“Why are you even awake?” I ask.
“I opened my eyes and Xavier was hovering right over my face. There’s no going back to sleep after that,” he protests.
“Emma, give Dean the key to the car,” Xavier says, catching up to us.
“Good morning, Xavier,” I say.
“Good morning, Emma. Give Dean the key to the car.”
“Why didn’t you answer your phone?” I ask.
“I don’t have it,” he says.
“Did you lose it?” I ask.
“No. I know where it is. In the cabin sleeping. Its alarm doesn’t go off for another hour.”
This is a pick-my-battles kind of moment.
“Why do you want Dean to get the car?” I ask.
“He wants me to find out where Elliot drove in here so he can try different scenarios,” Dean says.
“For what?” I ask.
“Elliot was an ant, not an elephant,” Xavier says.
“Elliot was a big man,” I say. “Hardly an ant.”
“Doesn’t matter. Size is all perception. The tiniest creatures don’t know the largest exist. No more than you could perceive the universe if you weren’t told it was there. The sky looks as if it curves around the Earth and contains it. Nothing more than the toys in the gumball machine of life.”
“I’m going to the cabin,” Dean announces.
He stalks off and Xavier waves at him absently, staring up at the sky as if he’s envisioning the plastic top to his gumball bubble.
“Xavier,” I say after a few seconds. “Just out of curiosity…”
“One of those sticky men that flops down the wall if you throw it,” he says.
“Ah,” I say, nodding.
He glances over at me. “You?”
“Temporary tattoo.”
He makes an acknowledging sound, as if he’s contemplating my choice. “What of?”
“Roses,” I say.
He looks at me and smiles. “You aren’t temporary. Not you or Sam or Dean.”
He starts to say something else but stops himself. His expression falls.
“What?” I ask.
He lets out a breath and it’s like I can feel the heaviness it’s carrying.
“Or Millie.”
Chapter Ten
I don’t know how to respond. That’s the last thing I expected to hear him say. Millie’s brutal death is still fresh in my mind, and given their history, no doubt it affected him in ways he still has yet to process. But he’s refused to open up about it. I want to be there for him, to somehow help with what he’s feeling, but I don’t even know if he’s allowed himself to feel those things.
“Oh,” is all I can manage. “You haven’t… talked about her much.”
“Because I don’t talk about her, she doesn’t matter?” he asks. “She hasn’t earned her space?”
“That’s not what I mean,” I say. I pause, trying to come up with another way of saying it. But I can’t. “Actually, maybe it is. Since I met you, I have only heard you really talk about Andrew when you talk about your past. You only mentioned anything close to a friendship with Lakyn, and I know what happened between you and Millie is a long time in the past, but I haven’t heard you open up about it even once. Not in all this time.”
“I know,” he says.
“But I don’t understand,” I say.
“What don’t you understand?” he asks.
“I know Andrew was your best friend. He helped you a lot and was really important to you. Lakyn was important, too. She was helping you try to get out. And Millie was so special to you. But there has to be somebody else,” I say.
“Why does there have to be somebody else?” he asks.
“They can’t be the only people,” I explain. “I know going to the trial and spending all those years in jail, a lot of the people you knew before that time probably distance themselves from you. But now that you’re out, don’t you want to see any of them? Isn’t there anybody you miss?”
He looks at me with the steady calm that I’ve only ever seen in him. It isn’t the same thing as being peaceful or even content. Instead, looks as if there’s simply no other way to feel. As if what he’s thinking is so unquestionable and clear he doesn’t need to react.
“I miss Andrew,” he says. “And Millie.”
“Other than them,” I say.
He looks as if he’s trying to choose his words.
“Emma, I don’t feel the same things you do. I have far too many crayons in my head, and it’s hard sometimes to choose which one to use. It makes decisions hard. I can’t understand things the way other people do.”
“You’ve told me that,” I say.
He nods. “But that means I don’t need other people coloring for me.”
“Xavier, I don’t understand,” I tell him. “I’m trying to.”
He nods. “I know you are.” He thinks for another second. “Everybody needs people. We’re not made to be isolated. We feed off of each other, getting validation, energy, love, support. All those things we need to thrive. You get them from a lot of people. You share the crayons you have with the people you meet, and you borrow ones from them to color your world. It’s constant. You know you can always find somebody who has the color you need. I can’t.”
“Why?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I don’t have enough slots in my crayon box. But I still need that. Just in a different way. You may need a lot of colors, but the ones I need are the most important ones. I only have space for those. And there is no replacing them. I don’t connect two people just because they’re people. I don’t miss people. I can find use in someone and even like them, but that doesn’t mean I attach to them. Lakyn saw me. She did her best to connect to me. But even she was temporary. I know that. That sounds harsh, but I don’t mean it to. It’s not an insult to her. It’s an awareness of my own ability to stay connected.
“It’s different when I find one of the colors that I need.
