Chapter forty-six:
I hold Carrie to my chest and I breathe her in. Her body bends with mine as we stand, wrapped up in each other and each other’s pain.
Her dad.
My dad.
Both tormentors.
Both traitors to their wives and their children.
Both cowards.
And liars.
And bad, bad men.
No wonder there’s so much anger inside her. So much grief. No wonder she looked so frightened when she saw me; she probably thought that we still talked—good ol’ Dad and I.
“I haven’t spoken to him since it happened,” I say. “I just want you to know. It’s important that you know.”
She doesn’t flinch at my words, her breath doesn’t change, but her sobs begin to dissipate.
“He won’t be coming here,” I say. “Having me in your life does not mean you’ll have him too. It’s just me, Carrie.”
She lets out a sound that is something like a wail of pain. And I hug her closer, I kiss her head, I squeeze her, and the need to be closer to her, to ease her pain is almost suffocating. I can’t breathe for wanting to make her feel better. I can’t see straight for needing her to know that she’s safe. I’m drowning on so much information that I need to let her know. And sometimes a touch is what’s needed to make you feel better, but I know that a touch here will only hurt her more. So I keep holding her and keep kissing her and I keep her safe and I keep her warm and I’ll protect her no matter what.
“You have to let me go,” she eventually says.
I give a little laugh and loosen my grip on her. “I know,” I say. And I do, I know. I’m holding her too tight; I’ll hurt her if I’m not careful. “And you have to let me go.”
“We’re not good for each other,” she says though she doesn’t try to pull away.
And I think that’s strange. She says I need to let her go, yet she doesn’t try to let go herself. She holds me like I hold her. We’re both damaged souls trying to put our pieces back together. Maybe we can do it together.
We could fix each other.
“You frighten me,” she says.
“Me?”
“Yes, you’ve always frightened me,” she says, and now I let go, and I stand back from her, and my eyes scan her face as I try to see the truth behind these lies. Because that’s what they are, what they have to be. Lies.
“No,” I say, and I shake my head to show her I mean it. “No, not me.”
“Yes, Ethan. You.” Her eyelashes are damp; they are stuck together in clumps. Her really bad eye has actually opened up a bit. I’m not sure if it’s a natural thing or if she’s forced it open, but it’s strange and it makes her face look misshapen.
She takes a step back and I let her, because a bit of space is good sometimes, and I am good. I’m not like my dad. She sits on the edge of the bed and one hand goes to her ribs, which must be hurting her, and I feel a flush of shame wash over my face. It’s like a hot blanket being draped over me. I don’t like it.
“You were always so insistent. I was scared that you would do something really bad if I didn’t come over. If we didn’t stay friends. You always acted like we were life or death. Do you understand?” Her eyes are beseeching and I think she might be crazy. I think she was the one who needed locking up, not me.
Her lips are moving and words are coming out, but they don’t make sense.
“Not like the situation was life or death, butwewere. Like we could only be one or the other. We could be life but only together, or we could be death,” she says.
Her face is soft.
Her lies are hard.
