My teeth chatter.My arms wrap around my body so tightly, I can’t breathe. I’m crushing my lungs.
Noah’s shoulders are flexed beneath the moonlight, his shirt discarded on the fence a few feet from the foot of the windmill and above my little menace’s body wrapped in the green blanket from my wrecked car.
What the hell is happening to my life?
This isn’t my house. I’ll probablynevercome back here, and I’m having to leave the body of my dog here. It’s so fucking wrong. And I’m so angry.
What was I thinking bringing him here? I should’ve left him with my mom. This was such a fucked-up thing to do.
“I’m so sorry, Bullet,” I whisper into the biting wind, my voice cracking under the weight of my own guilt.
Noah drives the shovel into the earth one last time, finishing the hole and turning to me. Sweat streaks down the side of his face, as his chest heaves from the physical exertion. “Are you ready, Rue?”
I swallow another sob and nod. “Yeah. I think so.”
Noah’s face remains expressionless as he takes a step toward the blanket. “Do you want me to…?”
“Yes,” I blink back the fresh tears. “Please.”
He ducks away from me and then scoops Bullet up in his arms. The thud of his boots is lost to the midnight breeze, and with a gentleness I’ve never seen from him, he places my dog into the hole.
“He was a good one and had a good few days here,” Noah says, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m so sorry, Rue.” When he opens his eyes, they meet mine, and a tear slips down his cheek. “I wish he had made it the whole way.”
I wipe the fresh stream from my cheeks. “Me, too.”
He nods and then grabs the handle of the shovel. A flicker of pain hits his expression as he scoops the dirt and starts filling the grave.
“I can help,” I take a step forward.
He shakes his head. “I’ve got it, honey.”
I watch him in heavy silence until he finishes, smoothing the dirt over the small mound. He drops the shovel, his chest heaving. Sweat glistens across his back and shoulders despite the freezing temperature.
He grabs his shirt from the fence, pulling it over his head, and walks back to me.
He doesn’t say anything. He just wraps his good arm around my trembling shoulders and pulls me into his side. I bury my face in his chest, completely drained of tears, left with nothing but a hollow, scraping ache in my throat.
“I can’t believe it happened. Here, of all places. He never made it to Mexico with us.” I inhale the scent of Noah through his shirt, desperate to calm the storm inside of me. Bullet had been with me througheverything.
“Let’s go inside,” Noah murmurs, his lips pressing to the crown of my head.
The walk back to the farmhouse feels like a march to the freaking gallows. When Noah pushes the back door open, and we step into the kitchen, I sniffle, my chest crushing inward. There’s no clicking of nails on the linoleum. There is no soft, rhythmic snoring from the living room rug.
The house feels entirely dead. And it’s not even my fucking house.
My knees buckle. I don’t even try to catch myself. I just sank toward the kitchen floor, the grief finally crushing whatever adrenaline was keeping me upright.
Everything is going wrong. I don’t want to leave Bullet here.
Noah catches me before I hit the linoleum. He sweeps me up into his arms, carrying me down the short hallway and into the spare bedroom. He sets me gently on the edge of the mattress, kneeling down in front of me in the dim light.
“Rue, look at me,” he says softly, his large, mud-stained hands cupping my face.
I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut. “I shouldn't have brought him. If I had just left him in Moccasin Cove?—”
“He would have spent the last week of his life wondering where you were,” Noah interrupts, his voice firm but gentle. His thumbs brush the tear tracks from my cheeks. “He died in your arms, Rue. That’s all he ever wanted. You didn’t fail him. You gave him one hell of an adventure, and he spent the last few days chasing birds and grasshoppers and snuggling with his favorite person.”
A broken sob escapes my lips, and I slump forward, resting my forehead against his shoulder. He holds me for a moment, his breath growing even and controlled. I cling to him before he pulls away.
