Chapter Thirty-eight
An intermission is supposed to give the actors a chance to recoup, to change costumes, to get ready for the second act and its climactic resolution. But the curtain is up. Act II is in motion, and I am . . .
I am alone.
This is not the script I wanted.
Noah.
I thought his heart was seared to my heart. His dreams to my dreams.
I was wrong.
Oh, God. This hurts. It hurts. Why?
Why?
I did not audition for a one-woman show.
“Noah.” His name is a moan, an ache, a death. “You said you would come.”
I unzip a pocket on my backpack and drop the useless phone inside.
Useless.
Inútil, in Spanish.
I draw my knees up, tight to my chest.
Cold washes through me like an arctic wave, contained inside my body. My muscles tremble at its force. Janey scoots closer.
My chest seizes to the point of pain, and I fist my hands in my shirt, near its source, but the sob refuses to be contained. It erupts, splitting my heart. Blood pounds through my veins, awakening my brain to the truth, but it’s a cold rush . . . and vicious.
He didn’t come.
He didn’t come.
I roll to my side, tucking my elbows in, clasping my hands below my chin. I’m cold. So cold.
Janey curls around me. Whines.
I cannot comfort her.
I cannot comfort me.
I curl further, deeper into my pain, until I can taste its brokenness. Defeat. Despair.
. . . and love.
Still, love.
It is rich and real.
It is wide and terrible and deep.
It is mine.
As he was.
Until eight, nine. Eight-seventeen.