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My father is already shaking his head, his hand on my arm. “No. Your mother is on her way to the hospital. We have to go. You can?
?t see Finn like this, sweetie. No.”
“Yes.”
I don’t wait for him to agree, I just bolt from the house, down the steps, down the paths, to the beach. I hear Dare behind me, but I don’t stop. There are firemen and police and police tape and EMTs congregated about, and one of them tries to stop me.
“Miss, no,” he says, his voice serious, his face aghast. “You can’t go over there.”
But I yank away because I see Finn.
I see his red smashed car that they’ve already pulled from the water.
I see someone laid out on the sand, someone covered by a sheet.
I walk toward that someone calmly, because even though it’s Finn’s car, it can’t be Finn. It can’t be because he’s my twin, and because I didn’t feel it happen. I would’ve known, wouldn’t I?
Dare calls to me, through thick fog, but I don’t answer.
I take a step.
Then another.
Then another.
Then I’m kneeling in the sand, next to a sheet.
My fingers shake.
My heart trembles.
And I pull the white fabric away.
He’s dressed in jeans and a button-up, clothing for a concert. He’s pale, he’s skinny, he’s long. He’s frail, he’s cold, he’s dead.
He’s Finn.
I can’t breathe as I hold his wet hand, as I hunch over him and cry and try to breathe and try to speak.
He doesn’t look like he was in a crash. There’s a bruise on his forehead and that’s it. He’s just so white, so very very white.
“Please,” I beg him. “No. Not today. No.”
I’m rocking and I feel hands on me, but I shake them away, because this is Finn. And we’re Calla and Finn. He’s part of me and I’m part of him and this can’t be happening.
I cry so hard that my chest hurts with it, my throat grows raw and I gulp to breathe.
“I love you,” I tell him when I can breathe again. “I’m sorry I wasn’t with you. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
I’m still crying when large hands cup my shoulders and lift me from the ground, and I’m pulled into strong arms.
“Shhh, Calla,” my dad murmurs. “It’ll be okay. He knew you loved him.”
“Did he?” I ask harshly, pulling away to look at my father. “Because he wanted me to go with him, and I made him go alone. And now he’s dead. I called mom and they’re both dead.”
Dad pulls me back into his arms and pats my back, showing a tenderness that I didn’t know he possessed. “It’s not your fault,” he tells me between wracking sobs. “He chose this. He knew you loved him, honey. Everyone knew.”
I choke back another gasping sob, because how could he have chosen this? My mother killed him on purpose. I feel it in my bones in my bones in my bones.
