The first thing I notice is a faint smell. Like cleaning chemicals or burned rubber. Sawyer’s beside me, her breathing still shaky. I offer my hand, doubting that she’ll take it, but she does.
“Don’t look up,” I say, walking us forward. “We’ll go right to the lockers, then get the fuck out of here.”
I should take my own advice, but like a fool, I glance up at the platform. My chest feels like it wants to cave in. We were all the way up there. He was right behind us.Fucking hell.
Sawyer tugs on my hand. “The lockers.”
Right. Focus.
We walk to the locker area on the side of the switchbacks. There must be a hundred of them, doors all open, except for two.
Ours.
And Owen’s.
“There they are,” Sawyer says, breathless.
I go to ours first, punching in the code. It beeps and swings open, revealing the things we packed carefully inside. My wallet, phone, keys, sunglasses. I grab it all, shoving my dead phone and wallet into my back pocket.
Sawyer grabs her purse and slings it over her shoulder. She doesn’t dig for her phone or check to see if everything’s still there in her bag. Her eyes are set on the one locked locker. Owen’s.
We go to it like we’re walking a funeral procession. Sawyer tilts her head for me, telling me wordlessly that she wants me to open it.
“I don’t know the code.”
She bites her lip and breathes out. “Try his birthday.”
0416.
It beeps, opening for us. Sawyer releases a breath.
I start to grab the contents—his ball cap, keys, phone, wallet. I hold my breath as I spot the last item.
A velvet box.The ring.
Sawyer sees it and lets out an inhuman moan. She grabs the locker door like her legs are giving out.
“No, no, no, no…”
“Sawyer. Don’t?—”
She reaches for the box with shaking hands and opens it.
The ring is beautiful. I said so when he showed me. A delicate gold band with a big rock, simple but in a showy way. Not what I’d choose for Sawyer, but beautiful nonetheless.
She stares at it and then she breaks.
I catch her before she hits the ground, pulling her against my chest while she sobs. Her whole body shakes and these wrenching sounds tear through her like she’s being ripped apart from the inside. We settle on the ground against the lockers.
“I know,” I say into her hair, my own throat so tight I can barely get the words out. “I know, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
She’s clutching Owen’s phone in one hand, the ring box in the other, and she’s crying so hard she can’t breathe. Gasping, choking sounds that make my chest ache.
I hold her tighter. My ribs scream in protest but I don’t care. I’d hold her forever if it would make her feel any better.
But I’m afraid nothing will help. Not now.
I want to cry with her, but my gaze is fixated on that ring box. And I feel like a fucking monster that a small part of me is happy that I’ll never have to see it on her finger. That afternoon when he showed it to me, beaming with excitement, I wanted to pilfer it from his grasp and toss it into oblivion. But I didn’t. I smiled and nodded all while wanting to punch him in the face.
