The Gender Fall (The Gender Game #5)

As quietly as I could, I slipped out the door, pulling it closed behind me. I grabbed my jacket from the sofa in the main living area and slipped it onto my shoulders, thinking of heading to the barn. Maybe practicing some martial arts would help me…

I didn’t even know if I wanted anything to help. I just knew I felt the press of anxiety in my chest, and needed to do something productive—or else risk something worse happening. Training would help with that. If I kept training, maybe I could prevent something like this from happening in the future. It was a feeble thought, but it was the only thing I could cling to at the moment.

I pushed open the front door, my eyes focused on the barn. A light mist coated the ground, its vague curls already dissipating under the softly forming rays of the sun, but still thick enough to swirl around my ankles as I strode through it. As I walked, hands in my pockets to ward off the chill, I reminded myself to wrap my knuckles before striking anything. They were scabbed over from the night before last, and even forming a fist stung, but if I wrapped them today and took extra care, then they would be…

I did a double take, pausing in my inner monologue and looking back at the tree line my gaze had brushed in passing. My tired eyes hadn’t deceived me; Owen was sitting near the edge of the woods, right next to his brother’s grave. His gaze was unfocused and lost, and he sat hunched over, his arms wrapped around his legs, perhaps for warmth.

I came to a full stop, indecision tearing through me. I knew I was the last person Owen wanted to see, and I couldn’t blame him for that. But seeing him like this was too much. He needed someone right now, and I was the only one available.

Turning, I headed toward him, moving slowly. I paused about ten feet away as his eyes flicked over to me, registering my presence. They held my gaze for several seconds, and then flicked back over to whatever he had been staring at before. My guess was nothing and everything all at the same time. He didn’t say anything, didn’t tell me to go, and I knew that was as close to permission as I was going to get from him.

I closed the gap between us and sat down next to him. I didn’t have a plan beyond that, but in truth, there was no room for any plan I could have made. I was there completely at Owen’s discretion; I would follow his will here. If he wanted to talk, I would talk. If he wanted to yell and scream, I would take it. If he wanted to cry, I would do my best to comfort him. And if he just wanted to sit there in silence, well, I would sit there with him, if only so he didn’t have to do it alone.

The silence stretched out, and I resigned myself that it was what Owen wanted. As much as I wanted to talk to him, to apologize even, I knew it wouldn’t do any good. His grief was too deep, and my words wouldn’t absolve either one of us.

We sat there long enough for the sun to fully come up over the mountains, for the camp to begin to stir.

“Everyone says I shouldn’t blame you.” His voice came so suddenly it took me a second to register that he was actually speaking to me. I turned toward him, and was surprised to see him looking at me. “They keep telling me it wasn’t your fault. You were just trying to help.”

I disagreed. Not about trying to help—I had been doing that—but that it wasn’t my fault. No, maybe I wasn’t solely responsible, but there was no way of telling what had finally caused Ian’s heart to give out. The result was still the same. He had died in my arms.

I bit my tongue to refrain from saying anything to the contrary. Owen didn’t need my validation or an affirmation of guilt. He didn’t want to hear any of it. He just wanted to talk.

“I know they are right. Logically, I mean. I can see it as being a messed-up situation where you just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I mean, we both were, I guess.” He drew his hands into fists and looked at them, shaking his head. “I can see the logic,” he repeated, his voice thick with emotion. “But so help me, I can’t feel it.”

He looked away then, his hand going up to brush across his eyes, almost mechanically. He took a deep breath and turned his eyes to the sky. “I hate everyone so much for trying to, I don’t know, defuse me with their logic. I hate them for trying to spare you my anger.” He turned, meeting my gaze. “I hate you too,” he whispered, his eyes glistening wetly. “I hate that they are right, and I hate you for it. Because I can’t… I can’t blame you like I want to.”

I met his gaze head on, accepting everything he was saying. He clenched his teeth and then looked away. “I can’t even look at you,” he said hoarsely, his voice breaking. “I can’t. Not without wanting you dead. Not without wanting to… to… hurt you. I know it’s not right. I know it’s not fair. But nothing about this is right. Nothing about this is fair.”

I just nodded. I felt a deep anger and a simmering hurt on behalf of my friend, and I wished, once again, there was something I could do to help him. Something anyone could do to help him—I wasn’t selfish. I didn’t care how he started to feel better, as long as he started. One day, at least.

“I hate feeling like this,” Owen admitted after a moment. “I hate hating you. You are one of my best friends, in spite of everything. But… I can’t stay here. I won’t. I need time and… and… space. Away from you. From this. I mean… I actually suggested using Violet as bait, dammit! That isn’t me, but at the same time, in that moment… it was me. I wanted that. So… I can’t be here.”

I let out a breath, a fresh wave of guilt moving through me. Not only had his brother died, but now he was running away from everyone here who cared about him. I hated it, but I could understand it. He had to do this. Or at least, he thought he did, and that was all that really mattered.