by Jessi Kirby
“I almost didn’t make it to him,” she says. “But I reached out for that branch, and it saved me. And then I was there with him. I put my hand on his cheek and called his name. I screamed it. I slapped his face, and then I put my lips to his and they were already ice, but I pushed air into his mouth again and again because I didn’t know what else to do. I begged him to wake up, but he didn’t, so I held on, and I tried to hold him, too, until someone came for us. But there was nobody. And then the headlights went out, and I was alone in the dark, freezing to death and trying to hold on for us both. And I had to choose.”
Her eyes brim again as she brings them to meet mine. “The only thing I wanted to do was go with him. Follow him, into the dark of the water and the night, because I couldn’t imagine life without him.” She shakes her head. “But I didn’t. I swam to the shore.”
I’m the one who’s crying now, sitting on the couch of her lonely little apartment, with the rain pouring down outside, and the memory of cold and tragedy filling the space inside. I can see it all, how a word, an action, a series of moments can add up to this, and it makes me want to reach a hand out to her because I can also see the guilt in her shoulders, in her eyes, imprinted permanently into every bit of who she is now.
“I killed him,” she says after a long moment. “And he died thinking I didn’t love him anymore. I killed us. Everything we had, and everything we were, was gone. It disappeared when I said those things to him. And when I realized I could never undo it, or make it right, I wanted to disappear too.”
She stops, and when she does, I notice the rain outside has subsided. Instead of a steady shower on the roof, there are intermittent drops. The flicker of her candle against the window. A low hum and a moving beam of light from a passing car below. I almost want everything to stop right there. I’m afraid to hear what comes next in her story, because she did. Disappear.
29.
“Two souls may be too widely met.”
—“A MISSIVE MISSILE,” 1934
I can hear her running water in the bathroom as I sit alone on the couch. I watch the shadows of her feet move in the slice of light coming from beneath the door, like if I take my eyes away, she might disappear again. Just vanish into the night like before. She’d have reason to, with what I know now.
I barely spoke in the last hours, and she unraveled it all, detail after painful detail, like I imagined people did in confession if they were really serious about it. And that’s what it felt like—a confession. I didn’t ask, but I don’t think she’d ever said any of it out loud. But she had no choice with me. Her own words, in her journal, had come back to haunt her and brought me along with them.
So she told me everything. She told me that after she’d swum to the shore, she lay there alone until the snow stopped falling and a blanket of white covered the red of the snow all around her. The clouds moved on, and the stars appeared again, just in time to disappear into the pale light of morning. And that’s when she crossed the line she could never come back from. She said good-bye. She didn’t say any more than that about Shane, but I knew what that meant. The papers said they’d both been swept down into Summit Lake by the rushing cold water of the river, and I know now they were right about him.
She’d walked all the way to the other side of the lake then, bruised and bleeding, in shock and half frozen. A broken person, lost and then found by a carful of college kids on their way back to Southern California from Summit Lakes. They thought she was lost, a runaway, a victim of something horrible. She let them believe it. They tried to take her to a hospital, get her help, call someone she knew. She told them no, that she just needed to get as far away as possible. And that’s what they helped her do.
She didn’t go into the details of what happened next. Only said that the months that followed were the darkest she’d ever known, but that the longer she stayed away, the harder it was to think about coming back—like watching a door close by inches and millimeters, until finally it’s locked and the key is thrown away.
I listened to everything, weighing each of her words, and trying not to think about what they meant. I tried to put myself in the place where she’d been, but I couldn’t. It was a place I didn’t even want to imagine, and one that I wasn’t sure I could ever understand.
When she finished, she said, “I’ve been alone for a long time, and it’s how my life should be. I caused too many people too much pain, and after this long, going back would do it all over again. I told you all of this so you could understand why, even if I wanted to come back, I couldn’t.” She paused then, and the certainty in her voice seemed to waver. “Even with Orion there. Even if I thought we had a chance.”
I wanted to argue with her, despite everything she’d told me, because a little part of me still believed there was a reason for all of this. For everything. And that maybe it was never too late. But her small jaw was set when she spoke again, and she looked me in the eye, and it was with conviction that she said, “I need you to promise to keep this secret.”
“I promise,” I answered, and I felt sick and empty when I said it. It’s a strange, surreal thing to watch an ideal crumble right in front of your eyes, and to know there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.
Julianna comes out of the bathroom now, her hair pulled back and her face washed clean of the rain and tear-smudged eye makeup, but I can see it’s the only thing she’s washed clean of. Telling me everything didn’t absolve her of anything. Didn’t change anything.
“You can stay here if you need to,” she says. “I can help you find your friends in the morning before I leave. I’m sure they’ll be back here looking for you.”
I hope so. After Julianna’s story I’d tried to call my phone to at least let Trevor and Kat know where I was, and that I was okay, but it just went to voice mail. Now I have no idea where they are or how I’m going to find them, but I can’t stay here any longer. Sitting here on the couch in her living room, it’s the saddest, loneliest place I’ve ever been. I’m angry and frustrated and heartbroken, and I want to hate her for it. I want to hate her for not being who I thought she was, and for not doing what I hoped she would, and jumping at the chance to go back to Orion, because I’m more sure now that she loved him, and had things been different, she might have even ended up with him. But I can’t. I’m too sad to hate her.
I look at her standing there, resigned to the choices she’s made, and I know there’s nothing more I can say or do. I’m finished here. “Thank you,” I say, standing up. “But I should go.” I glance at the journal on the coffee table. It’s where it belongs, but I am not.
Julianna doesn’t argue, just nods like she understands. “Thank you for just listening like you did. I’ve never told anyone. And I’m sorry. You must think . . .” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what you think. I hope you know I would go back and change it all if I could.” Her eyes drop to the floor, away from mine. “But life doesn’t work like that, and we all have to live with the choices we make.”
She walks me to the door, and we say good-bye, and then just like that, it’s over. The story ends with the soft click of her lock sliding into place.
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” I say to the empty hallway. “You called yourself Hope.”
30.
“Suppose you’ve no direction in you,
I don’t see but you must continue”
—“TO A THINKER,” 1936
I step out the back door of the building and into the dark drizzle with no plan or direction or any idea of what comes next. Maybe after hearing everything I should think she’s a horrible person who doesn’t deserve another chance. Maybe for a lot of people it would be easy to think that, and decide that who she is now is made up of the things she’s done. But I can’t. I can’t draw that line between wrong and right anymore because she exists somewhere in the space between those absolutes.
It’s a truth I’d rather not know. The reality of what happened to her and Shane, and what
I saw in her when she said she could never go back make me wish I’d never found the journal in the first place. Never thought there was a different version of the story. Never hoped I could have a hand in writing it. But mostly, it makes me wish I’d never let it mean so much to me.
I round the corner, more lost and low than I’ve ever been, and just beyond the streetlight’s reach, standing beneath an awning with his hands in his pockets, is Trevor Collins. Solid, and real, and waiting for me. The sight of him lifts some of the heaviness from my chest, and I take a few tentative steps toward him.
He looks relieved when he sees me. “Parker, hey.” With a hand on my shoulder, he ushers me under the awning with him. “I was getting worried. Thought you might’ve run off and disappeared with that girl.” He pauses, and his eyes search mine in the dim light. “Was it her?”
I glance up at the apartment window above the gallery, where drawn curtains hide a lost girl who doesn’t want to be found. And now it’s my choice. I can let her stay that way, living a life I’d never wish on anyone, or I can change it for her. Against her will.
I don’t have to weigh the options long to realize it’s not my place. No matter how much I want it to be different. Trevor’s eyes trail up to the window too for a second, then he looks back at me. Waits expectantly for an answer.
“It wasn’t her,” I say, and again, there’s that sick, empty feeling. The words taste wrong.
Trevor’s face falls. “Oh no.”
“I was wrong,” I say, “about everything.” I lean against the wall, and he does too, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. I don’t like lying to him, not at all, but I made a promise to Julianna. “That girl was the artist of those paintings, but her name is Hope and she had no idea what I was talking about,” I continue. “I think she thought I was crazy at first, but then when I had nowhere to go she let me stay for a while.” I look down at my hands. Fumble with them like it’ll keep me from crying.
Trevor reaches over and lays a warm hand over mine. “I’m sorry. I know how much you wanted to find her.”
I try to shrug it off, try to tell myself not to cry about this. Not right now, in front of him. “It’s fine,” I say, but my voice has that shakiness that comes along with holding back tears, and I’m sure he can tell. “It was a stupid idea anyway,” I add. And then I take a deep breath and watch the mist come down in the glow from the streetlamp, and I realize how true it is. Bringing them back together was a ridiculous idea, and a naive thing to hope for, because life doesn’t work like that. Julianna had said it herself.
“It wasn’t stupid at all,” Trevor says. He turns, and I can feel him looking at me. “It was pretty impressive, actually, the way you chased that girl down.”
That almost gets a laugh out of me. I turn to him and he looks at me then—really looks at me, in a way that’s surprising because it’s so serious. “You know what is stupid?” he asks, and he pushes off the wall and stands so we’re face to face.
“What?”
His eyes run over mine, and for the second time tonight, everything speeds up and slows down in the space of a few seconds. He steps closer. Brings both his hands to my cheeks. Pulls me into him gently. Speaks words I barely hear. “That’s it’s taken me so long to—”
His lips on mine finish the rest with a kiss that’s light and soft, almost a question. Warmth spreads out in me, and I want to answer him and sink into this kiss, and this feeling. I want to forget about everything that Julianna said and lose myself in this moment, with the rain falling soft and the smell of the wet pavement rising all around us, and his hands on my face like it’s where they belong. I want to believe in this moment so much.
But I don’t. I can’t. I can’t because of what I know, and what I’ve seen, and everything it means.
I pull away. Trevor lets go.
He leans back against the wall and avoids my eyes as I search for something to say to explain. A way to tell him how badly I wish things were different, but I know it’s too late. The low hum of an engine, distant at first, then all of a sudden close pulls us both out of the heaviness of the moment. Before we can say anything, the Silver Bullet pulls up right in front of us, and Kat jumps out.
“Wow. I spent the whole drive back getting ready to apologize for taking off and being gone for so long, but—” She steps past the headlights and stops between us, smiling. “But now I don’t feel bad at all. Actually, it looks like you guys owe me a big, fat thank you.”
When neither one of us say anything, she catches the tension. “Or maybe not.”
“Where were you?” I ask, needing to change the subject.
“It’s a long story.” She looks from me to Trevor and back again. “Probably as long as this one right here. Why don’t we go get some food and caffeine, and then maybe we can all share. Yes?”
Trevor clears his throat and pushes off the wall without looking at me. “Food sounds good,” he says flatly. “Let’s get outta here.”
Kat holds out his keys, and he takes them and gets in the driver’s seat without saying another word. When I go straight for the back door on the passenger side, she follows me, grabs my wrist before I can get in, and gives me a What happened? look. I shake my head without answering and open the door.
What happened is I just lost my last chance. And I hate myself for it.
31.
“But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”
—“STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING,” 1923
We settle ourselves into the red vinyl booth, Trevor on one side, Kat and I on the other, and after ordering a breakfast for dinner, Kat clasps her hands together on the table, leans forward, and says, “Okay, spill it. What happened with the gallery girl? Did she ever come? Was it Julianna?”
The whole thing rushes back at me for the first time since Trevor kissed me. “No,” I say. “It wasn’t her.” I tell her the same lie I told him, and the weight of it drags me even lower than I already feel.
Kat reaches across the table for my hand. “Shit. God, I’m really sorry, P. I know how much you were hoping for it.”
Her tone is genuine and sympathetic, and I don’t say anything because I can feel the tears ready to spring up if I do. Trevor must see it, because he excuses himself to the bathroom, which I appreciate.
Kat sees it too, and once he’s gone, she shifts into pep-talk mode. “Hey—maybe they got a chance to work it out on the other side and they’re living happily ever after out there somewhere.”
I force a smile. “Maybe so.”
“What are you gonna do with the journal?” She asks.
“It’s gone too,” I say. “I lost it when I went chasing after her.”
She frowns. “Really? You were guarding that thing with your life. How’d you lose it?”
I shake my head, avoiding her eyes. “I don’t know. I just did.”
“Huh. That’s too bad.”
We’re quiet a moment, and then Kat squeezes my hand again. “Maybe it’s better that way. It’s actually kind of fitting. You found it by chance, and now you lost it by chance. Maybe now chance will send it where it should be.”
I nod, but can’t muster any enthusiasm or response. Who knows what Julianna will do with it. Maybe I should’ve given it to Josh instead, so at least he’d know she really had fallen in love with him too.
Kat leans her elbows on the sticky table, then thinks better of it and sits back against the booth. “So what else? What happened with you guys to make things so awkward?” She glances over my shoulder and I turn to see Trevor, who’s weaving his way back to the table from the bathroom.
Kat gives me a mischievous smile when I turn back around. “Did you hook up and it was bad or something?”
I sigh. “Bad. I’ll tell you later.” I try to think of something to change the subject to quickly. “So where did you go, anyway?”
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that.” She smiles.
�
�About what?” Trevor asks. He slides into the booth and our legs brush, just for a second, his skin against mine, and we both pretend not to notice.
“About her mom and her speech,” Kat says without missing a beat. “It’s gonna be bad when she gets home.”
I chance a look at Trevor. “My mom’s a little . . .”
“Crazy,” Kat finishes through another mouthful of French toast.
“I was gonna say strict, but that’s a better way to put it.” I fiddle with my napkin. “This is gonna be a big deal, if she finds out. Especially if she finds out I left her a Googled speech.” My mouth goes dry. “Oh my God. I still have to write the real one.”
“We should go home then,” Trevor says. He looks at his watch, then at me, but only for a moment. “We can make it back by morning if we leave now, and you can get home, pound some caffeine, and get it done. Maybe she won’t find out.”
Worry over what will be waiting for me at home closes in, and I want to say no, let’s not go back. I don’t want to face my mom, or my speech, or the scholarship committee. And I don’t think I can stand to ever set foot in Kismet again and chance seeing Josh. Not with what I know now.
“He’s right,” Kat says. “Let’s get you home.”
After we pay our check, we point the Silver Bullet north and drive in silence. I lean my head against the passenger window and watch the night go by. The rain is gone, leaving the sky mottled with patches of clouds and darkness peeking through the places where they’ve broken apart, but I can’t see any stars. Sadness creeps in from the edges all around me, and when we pass the last lights of town and begin backtracking over the miles we traveled only hours earlier, it feels like admitting defeat.
