“Space for what?”
“Whatever the hell you want,” she says. “Your own thoughts. Peace. The kind of quiet that doesn’t come with consequences.”
God, I want that.
I lean my head back against the couch and close my eyes.
“I think I’ll miss his voice,” I say quietly. “Even when he was cruel, there was something about the way he said my name. Like I was his tether to the world.”
Skye doesn’t answer right away. When she does, her voice is soft. “Maybe you were. But you shouldn’t have to be someone’s anchor if they’re just going to drag you under.”
That one hits somewhere deep.
I open my eyes, blinking against the sudden sting.
“He’s never been okay,” I say. “Not really. Not since the beginning. I used to think he just needed more time. More love. Like I could patch the holes if I just stretched myself thin enough. But I was never the solution. Just a distraction.”
“Yeah,” Skye says. “A convenient one. Because if he focused on your flaws—real or imagined—he didn’t have to look at his own.”
The weight of it settles heavy in my chest.
“I was fifteen when we met,” I say. “Can you believe that? Fifteen. And I made it my mission to save him.”
“I was there. I remember. And you weren’t equipped for that. No one is. Not even now.”
“I didn’t want to give up on him.”
“I know.” Skye nods. “You’re not giving up. You’re choosing yourself. And I hate that it took this long for you to believe you could.”
We sit in the quiet for a while. Just breathing.
“I done word vomiting. Is there ice cream in the freezer?” I say after a minute.
Skye’s already on her feet. “IS. THERE. ICE. CREAM. IN. THE. FREEZER. What the hell kind of house do you think this is?”
I laugh. “I don’t know. You arrived at the same time I did.”
“Yeah. From the Gilmores’ house. I had dinner over there tonight and already stocked the fridge earlier today. And even if I hadn’t—there’s always ice cream in this house. My dad treats pints of Ben & Jerry’s like stock options.”
She disappears into the kitchen and returns a minute later with two pints and a pair of mismatched spoons. “Half Baked or Cherry Garcia?”
I reach for the first one without thinking. “If you know the answer, why do you ask?”
“Because I’m committed to the illusion of choice.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes, curled up on opposite ends of the couch like we’re twenty again and staying up late to dissect dreams we didn’t know would unravel the way they did.
“Do you think he’ll hate me?” I ask eventually.
“Chase?”
I nod.
“He’ll pretend he does,” she says. “Because that’s easier than admitting he lost the one person who never gave up on him.”
I stab my spoon into the pint. “He’s going to go ballistic.”
“Maybe he needs to.”
