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“But what about the other souls?” I interrupted. “The ones we know should head to the Light? And the children? How will we ever
feel comfortable ushering them?”
“We’re just going to have to trust that everything will right itself,” the mayor said. “And then we’ll see.”
We’ll see. Hopelessness settled in over my shoulders, thick and oozing, like the muddy dirt we’d dropped at Nadia’s and Cori’s graves.
“I wish Tristan would wake up,” Bea said. “Maybe whoever was working with Pete was with him that night at the gray house.”
We looked up the stairs where, aside from the usual rhythm of the rain against the windows, everything was still. There was nothing but shadows, the sliver of light under Tristan’s door, the dull crystal on the cut glass light fixture. But I could still see him standing there, his tan skin lit by an inner glow, as he smiled down at me. As he made me feel like I was the only girl he could ever love.
“I’m going up there,” I decided, skirting around Fisher.
“Why?” Krista asked.
“I’m going to talk to him,” I said, lifting my palms. “They say they can hear you, right? Maybe if he hears my voice…I don’t know. I’m just going to talk to him.”
“I’ll come with you,” Joaquin offered, his foot hitting the bottom step.
“No.”
He froze, and the rest of the world seemed to freeze along with him. “No?”
I couldn’t look him in the eye. Not right then. “I want to do this alone. I have to.”
“But I—”
“Jay,” Bea said. “Let her go. Who knows? Maybe it’ll work.”
I shot her a grateful smile and didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead I ran up the stairs two at a time and, finding myself in front of Tristan’s closed door, took a deep breath.
You can do this, I told myself. He loves you. He even said so in his note. He never stopped loving you. If there’s anyone he’ll come back for, it’s you.
With these hopes ringing inside my mind, I pushed open the door. Lauren looked up. She’d been reading aloud to him from a book, seated in the desk chair next to the bed, but fell silent when she saw me. Her short dark hair was back in a plaid headband, and she wore a pink polo shirt, one corner of the collar just starting to fray.
“Any luck?” she asked.
I shook my head. “The Tses don’t know anything, and Pete is unconscious.”
She slumped back in the chair, the book going slack in her lap. “This is so very bad.”
“Mind if I talk to Tristan alone?” I asked.
She glanced at his face, so still it looked like a painting, then sighed. “Sure.” As she got up, she reached over to squeeze his hand, then walked out, closing the door behind her. I took the seat she’d just vacated. It was still warm.
“Hey, Tristan,” I began, and my voice broke.
I took in a staggered breath, blinking back a fresh wave of tears. Seeing him in this state, motionless and vulnerable, was so very wrong. The Tristan I knew was stronger than any of us, in both body and soul. I remembered, suddenly, the firmness of his arms as he kissed me for the first time. The warmth of his hand as he held tightly to my fingers, swinging our arms between us as we walked from the bridge into town. There had been a time, not that long ago, when there was such an amazing, hopeful, loving lightness in his eyes, and I’d brought it out of him. We were happy.
There was no way I was ready to let that go.
I reached out to take his hand and cupped it with both of mine.
“Tristan,” I said firmly, “I want you to know that I’m sorry I didn’t believe in you. I know I said that already yesterday, but I am. I am so, so sorry. I hope that you forgive me. No, I know that you’ll forgive me when you wake up. I know that you’ll understand.”
Tears fell from my eyes, and I bent forward, resting my forehead atop the back of my own hand. The top of my head hit his side, and I leaned into it, relishing any contact, wishing I could crawl in next to him and hold him close.
The thought that I might never see his eyes again. That I might never feel him hold me again. That I might never touch his lips again . . .
