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“I thought that we already had this discussion about you looking at me like that, Tillie. Trust me, I’m sorry for your loss, but don’t test my restraint, because I have none.”
The rest of the night goes slow. Painfully slow. Everyone moves around me while I stay still, in my very own haunted tranquility. Drinking. When midnight hits, and everyone is either asleep in the sitting room or have left, I let out a soft cry. My glass slips from my fingertips, dropping to the ground. Madison and Bishop are asleep on the sofa and Brantley is right beside me, one arm over his eyes as he sleeps. Eli and Hunter are sprawled out on the floor and Tate is curled in Jase’s arms beside them.
Nate hasn’t moved. He’s still beside her coffin, his head turned the other way. Guarding her like a prowling lion. Now that it’s quiet, and the room isn’t busy, I let the tears run down my face uncontrollably. My shoulders shake, my stomach twists and pulls my organs in the palm of grief’s hands. My chest is numb. Either from the alcohol or from my pain threshold being completely razed. Everything is anesthetized by my anguish. My eyes sting from being so swollen and my cheeks burn like sandpaper has been scrubbed over them harshly all day. Brantley’s leg is pressed against mine, setting off warm ripples shooting through my leg. The only sensation I can feel right now. A lifeline, maybe. I’m not sure.
Nate’s movement catches my eyes. The only light coming from the outdoor pool lights breezing in through the high floor to ceiling glass windows and door. He turns his head to face me, his eyes connecting directly with mine.
Fear slams into me at one-hundred miles an hour. My mouth opens and then closes. Fuck it. I already know that he absolutely despises me, so I may as well ask him right now, while it’s just us two.
“Do you blame me?”
He doesn’t answer, but his eyes don’t move off me either.
“It’s not about you, Tillie.” The venom that drips off every syllable is evident. I don’t need him to say anything else to know that he does. “But you have until the day after tomorrow to move the fuck out of my house and out of my life.”
I wince, even though part of me knew that was coming. “I will.” He’s hurting too, Tillie. He’s hurting too.
Then he sits up, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “You are the worst thing that ever happened to me.” I don’t answer, because I know he’s not done. “You gave me life.” He looks at the coffin and then comes back to me. “And then ripped it away from me like you’re the goddamn Grim Reaper.”
“Nate…”
“Save it,” he exhales calmly, his head tilting back to rest on the chair. “I don’t want to hear shit.”
“I lost her too,” I whisper, the first time I’ve ever said it out loud. I choke on my next words. “I didn’t even get to finish The Wizard of Oz. We started it the night before, and—” My words are mumbled, unable to speak.
Nate stands, and storms out of the room. I’ve pissed him off. I spoke when I shouldn’t have. I squeeze my eyes closed and stand, making my way to his now vacant chair. My hands tremble as I reach out to touch the smooth glossy casket.
I clench my fist when I realize I can’t touch it. Fear rips through me. How do you survive a war that has one enemy—you.
I jump when I see the edge of the book I was reading her last night come into view. I see Nate’s tattooed hand, the words E L I T E stamped into each finger sprawled out over the cover. I lick my lips, swiping away the tears.
“Finish it.”
When I reach for the book, he takes a seat on the chair and yanks me down onto his lap. His arms feel like home, but the feeling that’s crashing into me is something more distant. Like this is the beginning of the end between him and I. For good.
I stare at the book for—I don’t know how long. The last time I held this, we were sitting together on my bed. I zone in on a small speckle of scratch near the Lion’s orange mane. That imperfection was there last night. Before all of this happened. It sounds silly, but it’s as though everything is rolling into me in brutal waves and I’m for sure about to drown.
“Finish it, Tillie,” Nate says, snatching the bottle of Jack that was on the small table beside his chair.
I clear my throat, only for it to swell again and tears to pour down my eyes. I flip to the page I was up to and begin reading. We read Micaela her final story, even though hers ended far too early. Like an unfinished project.
