Maybe I’ve never forgiven either of us.
“The van didn’t even have a menu,” I say.
He blinks.
“Real ice cream trucks have menu boards, right? How did we not see it?”
“Because we were kids.” His voice is rough.
“But you just said we should’ve known better.”
He doesn’t have an answer for that.
This feels like a moment where Mom might say,“You’re both blaming yourself for something that wasn’t your fault. He was an evil man who wanted to hurt children. And yes, everything seems clear in hindsight, but you were kids, honey. Just kids. That man took advantage of your innocence and ruined it forever.”
I’m not going to therapy-babble at Dorien right now. And even though I can understand that perspective, it’s still hard to forgive myself.
But…
I take his hand. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ve been angry at you for so long, but I did things too. I hate myself for how I pushed Eli and didn’t listen when he wanted to go.” I scoot closer and hold his hand with both of mine. The tears have returned, but I speak through them. “I’m tired of this. I’m tired of the hate. We were just kids, so I don’t want to be angry anymore.”
His voice breaks again and he hunches forward with more sobs.
“You can’t,” he croaks out. “Please keep hating me. The last time we were on the same side…”
“Someone died,” I finish for him. “But we were children. God, we were just children.”
His jaw tightens, and I can see him fighting the absolution, because guilt is a medium he’s been working in for so long he doesn’t know what to do with his hands without it. I know because I do the same thing.
“The man chose that spot,” I continue. “He parked near a vacation lake full of kids. He played that music on purpose. He painted his van to look a certain way. Kids are trusting, and heknewthat. We walked into a trap that was built for us.” I’m saying the words for myself as much as I’m saying them for him.
He closes his eyes. A tear slides down his bruised jaw and he lets it fall.
When he opens them, he seems to remember where we are, on the ground, in a cemetery, in the cold. He pulls away from my touch and pushes himself to standing. For a second, I think he might leave me here, then he offers his hand.
I take it, and he pulls me to my feet. We’re standing close enough that I can smell leather, smoke, and the faint sweetness of bourbon underneath. My hand stays in his.
“I hate myself,” he says, “but I’ve never hated you. I’ve never blamed you.”
I swallow my emotions because I’m too exhausted from so much sobbing. “I’m sorry I blamed you.”
“Keep blaming me.”
I want to pull him into another hug, but then I’m suddenly aware of how vulnerable we both are, and the openness that cracked me apart starts to seal itself back up.
This is too close, too much.
You know what happens when you let someone in.
You know the cost.
If I let my guard down, if I let myself need Dorien, the people I love will pay for it.
Dorien steps back to put space between us. He cleans his face then pulls out his phone. “I’ll get us a ride. We can go back together.”
“No, it’s okay. Cinna’s picking me up.”
The lie is clumsy. It’s almost ten at night and I told Cinna I needed to do this alone. Dorien doesn’t challenge it. He just nods.
