Chapter Forty-Eight
Forty-Eight
SOMETHING WEIGHS DOWN the end of my bed. “It smells like shit in here.”
Jules.
“You smell like shit,” I mumble from under the covers.
“No I don’t. I smell like a goddess. Because I am a functioning human being who isn’t afraid of soap.”
“Whatever.” I pull the covers tighter over my head.
Jules tugs them down, the harsh afternoon light stabbing me in the eyes.
“Hey!” I yank the covers back up to my chin. “Don’t you have some rando to hook up with?”
Jules purses her lips. “I will let that extremely rude comment slide because I know you are having a menty b. But, seriously, get your shit together and stop being such a bitch.”
“I’m not a bitch,” I say. “And I’m not having a mental breakdown.” I cross my arms over the covers.
“Right,” Jules says, “I forgot. Cradling a crumpled-up origami bird while listening to some random-ass band on repeat—send me a Spotify link by the way—and not showering for three days is very normal, very sane behavior.”
“I’m not doing that.” I push the bird farther down under the sheets.
“Bullshit.”
“You’re bullshit.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you!”
“Sydney.” Jules towers over my face and honestly, she’s kind of scaring me right now. I scooch back a little. “Get the fuck out of this bed or I will set it on fire.”
“Jules, you don’t understa—”
“Fire.” And then she punches me in the leg and I try to kick her back, but I miss and she doesn’t even flinch.
“God. Fine. Whatever. I’ll take a shower.” I pull the covers off, sending a handful of stale Cheez-Its to the carpet. “Happy?”
“I will be after I open a window.” Jules smiles and I give her the finger before going into the bathroom and turning on the water. This is stupid. Standing in rain isn’t going to make me feel better. Wait. Not rain. I mean water. Fuck.
I brush my teeth, then step into the steamy shower and just stand there, those Boone Wilcox lyrics echoing in the chambers of my mind.
This year was lovesick
Disease closing in
This year was dry drowning
Knowing how to swim
Even though he doesn’t want to be around me—and really, who would want to be around the weird death girl?—I still can’t stop thinking about how Peter’s doing. Hoping he’s okay. Hoping that I didn’t mess up that beautiful mind of his with the fucked-up shit in mine. Hoping that maybe … maybe—
“ARE YOU CRYING IN THERE?”
“NO! FUCK YOU!” God, fucking Jules!
I get out of the shower and throw some pajamas on. I open the door to the bathroom, letting the steam billow out into my room. “Well, I hope you’re—”
Peter.
Peter is standing in the doorway to my room. “Hi.”
I freeze. The sight of him is so weird and so familiar all at the same time.
It’s like in the three days that I haven’t seen him, I almost started to convince myself he was never real.
But here he is. In jeans and a dark green shirt.
All I’d have to do is cross the room and I could touch him again.
Feel the warm aliveness of him. Put my fingers on the edges of his shirt, pull him toward me. Breathe him in.
But I don’t know if I’m allowed to anymore.
So I just stand there, my wet hair dripping down the back of my shirt.
I open my mouth to say I’m sorry. To apologize again for trauma-dumping. Or maybe to yell at him. To say out loud all the things I said in my unanswered DMs. But what comes out instead is “You left.”
“I know,” he says. “But I’m back.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice cracking. “I really am. I really—”
“Sydney. Oh man, please don’t apologize.” He takes a breath and rubs the back of his neck. “You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who … God, I’m sorry. This was all me. I shouldn’t have … I’m such an asshole.”
“No you’re not.”
“Yes I am. That day at the waterfall … you were telling me all that stuff about your mom and …”
“It was too much, I know.”
“No it wasn’t. I never wanted to leave you. You’re amazing. You’re—”
“Then why …” I swallow. “Why did you stay away?” The words come out smaller and softer than I mean for them to.
“Because I was trying to … I don’t know.” Peter’s face sort of squeezes like he’s in pain, and he closes his eyes and runs his hands through his hair. “I thought I could be better than this but I can’t.”
“I don’t understand … .”
“I’ve been reading Sartre—”
“Of course you have.”
“And he says, ‘Man is not the sum of what he has already, but rather the sum of what he does not yet have.’ And god, Sydney, all I can think about right now is that I don’t have you.” He takes a step into my room. “The sum of me is wanting you.”
“Peter …” My heart is hammering in my chest.
“I tried to stay away. But I can’t. I … I have things I have to tell you, Syd. I—”
“I don’t care,” I say, my eyes burning. “I don’t care.” All I care about is that he’s here—in front of me right now.
I reach out and grab him by the shirt, pulling the fabric, and him, into me. He stumbles but then steadies himself, wrapping his arms around me. He’s back. He’s here.
I press my face into his chest, finally feeling like I can live again. I just have to hold on. To him. To this.
“Sydney …” He pulls back, his face serious, his eyes searching mine. But I don’t care what the end of that sentence is. I don’t need any more words. Not from decaying philosophers. Not from other books. Not even from Peter.
I stand up on my toes and kiss him, my arms circling his neck. And for a second he doesn’t kiss me back, but then he does. Hard. And we fall into bed, holding each other, gasping for the same air, kissing like our lives depend on it. And fuck, maybe they do.