Chapter 17 The Dust
THE DUST
DAMON
My emotions can’t seem to find an equilibrium.
No matter how hard I try, the scales never stay balanced for long.
Yesterday, I felt joy. Genuine happiness.
It was as if, for a brief moment, I had stripped away the burden of grief, of guilt, until I was light.
Feather-like. But that moment was fleeting as are all moments of peace.
It’s my fault this time. I asked for this. I requested this information. All highs fade. I can’t ride them forever. But I wanted a second more. An hour. A day. But it’s not his fault. He’s not responsible for this erratic flip of my emotions. Neither is she. It’s on me.
It’s always on me.
“Damon…” Emery's voice is so fucking gentle. She thinks I’ll crack. Break before her eyes. And she’s not wrong. My appetite vanishes as I stare at the scallop dinner Quin prepared. “Baby?”
“I’ve commissioned a headstone,” Quin cuts through my silence.
I glance up at him, frowning. “It’s the same style and make as your…
” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence.
As my family. “And,” he clears his throat, “I’ve also contacted the cemetery.
They said once the headstone is ready, they’ll be able to—”
I hold out my hand. Enough. I’ve had enough.
Ashes. That’s all that’s left of her. I can’t even remember if she wanted to be cremated.
Or if she wanted to be buried. Why don’t I remember?
We must have talked about it. We talked so much.
But it’s blank. Nothing. I squeeze my eyes shut, my gut twisting with nausea.
“I apologize if I overstepped…” Quin says solemnly. “I didn’t think you’d want to handle the…logistics of—”
“What?” I snap my eyes open, confused. Emery’s gaze flits across my face, equally as contrite.
Oh, Christ. They think I’m upset. That I’m angry.
That my silence is rooted in contempt. I let out a defeated breath.
“Please don’t apologize to me. I… You were right.
” I swallow. “Thank you for handling the…logistics.”
Emery glances briefly at Quinton, posture tense, hands fidgeting. “Do you… Do you want us to give you a moment? Alone? Or…?”
Do I want to be alone? Yes. Do I want to sit in the dark and never see the break of daylight? I do. Do I deserve solitude? Yes. Do I deserve to rot in my remorse? Wholeheartedly, I do.
I know it’s sick. I know that Emery is here and alive, her heart beating because of my reckless actions.
I know how it must look to her. To watch me regret that fateful night.
What if I was never in that car? Would Emery still be alive?
Would she have found a different donor? Or would she, instead of Alison, be nothing but dust? Nothing but a memory.
If I leave this table, if I tell them to give me space, am I running?
Am I pushing them away? Sage would say that I am.
That I’m putting up walls, barriers. Barriers that will inevitably be the reason this relationship collapses.
I deserve to live in the rubble though. In the aftermath of my sins. But I’m selfish.
And so I say, “No. Don’t leave. I’m-I’m okay.”
Emery’s eyes gloss over as she reaches across the table, her hand resting on top of mine. “You’re not okay, Damon. I… We don’t expect you to be okay.”
I force a smile. “I’m alright. Really.”
Quin shakes his head. “You can talk to us, D. You know that, right? Emery and I… We’re here for you. You don’t have to go through this alone.”
Talk to them? And say what?
Emery nibbles on her bottom lip. “Maybe Quin and I should skip the conference. It doesn’t feel right to leave you alone when—”
“Or you can come with us,” Quinton suggests. “Emery’s flying commercial, but you could come with me and—”
“Stop.” Jesus. They’re walking on eggshells.
Treating me like a fragile, poorly wired bomb.
What kind of man have I become? So weak.
So fucking pathetic. “I don’t need either of you babysitting me, okay?
I’m fine. Plus,” I look at Quin, “you’re the keynote speaker, Q. You can’t miss it. I won’t let you.”
“So, come with us,” Emery says, hopeful. “It’ll be fun. We can—”
“We can what?” I cock my head, tone sour. “Sit in a hotel room and sing kumbaya together? The media will be there, Emery. Reporters. They want you and Quin. Not me. Plus,” I push my chair back, “I’d rather not be a third wheel.”
“Damon…”
I tried. But here I am. Sabotaging the one thing in my life that means anything.
I shouldn’t be allowed in here. I’m surprised He didn’t smite me upon entry. I rub my hands together, nervous, waiting for the roof to collapse on top of me. But nothing happens.
I sit in the quiet empty church, my eyes roaming over the intricate stained-glass windows depicting scenes from biblical stories.
Sunlight filtering through the windows, casting colorful patterns on the wooden pews.
Idols of Mary and Jesus stand stoically in the front of the church, peaceful and divine, while statues of saints line the walls. So devoted and revered.
Unlike me.
Since my family died, I've been strangely drawn to places of worship, not necessarily out of deep religious conviction—like my mother— but more so out of curiosity.
Out of a deep-rooted fear that I may end up on the wrong side of purgatory.
As I stare at all the statues, my mind wanders. My stupid, broken mind.
Is any of this real? Is there truly a place where souls go after departing this world? And what about those who commit heinous crimes? Are they also granted entry through those coveted pearly gates? Or is there a separate fate awaiting them? A darker, hellish fate?
Lost in my thoughts, I don't notice the priest approaching me until he speaks, and I jerk upright, uncomfortable and unworthy.
"What troubles you, my son?" His voice is calm and comforting. He doesn’t know the kind of man I am. The things I’ve done. The lives I’ve affected.
I turn to face him, offering a faint smile of acknowledgment. "What makes you think something is troubling me?”
He tilts his head, his gaze all-knowing, almost eerie. “Am I wrong in my assessment?”
I swallow hard. Lying to a priest wouldn’t bode well for my already tarnished résumé. “No. You’re not wrong.” My fingertips buzz with anxiety, my voice faltering. “I-I guess I’m just…I’m just thinking.”
He perks a bushy grey brow. “About?”
My mouth feels dry, raw. “Umm…” I want to lie so bad. I want to run away. But I don’t. For them, for Emery and Quin, I fucking try. “About forgiveness and, umm…redemption. I guess…I guess I’m looking for answers.”
He nods in understanding, taking a seat beside me on the pew. "Tell me, son, what answers are you specifically seeking?"
I hesitate for a moment, unsure of where to begin, what to say, what to ask.
This whole interaction seems strange, unfamiliar.
But I try. Again and again and again, I fucking try.
"I suppose I'm wondering whether it's possible to truly atone for past mistakes.
Whether uh…whether God's forgiveness is unconditional or if there are certain… sins that cannot be absolved."
I feel like I can’t breathe. Is that an answer in itself?
The priest listens to me, his gentle eyes encouraging me to continue. He, too, thinks I’m fragile.
With a heavy sigh, I cast my gaze downward, staring at the tips of my shoes. "I've done things in my life that I'm not proud of," I admit quietly. "Things that have caused pain and harm to others.”
He places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "It's natural to carry the weight of our past mistakes. It’s human. But remember…” My muscles tense under his touch. “God's love and forgiveness is boundless, my son. No matter how grave our sins may seem, there is always a path to redemption."
I shake my head subtly. "But what about justice? Shouldn't there be consequences for our actions, even if we seek forgiveness? What if I don’t think I’m worthy of God’s forgiveness?"
The priest draws in a slow breath. "Justice is an integral part of divine mercy.
It is through acknowledging our wrongs, seeking repentance, and making amends that we begin to walk the path of redemption.
God's grace is not a hall pass to evade accountability, but rather a guiding light toward transformation.
" He pauses. “A man who deems himself unworthy of God’s forgiveness is often a man who deserves it the most.”
“I-I don’t understand.”
He pats my shoulder gently. "Evil isn’t aware it’s evil.
It carries no moral compass. You’re sitting here, clearly deeply affected by whatever it is that you did wrong.
And you know it was wrong. But evil…evil would never question itself.
It wouldn’t feel remorse. It wouldn’t ask for a way back into the light. ”
“But how?” I ask, hanging my head. “How do I earn His forgiveness?”
“Through prayer.”
I snap my head at him. “I tried that. For years. It didn’t work.”
“Perhaps it did,” the priest muses, standing up. He glances down at me, smiling. “And now, it is up to you to accept His forgiveness.”
“Damon?” Emery knocks on the door of the study before poking her head through. “Can I come in?”
I sigh. Is she seriously asking permission? It’s her home. Our home. Every room is as much hers as it is mine. “You don’t need to ask.”
She bites her lip, slipping through the threshold. My gaze dances across her exposed collar bones, her silk teddy plunging down between her breasts. Her faded scar stares at me, whispering words of gratitude as she approaches me.
“What are you reading?” she asks, circling the desk.
She nods down at the book in my lap, and she lifts a brow.
“The Bible?” I quickly open a nearby drawer and shamefully hide the evidence of my moral struggles.
She swallows before taking a tentative seat on my lap.
She wraps one arm over my shoulder, her long, soft legs crossed over one another. “Where were you this morning?”
She smells like an angel. A combination of sugar and salvation. I bury my head into the crook of her neck and inhale, praying I never forget her scent. “I had some errands to run.”
“Errands?” I feel her left hand gliding toward the paperwork on the desk. She sighs. “I see.”
I refuse to open my eyes. I refuse to watch her catch me in a lie.
My lips rest against her pulse point, and I can feel her rhythmic heartbeat against my skin.
Tick tock. Tick tock. Like a clock. A clock powered by a battery I sourced.
It’s so hauntingly beautiful. The melody of her breathing.
The evidence of life, both given and taken away.
Tears well in my eyes and roll onto her shoulder. I can’t stop them. I have no strength to prevent them from pouring out.
“You’re allowed to feel conflicted, Damon,” she whispers, curling into my embrace.
“You loved her. But…” She swallows. “I know what I felt that day on the balcony. It wasn't… It wasn’t of this world. I felt her, Damon. You saw it. I know you did. And I know… I know you felt it too. And I-I think maybe, regardless of your part in her story, the ending would’ve been the same. ”
I stiffen. “We can’t know that, Emery.”
“You’re right,” she sighs. “We can’t.” She pulls away, her eyes locking with mine. “But isn’t that a lovely thought? That all of this… All of this was somehow part of a bigger plan.”
I frown at her. “You don’t believe in fate. You made that clear from the start.”
She palms my cheek, tilting her head as she smiles.
“That day changed me, Damon. It’s hard to explain, but she was in here.
” Emery points to her chest, to her scar.
She places a hand over her heart. “I can’t prove anything to you, Damon.
I have no facts or empirical evidence. No quantitative data.
But I know that what I felt was the truth.
” She pauses. “God is not angry with you, Damon. The universe isn’t angry.
I am not angry with you. Alison…” I wince.
“Alison is not angry with you.” She places a chaste kiss on my temple, and whispers, “So, please, Damon, stop being so fucking angry with yourself.”
I hold her in my arms for what feels like hours. Use her as a weight. A rock. An anchor. I want to believe her. I desperately wish her words would cure me. Save me. I’m trying. God knows I’m fucking trying. And I’ll continue to try. For her. For Quin.
And, despite my resignations, for myself.