Page 83 of 72 Hours of You

“Sydney …” His voice comes out in a whisper. “Being with you … It’s …”

My heart starts to hammer in my chest and I can feel a shiver at the base of my neck. He’s going to say something. Something big. Oh god.

“The future …”

“Let’s not talk about college,” I say. “Let’s just be here. Okay?” I don’t want plans and long distance and miles with us right now. I don’t want to think about the purple packet on my desk at home. I don’t want to think about phone calls and texts and leaving. I don’t want anything but this. This exact moment.

Peter swallows. “Okay, Syd.” He reaches out and runs his thumb across my cheek. “Whatever you want.”

Whatever I want.

I hold his wrist, his hand still on my face. And then I pull him over to the falls, the rushing water drowning out every other sound around us. We slip behind the wall of white foam, blocking the sun, the trees, everything except each other. It’s just the two of us in this small rocky tunnel. It’s just the two of us in this universe. He laughs and brushes his wet hair back and I pull him closer to me. And then his face gets serious. He hesitates, but only for a second, and then he leans in and kisses me like there’s no tomorrow.

Forty-Six

PETER PULLS OUT A WATER BOTTLE and two Luna bars from his backpack. We sit quietly on the edge of the falls and eat them, just … existing. Together.

Peter shields his eyes from the sun starting to set over the pointed tops of the trees. “Are you afraid of dying?”

The question feels like it comes out of nowhere, but also, like it’s been there the whole time and he’s only now saying it out loud. It hangs like mist between us.

“I used to be,” I say. “Socrates has this whole thing about death. And how we don’t know whether it’ll be bad or great but we all assume it’ll be bad. And he says we should live like maybe it’s the greatest thing that could happen.” I pause. “But that’s not it. I don’t think … I don’t think death is good or bad. Not for the person who dies, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean …” I roll up the wrapper and put it in his backpack. “I mean, it’s not death that’s bad. It’s the way we think about it. We all think we’re going to be the one person who beats this thing. Who survives life. If we eat right or look both ways before we cross the street. But death is like a black hole, and when you’re born, you’re already on the other side of the event horizon. There is no escape. And that’s not bad, it’s just how it works. When you’re dead, you’re dead. It’s not good or bad. But …”

Mom’s ashen face, the three bloodred gashes dragging down her pale cheek, pushes into my mind. Peter reaches over and his fingers find mine.

“It’s the other people, you know?” I say. “It’s the people who are left behind that it’s bad for.”

A cool breeze blows through the trees and winds its way over to us, Peter’s wet shirt clinging to my cold skin. “When my mom died … I knew it was coming. Because of the clocks, right? I knew. I mean, everyone else knew too. She was dying for a while. Cancer … it isn’t fast.”

Peter’s face goes still, and his fingers grip mine a little tighter.

“I watched this old movie with my mom. Jumanji? It was ridiculous. But the parents are dead in it. And there’s a little brother and sister. When the parents die, the little brother basically stops talking. He refuses to speak to anyone except his big sister. That’s what I thought it would be like, you know? With Jules and me? And we were both so little, but I became obsessed with this idea. I made flash cards with sentences and feelings for her. I wanted to make sure I was ready.”

The water feels colder on my toes now, and the air too. The sun is getting lower in the sky, changing it from blue to the tiniest bit of purple.

“When my dad called us in to tell us, I put the cards in my back pocket. I’d already said goodbye to Mom. I mean, I’d known exactly how much time I had left with her, even though no one else did. But … then we walked in. The two of us, and there she was. Gray. And … gone. And I went to hug Jules but she let go of my hand and ran over to her. And she wasn’t quiet. She was screaming. I’ve never heard her like that. And …”

My legs are shaking, and I can’t even look at Peter.

“She climbed on top of her. Wailing. Screeching. ‘Mommy, wake up. Wake up.’ Over and over and over. She was hitting her. Slapping her. Clawing at her face. And her fingernails were so long. Because it was my mom’s job to clip them, you know?” My voice cracks. “And my dad … he had to pull Jules off her and …”

“Jesus, Sydney. I’m so sorry. I can’t even—”

“I know. I know. It’s okay, it’s just—”

“It’s not okay.”

“This is what I mean, though,” I say, turning to face Peter. “Death isn’t about the people who die. It’s about the people who have to live through it. It’s about the ones who are left behind.”

Like Dad. I try to imagine what he would be like if he were here, to conjure an image of him appreciating the sound of the waterfall or running his fingers over the grass. But I can only see the Before version of him. The one that took me to the Plaza, and held my hand when I crossed the street, and ate the stems of my broccoli so I didn’t have to. The only way I can picture him here is ten years younger, next to my mom, with a camera, laughing, splashing Jules and me with water.

Once she disappears, so does he.

“I hate that you had to go through all that.” Peter rubs the back of his neck and for a second he looks like he’s about to say something else, but then he turns back to the waterfall, his eyes on the water. “I really fucking hate it.” He picks up a rock and tosses it into the lake, letting it skip a few times.