Chapter Thirty-Five
WHEN I RETREAT to the room I used to share with April, Sid is distraught. He bangs on the door—and to make matters worse, April lets him in, then abandons me, so I have to face my heartbroken husband on my own. You can’t count on teenagers for anything.
I press my face against the mattress, the sheets already sticky with my tears. I can’t look at him. Forget leaving the farm, I don’t know how I’m ever supposed to leave this bed again.
It’s not even Astolia I’m thinking about anymore. It’s every fucked up thing I’ve done since lighting the signal fire.
Shooting Sid with my slingshot.
Running around the hospital, trying to break down doors.
Cussing out an old man who walks with a cane.
Knocking the wooden spoon out of Wendell’s hand.
Sobbing on a couch in the middle of the exchange.
Trying to convince April to abandon the only place that can keep her alive.
Greeting Amy with a knife.
Along with these memories comes a gallery of stunned faces, as if each person was shocked to discover I wasn’t as human as I looked.
Maybe I’m not. Humans are supposed to be social animals, craving the support of a community.
Instead, I’m terrified of everything that’s supposed to make me happy.
This place might have saved April, but it’s crushing me.
“Kayla.” Sid’s hand is warm as it wraps over my shoulder, large and firm. I’m not strong enough to push him off. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have tried to fix things or… I thought you might want a friend, you know? But I should have asked you first. I should have—”
“You should have picked Amy.”
“You’re kidding, right? I thought we already…” He lets out a hollow laugh. “I don’t want Amy. I want you. I love you.”
There it is. Strange, how such beautiful words can cut so sharply.
I curl into the mattress. “You shouldn’t. Why the hell would you ever choose me when you deserve a normal—”
“Don’t talk about yourself that way.”
“It’s true!” I’m angry enough that I roll over so I can yell at him without the mattress swallowing my words.
When I look up, I’m confronted by his face, leaning over me, eyes shining like blue skies I could fly up into if I had wings.
It leaves me breathless for a second, until I swallow back the last of my tears and go on. “You’ve been—I mean… you’re perfect.”
“Holy shit, no.”
“You are! You’re perfect and I can’t even love you the way you deserve.”
There. I said it.
His knees buckle as he sits next to me on the bed. “So… you don’t love me,” he finally says, blue sky eyes shuttered by clouds.
“I can’t.” My voice sounds a thousand leagues away. “I don’t know how.”
“You love April,” he says.
“You know that’s not the same.”
“Isn’t it? Because I know it’s not the sex thing. You’re okay with that.” His voice rises and I flinch. Not because I’m afraid of him anymore, but because it’s clear I did what Amy warned me about. I hurt him. “So it’s just the love part. Why, Kayla? Why can’t you love me?”
“I don’t know!” How can I even put this into words? There’s no good explanation, because a normal person wouldn’t be reacting this way. “I just can’t. I’ve lost too much. I can’t live a normal life because I can’t make myself believe it’s real. It’s too late. I’m too scared.”
“Of me?”
“Of everything.”
He nods. For a long time, we’re both silent, the space between our knees wider than a canyon formed by an earthquake.
“Is it because of TNS?” he asks finally.
“Them. Astolia. Everything.”
“Shit.” His hands shake as he runs them back through his hair. “I’m so sorry. I knew we shouldn’t have…” He chokes on his words. “I knew I reminded you of them, but I still—”
“What?” I straighten, startled. “No, what the hell? It’s not your fault.”
“You just said it was.”
“No, I didn’t!”
“You said you were too scared of me.”
“No! That’s not what…” I mentally play back what we just said to each other and realize where I went wrong. “I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of losing you. Loving you and then… having that ripped away.”
His eyes flick back to mine. “But you said—”
“The problem isn’t you! It’s never you. How…” I brush the tears from my face and try to see us from his point of view. “How could you possibly think you’re the problem?”
“Come on. My people killed your family, Kayla. If you never wanted to see me again—”
“I already told you that could have been Astolia. That could have been anyone. And even if it was TNS, you’re not one of them anymore.
How many times do I have to spell this out?
You should know by now…” The realization hits me.
“Nothing I say is going to fix that, is it? You can’t help thinking everything is your fault, no matter how long ago it was. ”
“Oh shit, you sound like my therapist.” Sid rubs his temples, a weary sigh filling his lungs. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“But it’s been twelve years. How are you—after twelve years…
” It never goes away. That should be the most depressing thought in the world, because if he’s still reliving the horrors of his youth, what are the chances I’ll ever put away mine?
I’m afraid of losing people. He’s afraid of hurting them.
Instead, it fills me with wonder, because through it all, he’s still here.
Still himself. Still, for his faults, willing to love me.
“I’m not Amy’s kind of person. I don’t even know how to imagine a life with someone like her. I don’t own a table. Twelve long, shitty years and I don’t own a table.” He gives me a wan smile. “The best twelve, shitty years of my life.”
“And what about before that? The worse years?” When he doesn’t respond right away, I rephrase my question. “You never told me about how you grew up.”
I place my hand over his. A pulse rages through the thin skin of his wrist. “It’s been a long day. Maybe—maybe we can talk about this another night—”
“Sid, you promised. You promised I could ask about it whenever I wanted.”
“I also promised I would never sleep with you,” he points out.
“Yeah, well… keep stalling and that might come true yet.”
That draws a laugh out of him, and a sliver of courage warms my chest. I thread my fingers through the cornsilk texture of his hair. “Please.”
His eyes fall away from my face. “I don’t want you to think less of me.”
“I know.” I rest my head against his shoulder, hoping the power of my touch is enough to reassure him. “But you’re never going to believe I won’t judge you for it unless you tell me.”
What if the reason I don’t know how to be happy with him is because I haven’t ever held the full weight of his grief?
For so long, I’ve been drowning in my own darkness, but the idea of his doesn’t pull me down the same way.
For once, maybe I can be the person in the lifeboat, offering him a hand up.
“You’ve already done so much for me. Please. Let me be here for you.”
He bends lower, pressing his forehead against mine. I could stay this way forever, I think, right before he begins to speak.
“I’ve only shot three people myself,” he says. “But I’ve helped kill far more.”