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“Finn, goddamn it.”
Only then does he look at me, the gutting pain I saw in his eyes when Lexie took her last breath nothing more than a vague and distant memory.
“She won’t be needing it anymore,” he drones.
Then he spins and bolts back toward the house. I match his every move, begging him to snap out of it as he starts searching the kitchen obsessively.
“What are you looking for?” I yell even if, deep down, I already know the answer. He finds what he was looking for seconds later. I leap into his way as he races toward the backyard door with a box of matches in his hand.
He’s so out of it I wouldn’t be surprised if he accidentally set the house on fire.
“Look at me.” I grip his collar, stumbling backward when he attempts to continue walking. A glimmer of hope soars in my chest when his hand flies to my lower back to keep me from falling. There’s still humanity left in him.
Even if just a drop.
He keeps his eyes fixated on the pile of stuff in the backyard, dodging my gaze like it’s a loaded gun.
“Look at me!” I yell before cupping his face with both hands and allowing our eyes to lock. “This isn’t going to bring her back.”
He swallows hard.
I see you.
You’re still in there.
Come back.
“Neither will keeping her shit in the house,” he says, his voice flat, and detaches my hands from his jaw.
I stop him from pulling the back door open.
“Finn, please. This is insane.”
“Get out of my way,” he warns through gritted teeth.
“No!” My scream is shrill, near deafening. “This isn’t the right way to cope, and you know it.”
“Then how?” he snaps, the raw desperation and misery in his voice stabbing me in the heart. “How do I keep going? Fucking how? She’s dead, Dia. I was supposed to protect her. I… I promised my mom…”
With that said, he picks me off the ground by the waist and moves me out of the way like I’m weightless.
He’s out the door before I know it.
I trail after him toward the pile of memories on the ground, my sight made blurry by my tears as he slides the box open and lights a match. From there, I wait. It’s all I can do. I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for him to destroy a huge part of his life to avoid dealing with it.
Only, he never does.
I peel my eyes open to see Finn with his arms hanging down his body limply, the lit match trapped inside his trembling fist.
He can’t bring himself to do it.
“Fuuuuck,” he shouts.
He’s mad at himself.
It’s like he thinks his inability to erase her makes him weak.
Then, in a blind rage, he puts out the match and tosses it onto the grass. I’ve barely had a chance to catch my breath before he takes off toward the house again.
