Page 22

The ones that I recognize, no questions asked; they’ve smiled at me over melting ice cream and small talk at the library.

Just as quickly as I reveal them, he pushes me against the wall. Not hard enough to hurt me, but hard enough to scare me. He keeps me pinned there, reminding me who it is who holds the power. The pressure is a warning of what he can do if he really wants to.

“You get to know me on my terms—understand?” He roars so intensely I can feel the vibration through his body and into mine.

I nod, fear taking over, and the boldness I felt before crawling back into its hole. He holds me there, not letting go, making me feel his strength and control, letting it sink in exactly how small and breakable I am in his grip. Then, finally, he releases me. He moves quickly, snatching his hat from the floor before vanishing out the back door and into the woods behind my house.

It’s too late to hide; I saw him. I know who he is.

7

Darling

The door doesn’t latch behind me, but I can’t find even a speck of care or concern. Preston will find his way in there whether it’s closed or not.

It’s been raining for days; my backyard is nearly a pond, large puddles coming together to connect. I don’t choose to go down; my body just stops holding itself up, and I find myself staring up at the sky. The second I land, the coldness climbs up my spine, soaking my clothes.

Rain lands straight on my face, but I can’t be bothered to turn my head away from it.

Somewhere around me, glass is still scattered from where I screamed out the back door at the treeline and threw the last bouquet. I can’t see it, but I know it’s here.

Blaire is far away, buried in Ohio.

Amber eyes haunt me.

I hold both of these facts at once, but they feel as if they belong to two different lives. No version of me is built to carry both. The rain begins to pool in my ears; it muffles the world around me, and I do nothing to stop it. It’s easier to hear nothing.

I think about how much better off I would be if I just stayed here. I’m not sure I’ve consciously decided or if I’ve finally signed the mental permission slip that allows me to think that way.

The cold would take its time, but it would be thorough about it. Eventually, it’ll become my baseline; I’ll stop shivering, and it’ll no longer hurt. That’s what people say anyway: that your body stops fighting to stay warm and gives up. I wonder if Caleb felt anything similar to peace on his way out, or if it was only ever fear. He deserved it to be only fear.

I wonder if Blaire felt anything at all, or if he was fast enough that she didn’t have time to.

It feels like my head begins to shrivel around that thought—a slug under the wrath of salt. I don’t sob. I’m past that part; I’m not sure I have any more tears left anyway. It sits in me, weighing me down. I could let this be it.

The universe wouldn’t care either way. The rain will keep coming down, the world will keep spinning, I’ll become a nice little treat for the soil and wild animals that find me. For a while, that thought conveys the closest thing to comfort I’ve had in days. In the abyss of eternal darkness, there will be no Preston, no Ghost, no notes signed with a stranger’s love and stupid fucking flowers I don’t want. I let my eyes close.

That’s when I hear her. Not really—I know that. Even in the moment, I’m aware, but some worn-out track in my head plays her voice anyway. It’s as clear as if she were already standing over me, arms crossed and the look of disappointment already sitting on her face.

Get up, Wynn, you’re acting insane. I love you, but get the hell up.

It isn’t peace that cracks through me… it’s fury. Sudden, ugly, and entirely mine. Because Blaire never, not one single time in six years of friendship, let me lie down in the mud and give up. She dragged me off bathroom floors, sat with me through the worst nights, and never suggested that giving up might be easier. And yet, here I am, soaking into the dirt, doing the exact thing she kept me from doing to myself. She died, refusing to let this happen to me, and I’m out here trying to finish the job.

Preston watched me for nine months before he ever sent a note. He buried Caleb out in these very woods. He killed my best friend because she loved me enough to tell me the truth, and then he sent bouquets to apologize for it.

Something in my being has felt off—since the gaming room, maybe—or longer, since the first time Caleb’s hand found my face and a younger, softer version of me quietly decided this was just what love costs, locks into place. Not healed or okay, just aimed, finally at something outside of myself.

I don’t want to die in this yard. I want him to understand, cell by cell, what exactly it costs to take things that were never his. I sit up slow, water running off my face in a thin, steady stream, and I look at my hands, as if I’m seeing them for the first time. Shaking, yes. Cold, absolutely. But mine.

The porch light flickers on at my movement, and I watch the broken glass catch it in dozens of small, sharp points of light. It’s something trying its best to still be beautiful, even after it’s been shattered.

Just like me, I think, and almost laugh. It comes out closer to a sob, but it’s a start.

The grass releases me when I push myself up from the ground, squelching beneath, not wanting to let go just yet. My clothes are heavy and useless, plastered against every inch of me, but I don’t bother attempting to wring them out. I stand there for a second, swaying slightly, feeling the cold really settle into my bones now that I’m upright.

Blaire would tell me to shower before I catch pneumonia on top of everything else. She’d tell me to eat something in that exact same tone she used the night she handed me those fleece pajamas. Grief doesn’t give me an excuse not to take care of myself.

She’s not here to say any of it, so I say it to myself instead, quietly and into the rain. A promise I’m making to a version of her I’ll carry from now on.