That gets her to look at me.
“You shut me out,” I say. “That was real.”
“I know.”
“I’m still pissed.”
“I know,” she says, quieter.
I pick up the Post-it. Turn it over. Set it back down.
“But I was measuring the wrong thing.”
She doesn’t move.
“You came to me before it broke. You chose me when you could’ve kept running. And I wasn’t seeing that.”
The tunnel stays quiet.
“I don’t know how to stay,” she says. “I know how to pack. I know how to leave before it gets hard. I know how to handle things alone and call it being useful.” She looks down at her hands. “I’ve been doing it since I was eight years old and I am very good at it.”
I wait.
She keeps going.
“And I’m scared I’m going to do it again. That it’s going to get hard and my first instinct is going to be the same one because it always is.” She stops. Starts again. “I don’t want to leave this one.”
My hand goes still on the Post-it.
She says it again, quieter.
“I don’t want to leave this one.”
“I know that,” I say.
“You can’t just know things.”
“I’ve been watching you for months.”
That shuts her up for a second.
Good.
She looks at the Post-it on the crate between us.
“What don’t you know, then.”
I look at her.
“Whether you’re going to let me be in it with you the next time it gets hard.”
She lets that sit.
“That’s a lot, Jax.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
I hold my hand out. Not dramatic. Not a test. Just there.
