It’s the day before Christmas Eve; the usual joggers and walkers and bikers are probably doing their last-minute shopping, so the park is less crowded than usual. I sit on a bench and watch a chubby guy with a beard throw a tennis ball for a sheltie in the dog area. All around is the hum of traffic, the noise of the city.
When the minivan pulls into the parking lot, my nerves shoot sparks.
It’s been a week since what happened in the woods. I haven’t seen Gabe since he disappeared into the back of the ambulance that night; and while we’ve been texting back and forth nonstop, I’m suddenly nervous to be face-to-face with him. Even though by now he knows some of the story—the news has covered the basics—there’s still so much to confess, to explain.
I’ve never stood in front of him as myself. Not completely.
The side panel swings open, and the first thing I see is Vivi, waving frantically. She’s holding a stuffed armadillo and beaming at me. “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” she calls.
“Merry Christmas, yourself,” I say, getting up from the bench and moving closer. She holds the armadillo out toward me. I take it and make it dance along her lap, and she squeals with delight.
The passenger side door swings open, and Gabe steps carefully out. It’s surreal to be able to look at him directly in the light of day, without fear that we might be seen. There’s almost a rush to it. He’s wearing a loose black T-shirt that says SATAN’S CHEERLEADERS, and his curls are adorably tousled. He grins at me, that cocky sideways grin that pulled me in from the start.
Before he can even say hi, Mrs. Jiménez leans across the seat.
“You must be Elyse,” she says.
I nod, not sure if I should move to shake her hand or something. I don’t remember how normal teenagers talk to adults.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” she says, hesitating. “How’re you doing?”
I don’t know how to answer, so I just say, “I’m okay.”
“Mom,” Gabe says. “We only have, like, an hour.”
“Okay, okay.” She frowns. “I’m running your sister to her playdate. I’ll be back in a bit. You have your phone? Water bottle? How’s your pain?”
“Mom,” he says again, more firmly this time. “I’m fine. Thanks for the ride.”
She purses her lips like she’s about to say something. Then she sighs, and starts the car.
“Bye, bye, Leese,” Vivi says sadly. She waves at me again. She makes the armadillo wave. “Bye, bye.”
“Bye, Vivi.” I watch them drive away, more because I’m almost afraid to look directly at Gabe than anything else. But once they’re gone I can’t put it off. I bite my lip and turn to face him.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say too. After all we’ve been through it feels ridiculous to start with “hey,” so I smile. And then he smiles too, and I’m almost overcome by the sweetness of it, the innocence. Our fingers slide together.
“I like your hair,” he says.
I touch the back of my head. I had one of the girls in the group home I’ve been staying at help me with it. It’s short now, just below my ears, and dyed back to the dark blonde that’s my natural color.
“Thanks,” I say. “I feel lighter now.”
“It makes you look . . . different.”
A quick surge of anxiety runs through me. “Different bad?”
“No.” He hesitates. “Less, like . . . hidden. But it’s good.”
I lick my lips, glance around. “Should we sit down?”
“Let’s walk,” he says. He pats his shoulder. “It’s not like I got shot in the leg.”
We take the path that skirts the lake. The city skyline is reflected in the dark water below. An egret floats placidly in the rushes. I look down at my feet, more from habit than anything else. My purple sneakers were ruined in the woods—they were covered in blood—but I found a pair of slip-ons in the donation bin at the social worker’s office.
“How’re you feeling, anyway?” I ask.
“Okay. It still hurts like a bitch, but they’ve got me on some pretty good drugs.” He gives a lopsided grin.
I try to smile, but my mouth feels dry. “Yeah, well, be careful with that stuff,” I say. “I mean . . . not to be a nag. But it’s not, like, recreational.”
His expression softens. “Shit. I forgot about your mom.”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m not accusing you of . . .” I bite the inside of my cheek, take a deep breath. “You know, Becky—the social worker—says the hardest thing for me is going to be learning that the worst doesn’t always happen.”
He doesn’t answer, just squeezes my hand. I force myself to look up. I don’t have to stare at the ground all the time anymore. I have to learn to look at the sky again.
“And she’s right,” I say. “I mean . . . you could have been killed, but you weren’t. We survived.”
“Yeah.” He strokes the inside of my wrist with his thumb. “And with Sasha caught out there with a gun, my name’s been cleared. No more po-po on my ass. She gave them a full confession, I guess . . . she told them she was the one that started the fire.”
I give a little shiver, remembering her expression in the spinning blue-and-red lights the other night. It wasn’t the gun that’d made her scary. It was the rush of recognition when I saw her turn it on herself. It was knowing that, while her brokenness wasn’t the same as mine, there was a way in which we were sisters.
“What’s going to happen to her?” I ask. “Are they charging her?”
“Yeah. But she’s got the best lawyer money can buy. She’ll end up with parole and some sort of court-mandated treatment program,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I heard her parents are looking at therapeutic boarding schools. The further away, the better, if you ask me.”
I give a little laugh. Boarding school. It doesn’t seem fair, after everything she put us through. But then, who am I to claim I know what anyone deserves? I just killed a man, and yet I’m walking free.
I’ve dreamed about him every night. And they’re the worst dreams—because they aren’t about Aiden as I came to know him, paranoid, possessive, territorial. They’re about the Aiden I fell for. The one who made me feel loved, and seen. And in the dream I still shoot him. I still shoot this man I love. I wake up with the metal taste of loss in my mouth, in the early morning hours before I have a chance to remember how angry I am. I lie in bed and wipe away tears, and by the time I’m completely awake I’m more mad at myself for crying than I am at him.
I’m finally free of him, but he’s still got a hold on me, at least in my dreams. I wonder if I’m ever going to be able to move on. If I’ll ever be able to forgive myself—not just for killing him. For everything. For all the choices I’ve made.
“Gabe . . .” I take a deep breath. His fingers tighten around mine reassuringly. “I’m so sorry for all of this. I wish I hadn’t lied to you. I wish I . . . I’d just trusted you. Instead I dragged you into my mess.”
He stops, turns to face me. Puts his palm on the back of my neck so I’m looking up into those warm, dark eyes.
“You didn’t drag me anywhere.” He caresses my hairline with his fingertips. It makes my breath catch a little in my throat. “And besides . . . if we got into some kind of apology contest, I don’t know who would win. Sasha could have killed either one of us. Or both.”
“It’s different,” I whisper. “You didn’t choose that. She was unhinged. But I . . . I’m the one who got in that car in Portland and let Aiden drive me away. I’m the one who set my own life on fire.”
A sweet little crease springs up between his eyes.
“You know you’re the victim, right? That guy was twice your age. He knew better. You . . .”
I look away. “Yeah,” I say quickly. “I know.”