In the elevator, my heart starts pounding too hard. The fear I felt under JT’s influence was real, at least some of it. And it stemmed from this upcoming moment. Being confronted by the real-life effects of my friendship upon my friends.
I back up until the elevator wall presses against me, offering support. And then, before I can stop myself, I reach for Devon’s hand.
After a millisecond of hesitation, his warm fingers wrap around mine, and the relief is instant. I immediately feel less alone.
Why do I keep reaching for him? It’s like having discovered this open doorway, I can’t stop rushing through it.
I should pull away, shake off the comfort his touch brings. It’s just another weakness that can be exploited. And Devon wants something from me, no question. He’s been very upfront about it.
But I don’t. Maybe because he has been honest about wanting me to take on this role as Death. Or maybe because with Devon, I don’t have to maintain that constant level of awareness that comes with touching someone who’s human. He is more than capable of letting me know if I’m accidentally taking from him, and of fighting back.
Or maybe because he is, simply, someone who actually understands what it is to live between both of these worlds and never fit in with either of them.
There are times when, even though I love Chessa and Daan—and oh God, possibly Carter—I feel like I’m trapped on the other side of an invisible wall from them. I can talk, laugh, and interact with them, and sometimes even temporarily forget that the wall is there. But inevitably I always smack into it at one point or another, face-first.
Whether it’s because I always have to be aware of my hunger and take steps to carefully sate it, or because they’re already working to build a future away from Beecher while I’m working out how to stay, or because my little family is incredibly fucked up. I mean, lots of dads teach their daughters life skills; most of them are not accompanying them to their first murders. And most mothers aren’t afraid of their daughters.
The wall is there, dividing me from my fully human friends.
With Devon, there is no wall. Or if there is, we’re both on the same side of it.
“It’s going to be all right, Jo,” Devon says as we both face forward, staring at the floors lighting up on the horizontal indicator.
“You don’t know that,” I say, but all the heat is gone from my voice.
“You’re right, I don’t,” he acknowledges. He glances towardme, offering a small smile. “I guess I’m just telling you what I would have liked to hear.”
When his family cheered on the death of the girl he loved. My heart aches for him. “I’m sorry about being shitty before.”
He shifts toward me. “You’re entitled. It’s a shitty hand you’ve been dealt, and I’m sorry to be the one bringing it to your attention.”
“I’m not,” I say, letting him hear the honesty in my voice. “At least you understand what you’re asking.”
“Doesn’t make it easier,” he says softly.
I scan his face. Now that I know what I’m looking for, I can see past the handsome features and the quick smile to the pain and exhaustion underneath. The constant struggle under the burden he’s been carrying, and the tiniest flicker of hope that I will be able to change that.
“And I’m sorry about what happened to Amelia,” I blurt. For someone to love you like that, with utter commitment and willingness to sacrifice? I envy her, just a little.
Devon’s hand tightens on mine reflexively. I’m poking my finger around a still-open wound.
“I don’t think I said it before, but I should have,” I continue.
His gaze fixes on me, as if to commit my features to memory. “You may not be what JT was expecting, but you are exactly what I hoped for,” he says simply. No flirtation, no attempt to sway, just the words. “Thank you.”
Heat rises in my cheeks, and I don’t know how to respond. Except part of me wants to pull him closer, to press right against him as if to trap our mutual pain between us, muting it or even eliminating it with our closeness.
Or perhaps to soothe ourselves in the shared ache, one no one else can understand.
For a second, just a moment, I wonder what it would be like to be with him. To touch without having to be careful, to speak without having to watch every word, to be myself. Whoever that is.
But even just thinking about it makes me feel more naked and vulnerable than I ever have before. Even when I was actually naked and vulnerable.
Devon knows me in a way that no one else in Beecher does, no one else anywhere, really. Which means whatever happens between us, if anything, would mattermoresomehow.
I guess that same wall that divides me from Chessa, Daan, and Carter also helps me feel safe.
The corner of Devon’s mouth quirks up in a sad smile, and we both retreat at the same time.
