I’m here, I’m breathing, and somehow that matters. I don’t know if we deserved to survive or whether we were just lucky, but we’re here and I want to make the best of it.
Thirty-Three
Ever
We keep walking, because that’s all we can do. Slower. In silence. In pain. We walk across a knife’s edge ridge, arm in arm, together. We walk until the stars fade into the night and streaks of light blues and oranges crest through the sky from the east, though it feels like the shadows still cling to us. Until the lights from the city below blink into existence, like fireflies on the horizon.
It’s so close and suddenly so far. It’s as if time followed a different pattern at the foot of this mountain. Elle is home, hopefully asleep in our bed, and blissfully unaware. I don’t want her world to be tarred by worry or fear yet. Dad must be awake by now, getting ready for work, and he won’t be the only one.
In the city, life goes on as normal. It’s a strange thought. Most likely, no one knows there was anything out of the ordinary. No one is aware yet that the city lost two people overnight, and some of them will probably never find out.
What was our center of the universe is irrelevant to other people.
I can’t wrap my mind around that. I can’t help but wonder what goes on around me that I’ve never noticed. I don’t want to know everything, necessarily; I don’t know if anyone is meant to know everything. But I’d like to know more.
In the bleak light of dawn, Flagstaff looks comfortingly familiar—and utterly foreign at the same time. Maybe that’s why we create worlds, to make sense of this one.
The closer we get to the city, the more the exhaustion sinks in, the more that feeling of being out of place sinks in.
I reach out and touch Finn’s hand, knuckles to knuckles. Soft enough for him to feel I’m there, not hard enough to impede him using his crutches. He steps a little closer, and we fall into step, our bodies molding around each other. Walking together with crutches can be a challenge—the first few months he accidentally tripped me more than a dozen times, and I tripped over my own feet twice as often. These days, we’re so in tune, we both take them into account without consciously thinking about it.
I sneak a glance at Finn from the corner of my eye.
His long hair falls in strands across his face and he’s pale. The fight took a lot out of him, and he’s intensely focused on the treacherous gravel beneath our feet. As if he notices I’m watching, he leans into me for a shared heartbeat, as synchronized as our breathing and our walking.
“You know I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“For what?” he whispers back.
“I don’t know. Everything?”
He narrows his eyes. “You’d better not be feeling responsible.”
“Have you met me?” I try and obviously fail to make light of it.
“Ever.”
I push both my hands into the deep pockets of my cloak and let the pain wash over me. I’m shaking all over. When I look up at Finn, his anger has flared. His jaw is set. His eyes are blazing. I try not to be on the receiving end of that look too often.
He shakes his head. “No. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to feel responsible for something you could not do anything about. This is Liva’s doing. These were the choices she made. You did everything you could to make everyone feel welcome. You aren’t to blame.” He grimaces. “None of us are.”
That feels like an easy escape from my inner turmoil. I’m not sure I deserve that. I’m not sure I want that. Because the truth is that I made mistakes too. I may not be responsible, but that doesn’t mean I’m not accountable. “But maybe we could’ve helped her. Maybe I could’ve helped her.”
“Maybe we could have,” Finn says. He moves his weight from one crutch to the other and winces. “Maybe we could have. We’re both going to struggle with the fact that we’ll never know. Maybe we failed her and Carter too. But if that’s the case, we’re to blame for not recognizing what she was going through. Nothing more.”
“Isn’t that enough?”
He pulls me close, and I know he feels me trembling. As quickly as it came, his anger fades again. “Oh, Ev. I don’t want to be ignorant to my friends’ pain. I would like to make sure it never happens again. But it’s not a capital offense. I didn’t know how much you were struggling, and you’re as close to me as breathing. I didn’t share everything either. The most we can do is try and be kind—to ourselves too. That’s where we find our worth. That’s how we stop from breaking.”
“I know, I just…” I don’t have words anymore. The relief from earlier, the connection with Finn, I’ve cycled through it all, and now I only have grief. Overwhelming, nauseating, all-encompassing grief. For Carter. For ourselves. Even, in a way, for Liva too. I don’t know how to stop shaking. I don’t know how to keep my eyes from burning and my head from pounding and the world from turning.
We’re all so tired.
Finn drops his crutches and pulls me close, his own arms trembling but strong around me. His presence undoes me. He reaches through me and sees me at my core. He protects me even if he has to protect me from myself.
At the sound of the crutches hitting the ground, Maddy turns around, and when she sees the two of us, she immediately rushes back and we all cling to one another, like a scared and hurting huddle.
At least we’re not alone. At least we can all hold on to one another.
At least we’re here.
Finn pulls me closer. “I know I have no right to ask this
