Page 24 of 72 Hours of You

Peter runs his hands through his hair. “How is Jegstrup … I mean, how is she …”

“How is she going to die? That’s what you want to know?”

Peter nods silently.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I have no fucking idea. She could die of a heart attack or choke on a pancake. She could get trampled by a stampede of clowns. I don’t know. That’s not how this works.”

Peter swallows, solemn and serious. As if a clown stampede is a perfectly reasonable way to shuffle off this mortal coil.

“Go ahead. Ask the next question.” I cross my arms even tighter. Steady myself for the blow I know is coming.

But Peter just cocks his head slightly. “I’m not sure I know what the next question is.”

“Of course you do,” I spit. But he doesn’t open his mouth. God, he’s going to make me do all the dirty work for him. “The next question is: Why don’t you save them?”

I can feel tears wanting to shove their way out of my eyes. Not happening. No fucking way. I bite my cheek and square my shoulders. “Go ahead, ask.”

But it’s not a look of sheepish recognition that washes over Peter’s face. It’s genuine confusion. “Why would I ask that?”

“Because that’s the only question that matters!” I say, the anger rising in my voice. “Because if I know when people are supposed to die, then why do I just let it happen? Why don’t I save them?”

Peter stands up from my desk, his head nearly colliding with a crane, and crosses the distance between us. He looks like he wants to reach for me again, but I tense and he shoves his hands in his pockets instead. “I’d never ask you that question.”

“Why? You don’t think I’m the kind of person who would try to save them?”

“No, Syd.” He shakes his head. “Because if it was possible to save them, you would’ve done it already.”

Shit. I wasn’t expecting that. The kindness, the stupid fucking kindness—I don’t know what to do with it.

I bite my cheek harder. I try to keep it all in, to hold all the pain and the anger and the shitty feelings together, but I can’t.

I press the notebook closer to my chest, as if I can keep it all there. Separate this from my actual self. But I can’t. They’re always with me. I feel them, every second of every goddamn day. Liam’s huge smile and black curls. The ghost of his high five in my hand. The woman at the hotel counter, arguing over her room’s view. The checkout man in the grocery store wishing me a happy Friday. Bubbe’s eyes, sliding away, slipping into nothingness. Leaving me alone in this, the beeping of her machine mingling with my shouting. I see Mom’s face, blank and gone, three deep scratches across her cheek. Ms. Jegstrup grinning with a smudge of lipstick on her front tooth. I see Charles. Everything flying off the hotel dresser. A lamp shattering. A scream that isn’t mine.

But I also see Peter. Here. Not leaving. His brown waves dangling over his big green eyes. His lip is sucked in just slightly, like he wants to do something. But maybe … maybe that something isn’t run. Maybe it’s stay.

The tears push their way forward. And then I’m doing something I never do. I’m crying. And this time, when Peter reaches for my hand, I let him.

Eleven

AND THEN THINGS GET WEIRD. Because Jules walks in and sees me with my hand lying gingerly in Peter’s, staring up at him like we’re performing a precoital scene from Bridgerton.

I snatch my hand back and put it on my hip. And then at my side. And then try to shove it in my pocket. I don’t have pockets. God, what do I usually do with my hands?

I cross my arms.

Jules squints at me, and then at Peter, and then back at me. And then back at Peter. “What is happening here?”

“Nothing,” I say, my face turning hot.

It’s not like Jules hasn’t caught me with a boy before. But that was always just kissing or maybe some light underboob stuff. This is … not that. This is intimate intimate. And it’s mortifying.

Jules steps closer to me and touches a strand of my wet hair. “You were crying.”

“No, no, I don’t think so. Not really.”

She nods and stage-whispers to me, “Is it shark week? I have some Midol in the cabinet if you need.”

“No, Jules, Jesus. I’m just … having a moment.”