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Then he’s ten.
Fourteen.
Fifteen
Sixteen…
Seventeeneighteennineteentwentytwentyonetwentytwo—
All these versions of Jeremy flashing through my mind—amber eyes searing through me from across a room. Golden blond hair haloing his head, spun silver-white as he got older and cut it, dyed it. Shy smiles and ducked gazes and hunched shoulders that turned into rogue grins and rolled eyes and stubborn juts of his chin.
When did we grow up?
We were seventeen and then it’s just a black hole—a horrible, awful black hole, with threads of light shining through, as the grief slowly but surely gave way to acceptance.
And now we’re here.
He crooks me a small, sad, knowing smile. And just before he disappears around the corner, taking with him every other version of Jeremy conjured up in my head, he repeats his earlier words, mouthing them so they’re just for me.
This is a good thing.
A good thing…
Because Isobel Montgomery is alive.
His sister is alive.
The girl I loved so desperately, until it almost killed me…
The girl I went to war with the gods over…
The girl I thought I’d marry one day…
She’s alive.
She’s alive.
This is a good thing…
And yet?—
I
Everything is ceremony
in the wild garden of childhood.
—Pablo Neruda
CHAPTER ONE
AGE 6, JULY
It’s raining, the day he leaves.
The living room window, smeared with streaks of water, is cold against the small palm of my hand. I’ve got my cheek smushed against the top of the couch, where I hide behind the cushions, and under my breath, I’m humming my favorite song. The one I was listening to before my CD player died.
It’s why I came out here—to ask Momma for more batteries—even though I’m supposed to be in my room.
