Page 233 of Breathe Like Hell

Micah’s hands cradling her head, his mouth pressing to hers, his breath pouring into her lungs as he exchanged her life for his own.

The red flame consuming his body on the pavement.

The silence after it was over.

I’d spent the last day trying to convince myself his death didn’t have to mean anything to me, that I could become numb to this, that I could survive it. I’d wanted him to die, at some point. I could have Dakota to myself now.

But none of those thoughts ever did anything to stop the swelling waves of despair crashing over me every time I breathed, shoving my head down below the surface, or the pure unbridled rage I felt thrashing in my skull.

He’d died before I got a chance to apologize to him.

He’d carried the truth of our last night together by himself while I knew nothing. He let me despise him for leaving without explanation. For years. That felt easier to him, and to me. I’d rather hate him than admit I missed him. He’d rather have me hate him than view him as a victim.

And then I’d called him a coward.

I’d told him he owed me answers.

I’d let my hatred shape my entire image of Micah, let it change how he existed in my mind.

Really, he was the only person who’d ever loved me how I was.

He fell from Heaven for me.

There was no other reason, nothing else he desired or needed from Earth, no pressure from Heaven to disappear. He just loved me that fucking much. Enough to give up his life.

He loved Dakota that much, too.

He gave up his life for her, too.

While my grief was the waves endlessly washing me under, my guilt was the weight wrapped around my ankle, pulling me down from below, murdering any chance of resurfacing I might’ve had. Not only because of what I’d done to Micah, but also because I should’ve been the one to give my life for Dakota. I should’ve gotten there first, should’ve been thinking faster.

I forced myself to walk over to Dakota as she sobbed, feeling incredibly unstable but less concerned about my violence because I couldn’t physically hurt her like I used to be able to. She would heal. She was safe from me now.

Or maybe she wasn’t.

Loving me is a death sentence.

I knelt beside her head, clasping her shaking hands between mine. I couldn’t be strong for her, though. I couldn’t be fucking anything except the disaster I’d been born as.

She cried like that for almost an hour, unable to move from her position on the floor, her body folded up small, her lungs gasping for air she couldn’t seem to find. Every few minutes she’d ask me a question, and I wished she’d stop doing it because every time I answered it seemed to make her worse.

Are you sure?

He’s really not in Heaven?

Can we bring him back?

Are you lying to me?

Her hair was dry now, but still tangled and rough from the seawater, dark grains of sand clinging to the lengths. She must’ve fallen on the beach. I regretted yelling at her, but I knew I’d do it again. And again. And again.

She’d scream at me too.

We didn’t function together, not the way I’d always wanted us to.

She needed him, and the only reason I was able to accept that truth now was because she’d lost him.

My throat tightened, tears stinging my eyes, my chest freezing all the air in my lungs.