45
TATE
“HAVOC, NO!”
For a moment, I go someplace else, the world quieting, my ears ringing to muffle terror-filled shouts. Everything moves in slow motion, hazy figures around me rushing forwards, trying to take her from me.
But I won’t let go.
My face is wet, I faintly feel, and that’s never happened before.
I didn’t know I could cry.
I’ve teared up with my girl before, sure. But I thought I was incapable of anything this extreme.
Havoc, Havoc, Havoc . . .
Maybe they were right, though—maybe I am insane. Maybe people, my parents, were right. Because it feels . . . as though I’m . . .
slipping . . .
away . . .
“. . . e’s okay . . . alive . . .”
The words penetrate the fog enough for me to come back, a ragged, sharp breath dragging itself into my starved lungs.
And I make myself stay.
Okay.
Alive.
As long as she’s alive, so am I. I will always be wherever she is.
So I return to myself, to my Havoc, ready to be whatever she needs me to be to take care of her.