Chapter Sixty-Seven. Daye
Daye
Spring flowers slapped at Daye’s bare skin. The field stretched before her, a riot of color made frenzied by the endlessness of spring. There was nowhere to hide. Leaving Daye no choice but to run.
Birds exploded from the field around her, their shrill cries of alarm close enough that she could feel them in her chest. Rory’s voice echoed in the bowl of the lake, loud and resonating.
Even with her palms pressed to her ears, she could hear him shouting for her, the words a moment, a mere stumble away from tipping into discernibility, and then there would be no running, no hiding, no feelings at all.
His words would lash her into place, would fix a smile on her face, would make her still under his touch.
Would make her forget she ever wanted to run away at all.
Too far. He went too far. That … there was no going back from that.
She ran harder. Stones lodged in the soles of her feet.
Stems scored her shins, the underside of her arms, her face.
She might not have been made to break easily, but the pain was still sharp and startling.
And the bathing suit offered no cover, no protection.
All she could do was grit her teeth and keep running.
Away, away, away. Anywhere but here, anywhere but where Rory’s words reached out for her like claws, ready to rend and tear.
In the distance, trees crowded together, a cool pool of shade, emerald green and pine dark. So different from this field of red and yellow and pink, from the low uniformity of flowers. The dense, distant trunks offering hundreds of places to hide.
A promise of safety, if only she could reach them.
She twisted to look behind her. Rory was running at her heels, close enough that she could see his mouth shaping a curse when a bird burst from the underbrush in front of him.
He was gaining. His long legs eating the distance, his arms pumping at his sides while hers were clamped to her ears, making her awkward. He was—
She stumbled, her hands falling from her ears as she braced on the ground. Instantly, sound rushed in. “Daye, Daye, what are you doing? Why are you running?” Even with her heart thundering and her breaths sawing so, so loud, his words were clear, growing clearer by the second.
She clambered back to her feet, lungs stuttering with panic, pressed her hands back to her ears, and ran.
The stems parted against her body. Something brushed her shoulder, snagging in her hair. Daye flinched, expecting that it would be Rory’s hand, reaching out to grab her. He was so, so close, she would have sobbed with panic if she could have.
She ran even harder, plunging into a shoulder-high patch of daisies. Petals caressed her cheeks as she sprinted past, like soft whispers, as Rory crashed through the field behind her.
For a moment, it was so achingly familiar.
Like she’d tripped back in time, and it was some long-lost summer, Rory and her playing tag on the way back from the lake, the two of them running for the pleasure of it, for the feel of grass beneath their feet and petals on their cheeks and the sweet, tired ache of a day spent outside; Rory’s laughter unfolding like a ribbon behind them, high and sweet, and their pace so close that neither of them was gaining, but that was okay—she never tried to outrun him, only to make the game last.
She blinked, and the memory of laughter shattered, replaced by muffled shouts, growing closer with every stumbling step she took.
She was doing it still, she realized. Even after everything, she was matching her pace to his.
As if this were still a game of chase, and all that being caught would mean was a tumble to the grass, a bout of tickles, a change of game.
As if he were the same long-gone Rory giving chase.
Even now, even with fear and despair thrumming through her, habit still had her holding back, pacing her strides to his.
The realization was like her foot breaking through ice, so abrupt and shocking that she almost stumbled again.
She was checking her speed.
She didn’t have to.
Even as she was thinking it, her strides were growing longer, her gait changing; the unwieldiness of running with her hands pressed to her ears shifting into something smoother, almost fluid.
There was a startled delight in it, like remembering a long-forgotten secret.
Years of habit were falling away from her, tumbling between the stalks of wildflowers.
And now she was gaining, gaining, the muffled sound of Rory’s calls growing fainter and farther away, the flowers growing sparser, shorter, until there was nothing under her feet but grass, and then, finally, the cool shade of the trees washed over her, and she plunged into the forest.