Chapter 69 Jillian
JILLIAN
“I have died every day waiting for you / Darling, don’t be afraid / I have loved you for a thousand years / I’ll love you for a thousand more”
— “A Thousand Years” by Christina Perri
“We can still turn around,” I offer.
Kir doesn’t dignify that with a response.
He just pumps my hand and keeps his eyes on the road.
He hasn’t told me it’ll be okay, that I’m brave or strong or ready.
He hasn’t told me a damn thing, actually.
I’m grateful for that, because if he said any of those words right now, I’d probably throw up in his lap.
Exit 153 appears on the green sign overhead. Montclair is eight miles away.
My stomach does cartwheels. I rest my forehead against the window and watch New Jersey zoom past in the dark. Strip malls. Gas stations. A church with a lit-up cross.
Soon, too soon, we’re there. I look down at myself, still wearing the green gown from the wedding. I feel beyond foolish showing up like this, but it’ll have to be okay, because we’re here now, and I know that there’s no turning back.
It’s a pretty, quiet street. Old oaks interlace their fingers overhead to form an emerald canopy that shines bright in the moonlight.
We’re parked in front of a blue house with white shutters.
A pink tricycle lies on its side in the front yard, glittery tassels wafting in the summer breeze. The porch light is on. Waiting for us.
Kir cuts the engine. The silence is enormous. He looks at me. I look at the house.
“I can’t feel my legs,” I tell him.
“They’re still there, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I laugh, or try to. My hand is on the door handle but I’m not pulling it.
Kir reaches over and covers my hand with his. “I’ll be right here,” he promises. “Always.”
I nod and he helps me pull the handle. The door swings open and the night air rushes in, warm and fragrant and gentle as a mother’s kiss.
The walkway is six concrete squares from the curb to the porch steps. I count them as I go. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. A handful of wooden steps up. I stop in front of the door, fist raised, knuckles an inch from the painted wood.
Behind me, the car is dark and still. Kir is in there. Watching. I know I’m safe as long as his eyes are on me.
Then, after a deep breath to steel myself, I knock.
Footsteps ring out inside. A woman’s voice follows, muffled but cheery. Then the knob turns and the door swings inward. I look down to see, standing in the warm yellow light of the hallway, barely tall enough to reach the handle, a little girl with shocking red hair and freckles across her nose.
She looks up at me and smiles.
Just like that, another mask disappears forever.