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“There is nothing out there, Droga,” he says quietly. “Why do you think I brought her over? Did she tell you? There is shit!”
“You brought her over to mess with me,” I say bitterly.
“To fuckingapologizeto you, Droga,” he says even quieter.
And the words are like a sneaky panic attack that starts somewhere deep inside and suddenly grips my heart with an iron fist.
I close my eyes, trying to process the words.
“I wanted to apologize, Droga,” he says quietly. “How many fucking clues do you need?”
I still have my eyes closed, tilting my head back, trying to find balance inside me.
“I never meant for that night to end that way,” he says. “Not her running. Not you getting fucked up. I was mad, yeah.”
His voice is missing the usual coldness. It’s shaky. Hoarse. Cracking like Crone can’t speak his mind in one prolonged monologue. It’s unlike Crone. Unless he lost his IQ points somewhere in a bottle of booze. Unless he is losing his grip. Unless…
Fuck.
In this moment I pray he says something bitter and angry and doesn’t break down like he did that drunk night in Mexico, telling me about the accident that killed his brother and mom. The type of shit that makes you vulnerable and creates a bond. That makes you care too much.
“If the fire didn’t happen four years ago, everything would’ve been fine. You know that, Droga,” he says. I open my eyes, but he doesn’t look at me when he talks. “We would’ve beaten each other for days, then said, fuck the rest, and it would’ve been all sorted. You would’ve gotten her back.”
I know that. I fuckingknowthat.
“So if you think I am crazy enough to have pushed you into that fire on purpose, then you are even more fucked up than me.”
If this wasn’t the moment that would decide my future, I would’ve joked. Probably would’ve made him mad or laugh.
“Why all this circus?” I ask. “Why mess with me and Callie?”
Crone laughs. That laughter is out of place as if I said something stupid. “How do you not fucking see it?” He finally turns to me, his lips now curled in a smirk. “You hated me so much you never actuallyletme talk. Not in the hospital when you kicked me out. Not during spring break. Not when I brought you to the Westside. Can’t you see, Droga?” He shakes his head. “All I wanted was to sit down and fuckingtalk. Calmly. Not yelling and spitting poison and throwing punches. But no.” His smirk deepens. “You were so fucking wound up every time you saw me—and I get it, yeah, I get it, there are plenty of reasons—but not a single time did you actually say, ‘Let’s talk.’”
Not true.
Well, maybe a little.
Or…
Shit. Whatever. I am wet, tired, the salt water nibbling at my wounds. But this is the only time we ever talked after the Block Party. In some ways, thisisclosure.
“If you come back,” Crone says, “I’ll leave you both alone. You can stay on either side. I won’t touch you.”
The words get me in the wrong way. After everything he’s done, it sounds like he is pleading now.
I feel too much. This island fucking tears me up. I want to hate Crone, but suddenly there is no hate, no anger, only pity for what we’ve lost. Me. Callie. Him.
I push the life ring away and swim in broad strokes toward the boat.
By the time Callie helps me up onto the deck, Crone is already being pulled up by the guards onto his boat.
Callie is silent when I catch her questioning gaze. Her hand slides into mine as I turn to face Crone and push my shoulders back, catching my breath.
I am soaked, the water pooling at my feet. So is Crone, straightening up, smoothing his wet hair, blood running down his shot arm, his eyes raising to meet mine.
We stare at each other for some time, not saying a word.
There are ten feet and four years of hate between us. And somehow, that bond that pulled us together is tugging at us again. I hope it lets him do the right thing. Because what he does now will seal everything that’s happened before.
