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“You hit a bump in the road and you can’t stick it out!” I accuse, waving a declaring hand around the hallway. “Look at where you are, Miss New York… you hit a personal crisis and instead of dealing with it, you fly to some small town where you can pretend you’re someone else!”
“You think I’ve been pretending?” Lizzie’s expression tells me just how insane that suggestion is, but I fight back.
“You tell me. Do you normally spend all day renovating an old building with a racoon problem, until it’s your own personal doll house? How about me? Is no-strings attached with a local your usual style? You’re playing at this. Like the Forge—like I’m—just some project.”
Lizzie has gone quiet. Her face is almost emotionless. Her only tell is a dip just between her brows and the way her throat moves with every swallow. She is holding her features together. Fighting the urge to scream, stamp her foot, or just cry. I don’t know which and I can’t seem to let myself care. My gut is ruling the show now and, for some reason, it thinks that the more I push now—the more I turn her away—the less it will hurt later.
“You can’t fix death, so you come flying in here and meddle with whatever you can control.”
“Caleb…” Lizzie starts to reach for me, but I turn to avoid her touch. Just the idea of her hands on me, on skin that now feels raw in every way, has me doubling down on the offensive.
“You have no idea what it’s like to be the one left behind, do you?” I tell her. “To have to pick up the pieces and actually deal with something?”
She’d told me of her tragedies. I know she’s hurting, grieving. Which makes my accusations entirely unfair. Cruel, even. But I believe them to be true. Why else would a beautiful woman who has everything she could ever want, in one of the greatest cities in the world, come to East River Forge and hook up with someone whose idea of civilization is going to the grocery store? It doesn’t make sense. Not in the real world. And not long-term.
“I know what it’s like to lose someone, Lizzie. I know. But you know what? I at least stuck it out.” It’s the first time I’ve given myself any credit for my choices since Matty’s death. I throw a hand out in the direction of town. “I at least walk down the street and hear Matty’s name everywhere I go. I deal with my mom fading away. You have no clue how to handle that kind of slow ugliness because you never stick it out when things get hard. So forgive me if I’ve presumed too much by thinking you’re going to run back home or to a new project the second things get difficult here. You just don’t have the stomach for real trauma.”
And with that last declaration, I finally deflate. The air around us seems to come down and the pressure in the room seems to drop. Everything becomes awkwardly quiet and still.
It’s as if, for the last six weeks, I’ve been a balloon. Slowly filling with worries and reminders of Lizzie’s transience. Moments like that video call in which she called me ‘unimportant’ only filled that balloon further, bigger than it could handle… and David’s arrival had been the pin. Popping the elastic and sending me on a path of angry, uncontrollable chaos.
Now, I’m drained of strength entirely. I’ve run out of air and out of anxieties. My heart feels like lead and everything inside me aches.
Having thrown everything out there like purged toxic sludge, I thought I’d feel better. I’ve released the poison I’ve been carrying around for weeks, but I’ve also successfully pushed every button I know that might send Lizzie running for the New York hills. Before she can carve away any more of my heart.
Two birds with one very ugly stone.
But I don’t feel better and I don’t feel purged. I don’t feel cured or clean or unburdened…
I just feel like the biggest asshole in history.
Lizzie on the other hand…
Before my very eyes, Lizzie has grown taller. Her spine has straightened and her head has risen. Despite everything I’ve hurled at her, she now stands like she’s the victor. She holds her own against the silence, waiting for the right moment to speak.
And I can only seem to stare.
She inhales, long and slow. Pushes her hair back over her shoulders. There’s a shaking to her hand that I think might be fury. But her tone is frighteningly calm when she finally looks me in the eye.
“I think… I should spend tonight at my place.”
And without another word, she turns on her heel, opens the front door, and steps out into the evening without a backward glance.
And judging by the way I can no longer breathe, I know in the same instant that I’ve just made a terrible mistake.
