“Stop it. There’s nothing you could have done. If he wanted to do it, he was going to do it. Nothing you would’ve said would’ve changed what he felt inside him—the hatred and the loathing, the pain.”
I let go of his hand and feel myself start to come apart, so I compose myself. I can’t make this moment about me. I can’t.
He gives me a sidelong glance. “Don’t do it.”
“Colt.”
“Please,” he says.
We stand close to each other and stare into each other’s eyes waiting, wishing—for the same thing, for something different.
He lowers his head. “I can’t lose you, too,” he whispers.
I stare back at his brother’s headstone. “You’re strong,” I whisper and realize with every word, I’m admitting I haven’t changed my mind and that I’ve broken my promise already. I’m not trying.
His breathing increases. I turn to watch his concern transform into something angry, desperate. “Why are you doing this?” he says, grabbing me by the shoulders, shaking me slightly.
I bite my lip hard and taste blood. I want to run. I want to hide. The heat starts to spread in my body again. It snakes around my veins, penetrates my bones, absorbs into my skin. “Please, I . . . I just have to,” I admit. He makes me say words I don’t want to.
“No, you don’t,” he says, pulling me into him. “I’m here,” he whispers.
We hold each other for what seems like hours. The temperature rises in my body and I’m afraid I’m going to burn him. I gently move away, grab his hand, and lead him away from Ryan’s grave and this conversation.
We stop in front of Tate’s grave and the heat starts to dissipate a little.
“She was only six?” he asks.
The words are in my mouth. Yes, six and a half, I want to say, but instead I say, “I killed her.”
He stiffens and it’s like he’s afraid if he moves a finger I’ll know he’s really here and alive and he’ll have to respond. After a moment, he does. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring anything up. It’s just . . . I didn’t know how old she was. You don’t talk about her.” He starts moving again, shifting his feet in the grass.
I sit down in front of her grave like I usually do and pull on his arm so he sits with me. He settles in beside me. “We had this obsession with the moon and stars. I think I’m the reason she had it.” I smile at the memory of her face as she looked up into the sky. “I’ve always loved the night sky, there’s just something about it.” I let go of his hand and start picking at the grass. “She didn’t like the night at first; she hated it. I think her mind changed when I brought her lemonade one night before bed. It was an accident, how it happened. I had gotten some for myself and I went to her room and her face lit up, like it did when she wanted something.” I toss a pile of grass onto her gravestone. “She drank it all. Didn’t even leave me any.” I pause, trying to remember exactly what she said when I left. “She asked me to stay that night. I asked her why, and she said she had nightmares and woke up sometimes, and she’d see things in the corner. She told me later that when I stopped by with lemonade and sang to her she didn’t have any nightmares. So it kind of became our thing, and she started loving the night as much as I did.”
“Sounds like you were a good sister to her.”
“I was. Up until the day she died.”
He wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me into his chest.
“What about Ryan? You never talk about him, either.”
“He was a pain in my ass.” His voice rumbles in his chest and vibrates my skin. One word comes to mind at his voice. Safe.
“Oh yeah?”
He adjusts his chest so I’m tucked in closer to him. “He’d leave rotten food in my room, and unplug my PlayStation and hide the cord.” He laughs and the sound vibrates deep in his body. “I used to listen to his band and he would tell everyone I was just a guy who was obsessed with them. He could be a dick, but he had his moments.”
“Was he ever nice to you?”
Crickets chirp and the wind whistles in the cold air. A squirrel scurries out of the bushes behind us. We both look in that direction as he continues talking. “Yeah, he’d cover for me when I was out with friends. He’d help me study for classes he’d taken. He gave me his Escalade and never asked for anything in return. I guess I should’ve known it was for a reason.” He smacks his hand on the ground. “Asshole.”
He must have been giving away his stuff before he killed himself. What should I give away? I don’t really have anything that’s special. How can I think about this when he’s grieving? “I’m sorry.”
He stands up and shakes me off him. “Why? You want to do the same thing to me.” He shakes his head then storms away, swearing, smacking each tree as he goes.