“I’m sorry,” I say as we stand there, lost in the moment.
“It’s okay,” he mumbles. “We knew it was coming. I just… wanted to be home when this happened.”
He wanted to be there for his sister.
“Iknow,” I say as I glance up at him.
He swallows hard. “There’s nothing we can do. Not until we get home.”
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, Ingrid,” he says, his voice rough and raw. “I can’t process this right now. I just want to get through the next five minutes.”
“Okay.”
Cash is up ahead, waiting for us. I know I should warn him, but he’s on his cell phone, and by the way he’s reading whatever is on the screen, I’m guessing Elowyn texted him.
Or someone did.
We don’t talk as we head over to Cash. When we reach him, he doesn’t say anything, but he gives Wilder a long look.
The kind that says he’s giving his best friend space, but he’s not going too far.
When we reach the Cadillacs, I hand out the spray paint. Cash immediately steps forward and starts writing.
But Wilder hangs back.
Torn between staying next to him and letting him have room to breathe, I hesitantly follow Cash.
I’m not sure what to write. How to sum up this trip.
I wouldn’t call it life-changing, but I wouldn’t call it boring either.
The last time we came through here, we were getting ready to head into the eye of the storm.
All of Wilder’s secrets came out.
Maybe I forgave him a little too fast. But maybe that’s what you do when you understand someone the way I understand Wilder.
He’s not a bad person who was hiding NYU and Margot because he wanted to hurt me. He just hadn’t processed it the way he needed to.
I still don’t think he’s processed it fully.
People like Fanny and Isla expect perfection. They want everything tied up neat and shiny, even if they aren’t.
But that’s not life. People are human. They’re going to make mistakes. They’re going to make the wrong decision sometimes.
Cash did.
Wilder did.
I’m sure one day down the line, I will, too.
I didn’t offer Cash the same forgiveness I’ve offered Wilder. I didn’t let him off the hook the same way.
And I think I’m finally ready to admit—at least to myself—why.
I wanted out.
