“Me too,” I manage, though my heart is lodged in my throat.
He reaches up and clicks something on my wrist restraint, releasing it, then does the same with my ankle. I slide backward, away from him, and tumble onto the floor. When he comes around the bed, I’m pressed into the corner of the room, rubbing the feeling back into my wrist and ankle.
Four. Give.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him use that phrase. Probably not the last. I can forgive—I do forgive—but my mouth won’t work.
He hangs his head and slowly kneels in front of me, then falls forward until his forehead is on the floor, both his hands on the top of his helmet. It’s an impressive display of remorse, I have to admit. Even Tucker’s impassioned apologies were never this all-encompassing, this visceral. But Tucker’s anger was never so explosive, either. I mean at least he never smashed a table in front of me.
“It was because of the broken glass, right? You didn’t want me to cut my feet?”
He moves his head slightly, nodding into the floor.
“Why did you get so angry? Did you know that girl? The one in the video?”
He taps the thumb on his left hand. I’m not sure what this means. When I don’t respond, he makes two other familiar signs.
Feel broken.
“I’m okay. You didn’t really hurt me.”
I—I—I— feel broken.
He sits up, leaning back on his heels. Hanging his head, not looking at me, he signs slowly with one hand. I translate it effortlessly in my head.
You make me very, very sad.
This feels like an attack more than an admission. I reach forward and lift his chin up so he can see me, making his signs as I speak, slicing my thumb across my throat. “You make me feel like killing myself.”
He pulls his chin away and turns his head slightly, just enough that I know he’s not looking at me anymore.
Repeat me.
Repeat.
Forever.
I couldn’t hate him now if I found him torturing puppies. All I want is to put my arms around him and tell him that everything will be all right. But of course I realize that’s the last thing he needs. Because it would be a lie. And no one needs that.
“You went up onto the roof, didn’t you? When you left me?”
He nods, still looking away.
“Were you going to jump?”
He falls slowly forward again, this time cradling his head on the floor in the crook of his right elbow. His left hand inches forward until his gloved fingertips barely touch my foot. I don’t move it away. I feel a strange connection to him, knowing that suicide has been on his mind too. I’m not sure I realized how much it’s been on my mind until a few seconds ago.
“I don’t think we should be around each other anymore.”
He shakes his head.
“I have to get back to my people, back to my friends somehow.”
He nods slowly.
Squeezing my eyes shut doesn’t make it any harder to see the reality of my situation, of our situation. As much as we need to be rid of each other, it’s not to be. Not for a while anyway.
“I don’t think I can find my way back alone. It’s too far.”
A long time passes before he nods again, his head still cradled in his arm.
It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to ask of anyone. Harder than asking Xander to help us put Tucker’s body in the ground.
“Will you come with me?”
He nods right away this time and sighs a long, growling sigh.
“It’s a long way. More than two hundred miles.”
He keeps nodding, but clenches the fingers away from my foot.
We sit there until I start to tremble from the cold. The sun has dipped well below the horizon by this time, and the room is dark but for the lingering twilight.
“August . . .”
He stands quickly, perfunctorily, and glancing across the room and through the door, leans down and lifts me easily into his arms. Since I don’t struggle, he’s able to hold me, like a groom holds a bride, and carry me down the long, dark hallway. Glass crunches under his feet as he walks.
He tucks me into the sofa, folding blankets around me, always his face turned away. He doesn’t want to see me. As he finishes, I take hold of one of his hands, whispering, like I’m sharing a secret.
“There’s a place, a time maybe, or a universe, where we can be friends, right?”
He makes his sign for “pretty” then. I’m not sure why. And nods.
Later, in the dark, I hear him sweeping up the broken glass.
AUGUST
Friends.
Not in this world though. Not in this universe, somewhere else. But that’s enough, I suppose. It’s more than I deserve after frightening her so much.
When the sun rises, I have a surprise for her. It wasn’t that hard to manage, and I finally figured out how to give her something that I’m sure she’ll love, without having to steal it from a dead human. I nudge her sleeping form. As she stirs, I move back. I know she doesn’t like me touching her.
“Hello,” she says, opening her eyes. She sits up a little and looks around, out the window. “Nice day for a hike, huh?”
I nod, the happy feeling in my mind making it easy to focus. I make her name sign.
Raven.
“Yes?” she says with a smile. Ah, she’s beautiful.
I gesture, standing up and stepping backward.
Follow, I sign. She seems to understand. With the blanket still wrapped around her, she follows me down the hallway to the bathroom. I hold the door open for her. Scented steam wafts out.
“Is that . . . hot water? A hot bath?”
I nod. I’m starting to feel a little dizzy.
“Wow. August. I don’t know what to say. How did you do this? It’s amazing. . . .”
She’s smiling so brightly now that it almost hurts to look at her. This is the happiness I have been trying for all along. Sweet Dandelion with a smile on her face. It’s too much to bear. I turn away, reaching for the wall with my left hand.
“Are you okay?”
Good. Happy. You?
“Very happy, thank you. I’m going to have my bath now.”
I have forgotten how to move, I think. The smile fades from her face.
“You weren’t hoping to watch, were you?”
No. No. No. No. Sorry. No.
I step out and close the door behind me. Stupid August. That was really stupid.
By the time she emerges wrapped in her blanket, her hair in a towel, I have piled up new clothes on the sofa, things I searched all night for. I stand there and watch her reaction as she sees the offerings. Thermal underwear, a warm coat, insulated snow pants, waterproof mittens . . .
“Boots,” she says, and then, for some reason, she looks sad. She covers her mouth.
I’m not really sure what to do or say. I’m trying not to look at her bare thigh, which pokes out from the blanket. She smells phenomenal, exquisite, like a mixture of wildflowers and bees and her smell, but clean and new. So human, so much a part of her beautiful planet. I reach for her without even thinking. She takes a step back.
Sorry.
“No, it’s okay.” She sniffs. “Really, I’m fine. I’ll get dressed now. Can you . . . ?”