“That’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fucking fair, Jules,” Alex says taking a step closer, her eyes no longer shimmering with tears but raging with an anger I’ve rarely seen from her.
It makes me flinch.
“It’s cruel, and it takes, and it takes, and it takes,” she continues.
“Alex,” Chloe warns, putting herself between us.
“I can’t stop,” Alex yells, her voice scratchy and raw and full of grief. “Don’t you get it? I can’t stop because if I do, then I think too much. Then all this pain, all this constant heartbreak and disappointment becomes too much, and I can’t breathe.”
As if the mere mention of oxygen triggers something, she stops and takes several deep breaths, hyperventilating in a way that has me reaching out. But she steps out of my reach, motioning for me to leave her be. I watch as she bends over with her hands on her knees, struggling to breathe.
“It feels like I’m drowning,” she finally says, her voice cracking. When her breathing finally regulates, she stands and presses her palm to her chest. “We didn’t even get to see the Northern Lights.”
I slowly approach, sidestepping Chloe’s extended arm, her weak attempt to prevent me from closing the distance. My best friend is hurting, and I don’t know what to do to stop it.
Alex stares at her feet, her chest still heaving. When I reach her, I try again and gently press my hand to her cold cheek and tilt her face up to look at me.
“There are people here who love you.”
Her eyes dart from side to side, staring at my face like she’strying to register what I’m saying. But her gaze is distant. As if she’s completely closed herself off. “Like you?”
It’s not her question that startles me but the tone of her voice. It sounds disbelieving, almost condescending. “Yes, of course like me.”
“Yeah, well,” she twists her head away from my touch, “maybe you shouldn’t.”
Her words slice through the pain like a kill shot. I know they’re coming from a place of hurt, but it still stings. “You’re just saying that because you’re scared.”
“Scared of what? Losing the people I love? News flash, Jules. That’s already happened.”
I try to tell her she’s wrong, that Idolove her. That I’vealwaysloved her since we were seven years old. But part of me knows she isn’t in the headspace to believe it. So I stand silently while a cold breeze passes through the space between us.
“Not cool, Alex,” Chloe quietly says from behind.
Alex doesn’t back down or apologize. “I need some space,” she says, clearly doubling down, and walks through the gate, leaving my jacket hanging from one of the fence posts as she goes.
I start to follow, but Chloe puts her hand on my shoulder. “Let her go,” she says gently.
For the past several years, I feel like that’s all I’ve been doing: letting her go.
A lump forms in the middle of my throat, one that’s impossible to swallow. I should be used to this. Used to watching Alex walk away. She’s done it so much, I didn’t think it was possible for her to break my heart any more than she already has.
Turns out, I was wrong.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Alex
The days blur together. It’s as if time and space don’t exist, and I’m just going through the motions. Roll out of bed, move to the couch, stare at the muted television, order food, brush my teeth, get back into bed. Repeat. Sometimes I get a flower delivery and add them to the pile next to my dirty laundry.
My mom texts, asking if I’ve eaten. I send her a picture of the half-empty box of fried rice. Texting I can handle. Mostly. Short messages. After several days of sending everyone straight to voice mail, pretty much everyone stopped calling. Other than Jules, Chloe, and my mom. It’s exhausting, assuring people I’m okay when I’m not. But my heart’s still beating, proof that I’m somehow alive.
When I wake up this morning, there’s a text from Jules. It’s a photo of a flower stem bursting through the ground. I’m not sure what kind, maybe a tulip or a daffodil. I wonder if the picture has some kind of double meaning, like regrowth or new beginnings. Life after death or something symbolic like that.
Or maybe she sent it because she’s excited about the flowers making their first appearance like she is every spring.
I groan and toss my phone on the bed, not sure how to handle symbolism in my current state. Throwing back the covers, I slide out of bed and push open the curtains, squinting when the sun filters through the windows. It’s the first time I’ve seen daylight in days.
