hole, and Valencia wraps him in the baby blanket she brought him home from the hospital in. We carry it back to the clearing, where we gently set him down. Valencia points to the hole by the tree where the fort originally stood, and we start digging deeper.
It takes a few hours to make the hole wider—and we don’t go a full six feet down—but we get a decent-sized grave dug for Nate and then lean the shovels against the tree. We carefully move him again, placing him in a grave that feels more purposeful than the one Easton left him in.
“What if someone finds him?” I say. We talked about what to do several times over the last few weeks, but this was the only solution we came up with. We thought about cremating him ourselves and mixing his and Marcus’s ashes together, but Miles told us how hot the flame would need to be and that there would still be bones left without a crematorium doing the work.
Valencia shrugs. “They won’t unless they dig. And it’s not like the island is big enough for real estate development. Besides, climate change will have this all underwater in a few years’ time.”
