“You’re better than this and you know it,” she hisses into my face. “You don’t actually believe in this shit. Love isn’t real!”
“YES IT IS,” I shout, using every last bit of my energy to twist and throw her off me right as the thundering crescendos to a fever pitch. She flies backward, flung like a rag doll.
Right into the side of the train as it flashes by.
I can’t hear myself scream in the vacuum of the tunnel, with the train roaring past and the blood pounding in my ears. But when I come up for air, my throat is raw.
The train is gone in an instant, speeding away as if Grant were nothing. Every part of me is numb, staggering to the platform’s edge like I’m dragging my own corpse. I can’t stop myself from looking for him, even if I know it’s going to be the worst sight of my life.
There, lying right between the rails, is Grant—face down, hands covering his head, one shoe untied.
Breathing hard.
He lifts his head and looks around; his face frozen in shock. Then he pushes up, checks himself over for injuries, and stares at me.
“Holy shit,” he exhales.
A strangled sound comes out of me as I collapse on the floor.
Grant scrambles to the edge of the platform and hoists himself up, then scoops me into his arms. His trembling fingers clutch the nape of my neck, his other arm wound tight around me. I bury my face in his shoulder, my fists twisting knots into his jacket.
“Lissa,” he says, out of breath, and we look up to find her crumpled on the ground—alive, though bloodied and failing in her effort to drag herself away.
The clatter from above reaches our level. The pedestriantunnel brightens with the bobbing of flashlights followed by a swarm of police, Wally leading the charge.
“Hands where I can see them!” he shouts at Lissa. Her battered hands are already in plain sight, splayed against the dusty tile floor, so she merely slumps in defeat.
All the air rushes out of me at once. It’s done.
Grant looks me over, studying me, his thumbs skimming my cheeks.
“We made it,” he says. “We’re okay.”
“We’re okay,” I echo, trying to believe it. Willing my limbs to stop shaking.
His mouth quirks into a soft smile, his face smeared with blood like mine must be.
“Hey,” he says gently. “You didn’t throw up.”
“I still might,” I say shakily. “I feel really sick.”
“I know.” He kisses the top of my head. “Baby steps.”
Beyond us, Wally reads Lissa her rights. She’s cuffed and carted away on a stretcher, while other officers mutter into radios and inspect the scene. Someone tries to offer us medical attention, which we decline; someone else gives us scratchy blankets and asks us pointless questions. We’re congratulated and smiled at and I can’t seem to feel the victory, only the finality of it all. Winning only happens at the end. This is the end.
As the police proceedings wrap up, Wally comes over to thank us for our help.
“You have Lesley to thank too,” says Grant.
Wally falls silent, his eyes fixed on the dirty floor. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I’ve dreaded those words for a long time,” he finally says. “Now I just wish he were here to gloat.” With a brusque throat-clearing, he straightens and adds, “Rest assured, he’ll be properly honored for his role. We’ll dedicate a plaque or a fountain or something.”
“A bench,” I say, my voice thick. “He’d love that.”
Wally nods. “A bench, then.”
He asks if we’re sure we don’t want to get checked out at the hospital, and when we tell him we’re fine, he offers us a lift home.
Home.The word sends a crackle of pain through my chest.
