Chapter 28
Holland
Phoenix looks pretty much as dumbfounded as I expected. To his credit, though, nothing like pity or sympathy enters his eyes; he doesn’t patronize me or discourage me. All he says is “Right now?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Right now.” Because honestly, I don’t know when I’ll be able to work up the nerve again. It’s easy to tell myself Now isn’t a good time when I’m over on the island. But I’m here right now, I have time, I have a car—and, maybe the most motivating factor, I just watched Phoenix quit his job with his psycho family.
It was strangely empowering. If he could do that, I can visit a body of water that just happens to hold bad memories.
“All right,” he says, nodding slowly. Then he pulls his seatbelt on and starts the car. “But Wyatt will kill me if I let you go swimming in the clothing he painstakingly picked out.”
“I don’t even know if I want to get in the water yet,” I say with a scoff. “I just want to go see it for now. I’ll decide the rest when I get there.” I pause and then ask, “Do you not think I can handle it?”
“Of course you can,” he says immediately. “I’m just surprised.” His eyes flit over my face. “Are you sure you want me to come?”
“I don’t mind,” I say with a little shrug. I wouldn’t want anyone else to be there, definitely, but… “If it’s you, I’m not opposed.”
He was there. He understands. And he won’t judge me for however I react to being back in that place—a place I haven’t been since the crash.
“Have you gone at all?” I say. “Since then?”
He nods again. “I have. A few times.”
“How was it?” I say, swallowing.
“The first time was a little rough,” he admits, “but after that it was fine. I go once a year.”
On the anniversary of the crash, probably, but I don’t ask. I’m too nervous, too on edge.
And he seems to be aware of how I’m feeling, because he doesn’t ask any more questions or say anything else. He just eyes me carefully and then looks forward again, and I’m grateful.
I want to do this before I change my mind.
We drive in silence, and I can’t stop fidgeting; I’m twirling my hair and bouncing my leg and still the restless energy inside me builds. Slowly the scenery out the window grows more and more familiar, and it’s both strange and sad to be back in a place that used to feel like home but has since become the literal stuff of nightmares. I flex my hands and force my legs to still as I try to regulate my breathing, but it’s no good; my heart beats faster and faster and faster, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Phoenix, on the other hand, seems fine. I take a second to look more closely at him, but even his more hidden tells are absent; there’s no muscle twitching in his jaw, no furrow in his brow. His hand is casual on the steering wheel, and he looks for all the world like we’re just out for a summer drive. He doesn’t have to search for directions, either; it’s clear he knows exactly where we’re going, because he finds the turnoff with ease and proceeds confidently down a road I’ve never taken.
The car dips and bumps over the packed earth as we drive, maybe half a mile, until we reach a gravel lot. The wheels crunch as we enter and find a spot among the smattering of cars already here; a gaggle of teenagers spill out of an SUV, all of them in their swimsuits, laughing and shouting.
Part of me is envious of them, so rowdy and carefree. I would have loved to come to a river like this one in high school. I liked swimming, I liked boating, I liked hanging out with my friends. But the other part of me wants to shout at them to be respectful, to scream This river stole my brother’s life and never gave it back. I want to ask them how on earth they can play when something so horrible happened here.
I don’t get out of the car immediately, even after Phoenix has parked and killed the engine. I stare around the parking lot instead, although I don’t know why or what I’m looking for. I’m stalling, I guess. I let myself linger for a minute or two, and then I get out. Phoenix follows suit.
He walks behind me as we cross the parking lot. These heels were not made for gravel, so every step I take is wobbly, and I have no doubt we look like idiots. We’ve rolled up to a river in skirts and suits and ties. But I press on anyway, and Phoenix follows, not saying a word. We walk until gravel turns to dirt and sand and the river sprawls into view.
I come to a stop without thinking. It’s a beautiful place, really, one that looks deceptively harmless. This is no raging river with angry undercurrents and fierce tides; it’s medium-sized at most, meandering and lazy rather than swift. This is the kind of place people bring rafts on sun-drenched summer afternoons. I can see the bridge, too, not here but a ways down; I turn and begin the trek down the trail that runs parallel to the banks, my steps heavy but my heart frantic. I feel like pure chaos inside, spinning and whirling and too big for my skin—cut my palm and not blood but a tornado would leak out.
A tornado that could whisk me away to a place where Trev isn’t dead, maybe—an alternate dimension—a place where he’s alive and happy and he and I and Phoenix are at this same river together, laughing and splashing each other and being stupid.
But there is no such place.
I swallow thickly and walk a little faster, further and further until at last we reach the section of river with the bridge. My heart is a piece of whirring machinery, automatic and impossibly active even though it feels so broken. It beats and beats and beats as I turn toward Phoenix and hold onto his arm, lifting each foot in turn and removing my shoes. He stands steady until I’m done, at which point he holds out his hands wordlessly. I pass him the heels with a nod of thanks; he nods back, and then we make our way toward the water.
The breeze is warm and pleasant; from down the river I can hear faint laughter. But all I can really focus on is the water.
Why does it look the same? How is that possible?
How is it possible that the water beneath the bridge looks the same as the rest of the river? The place where Trev died isn’t the same as everywhere else. It’s tainted, foul. But the river flows cheerfully on, going about its business, Trev’s memory swept away long ago like driftwood in a current.
It isn’t until I look around that I realize I’m still approaching the water. And even though I wasn’t sure if I’d want to get in, I suddenly know that I have to. I have to, and I won’t be able to stop myself even if I try. So I step gingerly down the bank, footprints in the dirt and sand, until I reach the river.
Just my toes, at first. I can feel Phoenix behind me more than I can see him or hear him, but he doesn’t speak or try to stop me. I take one step in, and then another, the water chilly against my ankles and then my calves and then my knees. The sandy bottom is sharp with pebbles and bits of rock and debris, but I barely notice.
When the river hits the hem of my skirt, I stop.
I look down at my clothes. I hate them. I mean, they’re pretty enough. But they’re not me, and they’re not comfortable, and they belong to the world of Phoenix’s family. They don’t belong to my world or to this river. So I reach down and unbutton my shirt; from behind me I hear a noise of surprise from Phoenix, but I ignore it. I pull off the silk blouse and pass it back to Phoenix; he takes it without a word. Then I reach around for the zipper of my skirt, finagling it down until I can step out of that too, and then the pantyhose.
I take off everything until I’m left in nothing but my underwear and camisole.
When I turn to Phoenix, his eyebrows are up in surprise, but he still doesn’t say anything; he just holds out his hand for the skirt and tights, his gaze darting up and down the riverbank, probably to check if anyone can see. When I’ve passed him the clothes, he steps around me, placing himself between me and the sight of anyone who drives across the bridge.
“That’s looking better,” he says quietly, his eyes on my now-bare knee. The bruising has gone down significantly.
“It is,” I say. Then I continue on in my underthings, well aware that this is a weird thing to do.
I do it anyway .
My emotions rise with the water as I continue—a knotted jumble of fear and guilt and anticipation and grief up to my knees, up to my waist, up to my ribcage. When I’m about to go even further, I feel Phoenix’s gentle tug on the back of my camisole, and I look over my shoulder at him.
“I’m not sure how deep this goes or if there are any drop offs,” he says, his voice still soft. “It was pretty deep back then.”
I stay where I am, looking around at the water surrounding me, because he’s right. “Do you want to know a secret?” I say softly.
“Mmm.” A low hum of assent.
“I’m not actually afraid of the water.”
When I look at him, his dark brows are raised.
I nod. “The water itself doesn’t bother me. What I’m scared of…” I inhale deeply and then let the breath out. “Is all the things the water makes me feel. The things it makes me remember.”
Phoenix inclines his head slowly. “I understand that.”
I know he does.
I’ve been running from those feelings and those memories for years, searching for something I’ll never find because it doesn’t exist.
There is no place on earth where Trev is still alive. He’s gone. He’s gone, but I’m not. That’s the world I live in. And the emotions that have been chasing me, haunting me in my dreams—ignoring them won’t change anything.
So I take another deep breath, hold it in my lungs, pinch my nose shut.
Then I crouch down and submerge myself completely, the kiss of chilled water on my lips and in my hair. I know a brief moment of panic, mind-numbing and all-consuming. But I force myself to wait one more second .
Then I rise—and I am reborn.
“You’re all wet.”
“Yes.” Phoenix’s dry voice sounds in my ear, his arms wrapped around my waist from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder as the water laps at our legs. “Water has that effect.”
“You’re so hilarious,” I say, rolling my eyes and folding my arms over his clasped hands. “How did I ever live without your wit?”
“I’ve always lived without yours,” he says, and I can hear his smirk. “You’ve never been funny.”
I gasp and spin around to face him. “I am literally the funniest person you know”—he presses a quick kiss to my lips—“with an incredible personality”—he sneaks another kiss as his smirk morphs into something more real—“and a real winning attitude.”
“Are you cold, sweetheart?” he murmurs, pulling me closer. “Are you cold, funniest person I know?”
“Yes,” I admit, and he lets go of me immediately. He takes my hand and turns toward the shore, and I follow, wading through the water until we’ve reached the shallows. Then he lets go and emerges from the river in a few strides, leaning down to grab his suit coat from where it rests on the bank.
When he reaches me again, he drapes the jacket over my shoulders.
“There,” he says as I burrow into the coat. He looks down at me for a moment, his gaze warm as it flits over my face. Then he adds, “I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you,” I say, shuffling closer to him, and he wraps his arms around me once more. “I’m proud of me too.”
“You should be.” I watch his throat bob as he swallows. “Hey,” he says suddenly, his voice hoarse. “Should we get married?”
I blink up at him. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but…we’re already married. You must have missed it.”
“I meant, ” he says as I snicker like an immature child, “should we—you know—” He swallows again. “Should we have a real wedding?”
Oh. My eyes widen as the idea sinks in, and I reach up, cradling his face—with its hesitant, unsure expression—in my palms.
“Do you want a real wedding?” I say.
“I want you,” he answers frankly. “And…I guess I want the world to know you’re mine.”
“Ah,” I say. “So it’s a caveman ownership possession thing.”
“No,” he says, looking frustrated now. “I’m not a caveman.”
“You’ve thrown me over your shoulder, dragged me along behind you, and called me yours. Sounds like?—”
“You are mine,” he says as his arms tighten around my waist, his eyes glinting. “And I regret none of the other stuff.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Which makes you a caveman. Because look, Husband”—his gaze heats—“I’m not yours. Okay? I’m mine. I belong to me. If I choose to give myself to you, fine,” I go on, “but I do not belong to anyone.”
“Wrong,” he breathes. He lifts one hand and runs his thumb slowly over my bottom lip, and I shiver despite my jacket. “These are mine,” he says. Then he trails one finger down my jaw. “This is mine. This” —he wraps his arm tighter around my waist, pressing my body against his—“is mine. And this…” Last of all he moves his hand and to uches my chest, just over my heart. “This is mine too. Your heart is mine.”
“Only if I give it to you,” I insist.
He dips his head. “Then give it to me,” he whispers against my lips. “All of it—all of you. I want all of you.”
But I know, deep down, that all of me is already his.
“Let’s get married,” I say, kissing him lightly. “Again.”