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She didn’t deserve the salty, watery grave he was headed for, the craggy bluff that jutted out over the Pacific. He couldn’t wait for the freedom of a fall that felt like he was flying as gravity yanked him down to icy water made harder than rock by the distance of his descent. He couldn’t wait for the instant black nothingness of death that would wash away all of his pain, all of the things he’d done, everything that he was. The waves that would rush to swallow him whole.
But the fox hated getting her paws wet. He couldn’t leave until he put her in the ground.
Alek would need a shovel. Carrying the fox with him, he ran back to the garage, but the shovel wasn’t there. The greenhouse! He’d seen the shovel propped against the back door. Shooting a glance at the still-dark windows of the Victorian, he set off around the side of the house.
By the time he made it to the greenhouse, the wind had shifted. A sharp breeze sliced through the air. Clouds moved fast to cover the light of the moon and snuff out all the stars in the sky. Distant thunder boomed. Just his luck.
He cradled the fox in the crook of his arm and pulled his cell from his back pocket to light the way. The woods were like a labyrinth as he weaved between trees, crushing ferns beneath his feet, sharp branches snagging at his clothes like claws. At the base of an ancient redwood, he placed the fox atop a clump of gnarled roots—so that her fur wouldn’t get dirty—then dropped his backpack beside her.
The first raindrop landed on the back of his neck at exactly the same moment his shovel pierced the earth. The storm started as a smattering sprinkle of fat raindrops, like someone had grabbed a fistful of water and hurled it down from the heavens, but only a few shovelfuls later the rain had gathered into a downpour that not even the interconnected treetops could shield him from.
A flash of lightning reflected off the water that already filled the hole he was digging. Another burst of thunder cracked. He pushed his hair from his brow and stepped down on the shovel. His hands slipped on the handle. Gritting his teeth and willing his hands to work, he readjusted his grip and lifted another shovelful of dirt from the earth.
Each strike of the shovel stabbed a jolt of pain up the nerves in his forearms, but he kept going. He had to hurry. The greenhouse was far enough from their living quarters that Ian had no chance of hearing him, but the storm was so loud. Ian would surely be up. Then he’d know Alek was gone.
Alek looked over his shoulder, but he couldn’t see the windows of the Victorian through the veil of rain and tangled trees. He returned his attention to the grave with renewed urgency.
Finally, the grave was big enough and he threw the shovel aside. He wiped his hands on his pants and scooped the fox into his arms. Her coat was matted from the rain, but even in death she was beautiful; she looked like she was sleeping, like she was alive.
How could she be dead? How could she not be real?
It had been decades since he had cried and the rain washed away the proof, but he thought he might be crying. Over a fox. That wasn’t real.
His teeth chattered violently; he trembled with such force that rigors wracked his body, and he couldn’t be certain if it was because he was terrified, or a result of the rain that drenched his clothes, or perhaps even the burning pain that licked from his wrists to his fingertips—likely all three.
Marshaling the last dregs of his courage, he placed the fox in the hole in the ground. He checked one last time that her chest did not move, that her eyes remained unseeing, and then he stood back and picked up the shovel, piling the dirt over herbefore he could change his mind, because he wanted nothing more than to pick her up and hold her to his chest and will his fucked up head to bring her back to life like magic because how could she leave him?
He sank to his knees and pressed his palms against the freshly tilled earth.
“Goodbye.”
And he wasn’t just saying goodbye to her. He was saying goodbye to the only time he’d ever been happy in his entire life. The only time he’d ever felt love after his uncle died. He was saying goodbye to the Victorian. To quiet moments in bed with Ian’s hands in his hair. The rumble of Ian’s voice when he said “I love you”, the squeeze of his hand wrapped around the side of his neck. To be taken care of. To be loved.
His fingers fisted in the dirt like his body didn’t want to let go, like his muscles and tendons, the blood that coursed through his veins, still had the will to live and knew what was coming, because his job was done. The fox was buried.
It was time to go.
38
IAN
Lightning lit up the forest.One one thousand.
At the base of a redwood tree, Alek was on his hands and knees.
Two one thousand.
Mud covered Alek’s arms up to his elbows. His body shook.
Three one thousand.
Ian wasn’t sure if Alek was sobbing or shivering.
Thunder boomed. Alek flinched.
It had been precisely four seconds since the lightning struck.
Ian stepped closer to Alek’s hunched-over form.
