Okay, yes, I like things tidy. Call it only-child syndrome. Chessa, who has shared space with her twin sisters since they were born, is more relaxed about mess.
“I could have been anywhere,” I argued.
She paused in digging through the scattered piles of clothing to snort at me. “Please. Jo, the two of you are twisted up so tight that when he breathes funny, you’re the one that sneezes.”
“That’s not—”
“If his building was going down in flames, you would use that as an excuse to go inside and warn him personally.”
“That’s not exactly a bad thing—”
“And he would tell you he had it under control and he didn’t need your help,” she finished.
I grimaced. “Fair. I guess.”
“You guess? You act like I haven’t had a front row seat to this codependent shitshow for the last year and a half.” She shook her head. “The two of you are messed up.”
It was the closest moment to normal that we’d had since I’d told her the truth.
And it couldn’t last.
“He’s not my favorite person, never has been.” She held up a black sweatshirt, smelled the armpits, and deemed it acceptable enough to add to our “take” pile. “But you should leave him out of this.”
I looked up from where I was searching for my other snow boot. “I tried to leave both of you out of this!”
“I get that it’s probably… lonely,” she said, her mouth a moue of distaste. “But if you really care about him, you need to let him go.”
I stood up, then. “Why him and not you?”
“Because I’m here for Daan and to keep other people from being hurt,” she said wearily. “But Carter is here foryou.”
And fuck if my heart didn’t immediately plummet toward the messy floor.
Chessa and I didn’t talk any more after that, except in essentials about what to take and when to leave.
But now, hours later, I can’t stop thinking about what she said.
If Chessa wants to help Daan and other people who might be affected, and Devon wants me to accept a role as the new Death, those are their motives for doing this. But Carter doesn’t have one. Carter is—can only be—here for me.
Which leads to the part she isn’t saying. If Carter dies, he dies because of me.
“I think they’re bonding over sharp objects,” Carter says to me, tipping his chin toward Chessa and Devon in the checkout line. The two of us are on the other side of the register, waiting.
Chessa is holding up a hacksaw in one hand, gesturing enthusiastically with the other hand, mimicking a back and forth sawing motion. Devon nods and reaches into the cart to remove the other saws, handing them to the baffled cashier.
“Should we be alarmed?” Carter asks dryly.
“Probably,” I say with a sigh. “Especially because I think they’re bonding more over being stuck with me.” Devon would rather have someone more eager to be Death, and Chessa would just rather have someone else.
Carter wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me to his side.
I tense at first, mostly out of surprise and habit. But worrying about whether our relationship might be whispered about suddenly feels like fretting over a speck of sand in my eye when a whole-ass beach is getting ready to pour down on us.
Carter presses a kiss to my temple. “You know, we can still leave, just go,” he whispers.
In a flash, I have a vision of what that life might look like. Fresh brewed coffee in the mornings in matching mugs, a bed with crisp white sheets, with a smooth expanse on the opposite side where he would join me.
Carter in his glasses at night, reading on his tablet. My own stack of books and work on the table next to me. The two of us arguing over the latest pop psychology theory circulating on social media. His body over mine, our hands linked, soft murmurs in the dark.
