“I don’t,” he says simply.
“Only Sam has powers?”
“I used to have them. After I tripped Sam, they disappeared. Apparently, there’s a trade-off.”
“That’s a big one.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Death tripping got to be lonely. I needed someone.”
“So, you sucked your best friend into this nightmare?”
He slowly turns us. A haunting new song fills the silence. Finally, he says, “Yes. I did that.”
I shut my eyes.
“I shouldn’t have,” he continues. “I know that. I was lonely. And I needed Sam with me. I’m not justifying it. I’m just telling you. I can’t take it back, so the only thing to do is have fun with it.”
I place my hands on his shoulders and push, creating a good distance between us. “Yeah, it’s a fucking joyride. It’s been over four hours now. Where is he? Where the fuck is Sam?”
“What? You’re not having fun with me? Of course you are. Stop worrying.”
“No. No, I’m not going to stop worrying. You don’t know shit about this. Is there some…some book of rules I don’t know about?”
“Well, no, but—”
“But nothing. Maybe there’s a limit on how many times you can die. Maybe his limit is different than yours. Maybe he’s dead for real this time.” I am incredulous—and increasingly furious—that Costa chose death tripping without having any real grip on what it is.
“Stella, he’s not—”
“You don’t know that!” I’m full-on yelling at him now, but I can’t stop. “My life was a complete fucking disaster until I came here and found Sam. I pulled my shit together, and for once, everything felt clear and normal. Then, you show up and blow it all to hell!”
“Stop, okay?” He looks broken, but that doesn’t slow me down.
“He didn’t need this. He wouldn’t have chosen this. You’re like me. Your life was a disaster, and youneededdeath tripping. People like you and me have to escape somehow, but Sam wasn’t like that until you made him need this. You tripped Sam, and Toby died because of that, so losing your son is onyou.” Before the words are out of my mouth, I regret them—deeply.
Costa reaches for the bottle again and leans against the wall. He cracks his neck and then takes a long drink. He’s stoic, but he can’t hide the hurt. “Well, that was brutal. Do you feel better now?”
“No.” I walk to him. “No. I’m sorry.”
He takes another drink and wipes the back of a hand over his eyes.
“Really sorry. Costa, that was awful.I’mawful.” I nod at the tequila.
He holds the bottle to my mouth, and I drink more than I should. But it’s what I want—to feel numb. Then, I put my arms around his waist and hug him close, attempting to undo some of the damage that I’ve just inflicted. He doesn’t move, but I don’t let go.
“There’s no blame in any of this. I’m sorry for what I said. And, God, I’m so sorry your son died. That’s unbearable. It’s the only thing that matters in all of this. Sam told me what a great father you were and how much you loved Toby.”
Costa moves a hand to my back and drops his forehead onto my shoulder. “We couldn’t trip him. We tried. He was nowhere.”
“I know. Sam told me that you did everything you could. You both did.”
Together, we stand like this for what feels like forever, yet it also feels like no time.
Later, he takes out his cell and shows me a picture of a toddler with hair as dark as his and eyes just as intriguing. The child is holding a raggedy stuffed lion over his head and smiling at the camera.
“I miss him every second of every hour.” He tucks the picture away. Then, Costa says something that nearly breaks me, “I lost Toby. I can’t lose Sam, too.”
I grab fistfuls of his shirt in my hands. “Sam’s been gone too long, hasn’t he?” It hurts to even ask.
