Ever looks around them. Picks up a stick and discards it again. There are beads of sweat on their forehead, the only evidence of how much pain they must be in too. “I don’t know.”
“I think I do,” Finn says. “Liar. Thief.”
Ever hesitates, then adds, “Worthless.”
Addict.
“I thought she cared about us.” I wince when I remember Liva’s exact words. The last thing she said to me before she fell.
I could have cared about you. If only you’d been better.
“I think she did. Once,” Ever manages.
I don’t know. I really don’t. I don’t know if you can truly care about people if you don’t think of them as equals.
“All we can do is keep moving, make our way down, and face whatever the consequences of this night are,” Finn says. “Are you okay to walk? We can try to splint your arm, if that makes it any better?”
He’s barely holding on too. He flinches every time he bears weight on his ankle, which already took quite a beating from his earlier stunt. He’s okay, and he’s desperately not okay. There’s a haunted look in his eyes. There’s a renewed sense of resolve too, and the way he stares at me makes me uncomfortable. It always does, but right now it’s worse. Perhaps because it’s easier to see someone else’s fault lines when you’re breaking, and we’re both vulnerable now.
“You’re looking at me like I’m a puzzle to solve.” I keep my voice light, but still it trembles.
“In my experience, most people are.”
“Well, I’m not. I’m who I’ve always been. You know me. You shouldn’t worry.”
“I do know you. I also do worry.” He looks away and shakes his head. When he turns his gaze back to me, it’s as if he’s made a decision. “And I don’t think any of us is who we were anymore. Not me, in any case. But you’re not either. You haven’t been in a long time, and we never saw that. We never saw so many things. I know I already said this, but I’m sorry.”
“What do you mean?”
He ignores Ever staring at him too. “Again, are you okay to walk?”
“As much as I ever am.”
“Do you need anything for the pain?”
Oh.
I remember what I thought on the way up this mountain, so near this very same spot. That every single one of us in our group was lying. And we were, through our teeth. I still am.
With one of his crutches, Finn pushes at the dirt before him, like a shy boy scuffing his feet. Ever’s grown completely silent. “I don’t know if you need to hear this, but there’s this thing I’m figuring out. Not being able to do everything on your own doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re as human as we all are, and we’re stronger together. We survived because we were together. Asking for help isn’t failure, it’s strength. It means you trust yourself enough to be flawed and to learn. Because here’s the secret: You don’t have to be infallible. You don’t have to know it all. No one is and no one does.”
Oh.
Perhaps the pain makes me light-headed. Perhaps I’m tired of fighting. But I make a split-second decision.
“I’m not good with working through things.” My voice takes on an almost automatic quality, telling him the exact same thing I’ve said to other people. Over and over. It’s true enough to hide the lie underneath. “I’m fine. I’m doing better since the accident.” I hold up my hand before he can respond to that. My lip trembles and I blink again. “Does that sound convincing to you?”
He breathes out hard and his shoulders drop. “No. It might’ve been if I hadn’t seen you eye those pills so hungrily back in the cabin. But even then. You’re hurting. We all are, but you look like you’ve lost yourself.”
Ever glances at Finn. “What are you saying?” they ask.
He doesn’t answer, but continues to talk to me. “I know how hard it is. I can mostly manage with the painkillers I have, with the support I have, and with the therapy I have. It’s a careful balance. I know I’m lucky. I know for others, you’d want to do anything to stop the pain, whether it’s physical or emotional, and without the right support system, it can be so difficult. Impossible, even.”
“I don’t think it was the physical pain that tipped the scales for me. I’m not good with working through things because everything is too much, too loud, too present. I don’t know how you deal with it.”
“I ignore what isn’t relevant,” Finn admits. “And maybe a bit more than that.”
“And I can’t.” I look at Ever. “Finn’s saying, in his guarded way, that if I need something for the pain, I should stay far away from these painkillers. It’s not them, it’s me. I can’t be trusted with them. Not now. Not after everything. But probably not ever.” I pull in a breath. “I’m going to want them, though, before the night is over. And before tomorrow is over. And probably every day after that for a long time. I’m going to want them even though I really don’t.”
“Do you still have any left?” Finn asks.
I shake my head. “I threw them out when I ran away. I found my pockets full of them and a note like we found for both Liva and Carter, so when I said she tried to stop me too…” I can’t finish that thought. It’s hard enough that I’ve shared this much.
The shocked silence that follows isn’t particularly reassuring. Finn’s gone completely white, and Ever opens and closes their mouth again. If they don’t understand…if they can’t deal with it…if they think less of me…
I trade
