His face is hard, begging. “Answer my question. I dare you. Do you love me, Saige?”
I swallow hard against my dry throat and nod. “I do. But I’m not sure I can forgive you, and if I can’t forgive you—”
“I get it,” he interrupts me. “I get it, Saige.” His voice breaks. He reaches out and grabs my hand, placing it between both of his. “I love you. I always will, and if I could do things differently, I would. But I can’t. I was wrong, and I lied to you, and I will pay the consequences of that lie. I just hope that someday you’ll be able to forgive me.”
“Let me go,” I whisper to him. My eyes are cast down at my feet. I can’t bring myself to look into his.
“I wish I could,” he answers gently, tenderly. “I’ll give you time, but I’ll never let you go.” He backs away from me, taking small steps backwards. “I love you, Saige Phillips.” Those are the last words he speaks before he turns and walks away. His long legs carry him through the tall grass until he disappears over the hill.
I choke and a loud cry escapes from me. My stomach twists in pain, and I fall to my knees for the second time today, crying. I cry until I have no tears left, until I feel nauseous and tired. For a moment, I briefly understand why my dad gave up. The sense of hopelessness, despair, and pain having become all too consuming that it becomes easier to want to disappear rather than cope.
When my eyes finally dry out, I lay in the tall grass and stare at the gray sky while the clouds come and go and the air becomes colder, chilling me to the bone. I like the feel of the pain the cold provides, numbing my extremities. The physical pain provides an escape to the mental pain and the ache of my heart in my chest.
The sky grows dark, but I remain rooted in place, my back pressed against the hard, cold ground. My eyes are stinging from the dry air and from crying for hours, so finally, in my own way of giving up, I press my eyelids closed and succumb to the cold.
“Jesus Christ, Saige!” I can hear the voices and yelling, but it’s easy to ignore because I’m so tired. It’s only when I’m being lifted and jostled that I begin to understand what’s happening and feel the cold.
“How long has she been out here?” I hear the male voice, familiar but not recognizable.
“Hours,” Brent says, and I know he’s carrying me. “She’s freezing,” he yells. “Open the door.”
I find myself in the cab of Brent’s pick-up truck. It’s then that my body begins to shake uncontrollably, painfully.
“Hang on, Piglet,” he says, sliding into the driver’s seat. He presses the cell phone to his ear. “Found her. She’s frozen solid. I’m worried.” There’s a pause. “House or hospital?” I assume he’s speaking with my mom. The truck bounces over the uneven grass as the headlights shine on the dying grass. After a minute or two, we come to a screeching stop and my mom rushes out the back door, practically ripping the truck door open.
“Saige, what happened?” She asks, pressing her hands to my face. “Are you able to walk?”
I shake my head as my limbs ache and I try to move my fingers.
“Hypothermia,” my mom says, looking worriedly at Brent. “We should go to the hospital.”
“No,” I’m able to manage to say. “Just inside.”
“Help me get her inside,” my mom says, rubbing my hand between hers.
Brent lifts me from the car and I feel bad. I know I’m dead weight right now. He sets me carefully on the couch in the living room, and my mom plugs in a heating blanket, laying it over me. She pulls off my shoes and checks my feet and my fingers.
“Brent, grab the thermometer from the medicine chest in the bathroom and my stethoscope from my dresser.” She barks orders as if she’s at the hospital. “Saige, what were you doing?”
I shake my head and take a deep breath. “Holt left.”
She presses her lips together tightly. “He didn’t want to leave.”
“I know,” I say groggily.
“You pushed him away, didn’t you?” Her face is stern.
I nod and my body shivers excessively as the heating blanket finally begins warming me up.
“Here.” Brent shoves the thermometer at my mom and she turns it on, placing it under my tongue.
“I need to listen to your heart and take your pulse.” She presses the cold stethoscope just under the collar of my shirt and against my bare chest. Her fingers are pressed to my wrist as she looks at her watch.
When the thermometer beeps, Brent reaches over her and plucks it from my mouth. Ninety-five point two.
My mom shakes her head, displeased. “Take it again in five minutes. If it doesn’t go up, she’s going to the hospital.” Standing up, she paces the living room floor. Brent starts a fire in the fireplace, and my mom takes my temperature again, then she sits on the edge of the couch and gently massages my arm.