Before I’m out too far, I pitch my shattered phone over the side of the craft.
When the town goes dark during the eclipse, I’ll do the same with Banner. Let the receding tide carry his body out. It’s a strange irony, a body buried in the ocean. That something as fleeting as a life should make a grave out of something so vast and endless.
As I steer theEventideover choppy waters, I’m caught in the rolling current, haunted by the phantom feel of Orion’s solid arms holding me amid the waves, the unknown all around us.
I should’ve been terrified.
His embrace was more unknown, more dangerous, than anything lurking in the dark ocean depths. A fact made devastatingly clear the instant I chose to trust him—and he shattered that trust.
And I should be terrified right now. Alone. Surrounded by a ruthless ocean. And yet, I’m strangely calm. Where I’m most vulnerable, even defenseless, what that weakness does grant me is the elimination of fear.
Acceptance can cauterize any fear. All the pain, all the struggle, every consuming desire for revenge?—
It’s as simple as letting go.
As the waves swell dangerously, tossing the boat, I ease the throttle back. A rough breaker jerks the bow sideways. My grip slips from the wheel.
“God—dammit.” By the time I regain control, it’s too late to correct course.
In the moments before a violent impact, it’s surreal how clear the world becomes. Details sharpen, senses heighten. The ocean the exact shade of Orion’s eyes when set in the deepest teal. The misty horizon like the dark gray ring around his irises. So fucking beautiful, like staring into a cluster of galaxies.
Silver glitters across the water, the beauty so vibrant—like the seconds before a knife cracks skin and slices past ribs. How clear and sparkling the lights shone above the stage. They should’ve looked just as vibrant when I danced beneath them. Those seconds of my final performance savored, rather than the terror before it all went dark.
“Shit—”
I wrench the wheel, trying to maneuver away from the rock. The metallic scrape reverberates through my cells as the craft tilts, pitching me off balance. My shoulder slams hard against the side. Another wave punches the hull. Water floods past the breach.
All around, water churns in a furious vortex as rip currents build, gripping the boat and dragging it down. I feel the violent force of that gravity, only recalling too late what Orion told me about enhanced gravitational pull on the oceans when the earth, moon, and sun align.
I turn my face skyward, witnessing the first touch of shadow darken the sun. A gust of wind snatches the bitter laugh from my lips as the biting water rushes around my legs.
And for a suspended heartbeat, the bright shards scattered across the water become reflected stars. Stage lights that once glimmered. Fireflies tossed by the wind, fragile yet resilient against the elements and the oppressive darkness.
We shouldn’t be so fragile, altered by one cruel moment—but once caught in the fury of a storm, our resilience is as frail as a shell cracked in a ruthless clutch.
I brace against the inevitable, the ache in my heart a fierce reminder of the fleetingness of it all.
My breath seizes as the ocean sucks in a breath and draws back—right before a giant wave rises up like a claw.
I watch it crash over the vessel.
That one defining moment may have fractured my life, but I’m the one who let it become a pattern. My own symmetry of trauma and violence.
The world now so clear, so bright, upends.
And the boat capsizes.
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.
—SARAH WILLIAMS,THE OLD ASTRONOMER TO HIS PUPIL
20
Totality
What doesn’t transmit light creates its own darkness.
