“Strong enough for what?”
“Why wasn’t I strong enough to kill him myself?”
“Oh, Chris…” What in God’s name has Chris suffered through? I can feel him crying in my arms. How in the hell can I protect him from this? There is no way.
“I wasn’t strong enough to kill him, and I’m not strong enough to be with you.”
I shut my eyes, and for the next hour I keep him in whatever safety my embrace can provide.
We don’t move, we don’t talk.
We just cry. And breathe.
Later he pulls away slightly and looks at me through the dark. “I’m sorry about last night.”
“Don’t be.” I stroke my thumbs under his eyes and wipe away tears. “I said a lot of things that I shouldn’t have.”
“I’m not strong enough to be with you. I love you, sweet girl. OfcourseI love you. So much. But I still can’t do this. You were right. What you said about me.”
“It’s okay. I understand.”
Chris moves and leans his chest over mine. It’s hard not to cry when he kisses me, because we are kissing for the last time. So I drown in him, wanting to commit his taste and his feel to memory so that I will always have that. His tongue moves slowly, his lips delicately covering mine as we take in every detail of each other. Our hands stay clasped together, never parting.
He only says one thing to me as we kiss our way through the night. “You said something last night that was completely wrong. Sleeping together was not a mistake. Blythe. I could never touch anyone the way that I touch you. And I will never regret falling in love with you. Don’t forget that.”
And this is how we say good-bye.
25
BEGIN AGAIN
ESTELLE MAKES GOODon her promise to video-chat the shit out of me, and Sabin calls even more often. It’s a good thing, because it’s been a long, quiet year since I left Matthews, in which I’ve somehow managed to play successfully at being a grown-up. In the fall, I got a job—at the same magazine where I did my summer internship. I live in my parents’ house and keep up the yard and the bills. I haven’t become an incredibly fast runner, but I keep at it, unflagging. I even adopted a dog from the local animal-rescue shelter that I named Jonah, and with whom I am totally in love. One look at the dog, and there was no choice. He is a fucking German shepherd, for Christ’s sake. I couldn’t go home alone.
It’s May now, and unseasonably warm, and when Jonah and I come in from our Saturday-afternoon run, we’re both thirsty as hell. As I’m downing my water, the phone rings. It’s my old pal Nichole, who has turned out to be a great friend since I arrived back in Boston. Although she never stops trying to get me to go out and meet guys.
“You sure you don’t want to come out with us tonight after dinner? I’m meeting up with Stephanie and Abbi. Remember you met them last fall?”
I half smile at her persistence. “You’re sweet, but you know how I am.”
My friend sighs. “Oh, Blythe.”
“What?”
“You still miss him.”
“Nichole, we’ve been over this.”
“Honey.” She sounds like a seasoned advice-giving pro. “He’s getting married in a few weeks.”
I touch my fingertips to the necklace with all of our initials and sit down at the dining-room table, holding the phone. “I know.”
“You’re still not showing up?”
“I wasn’t invited. It’s a family-only ceremony. Somewhere in Newburyport, I hear.”
“I know you weren’t invited, but you could still show up.” She claps her hands. “To break up the wedding!”
“Absolutely not,” I say again.
