I look down at him and cup his face in my hands. I see the crazy current whipping through his body and vibrating in his eyes. I feel his skin start to warm beneath my hands, and because of it, I know that whatever he’s about to ask me to do is energizing and inciting his body far more than anything we have done before. There is utter and absolute ecstasy in his face.
“What is it?” I ask. “What do you need me to do?”
Emma’s Epilogue
I am standing on the bridge, and in a rush of brutal and beautiful clarity, I know. I know that I am not the only one. I know that he has done this before. With other women. In other cities. On other bridges. But it doesn’t matter. They weren’t me.
How could he have been so careless?
The green fabric of my dress is clinging to my skin, and the air is calm and humid. My hands are tied behind me, but I’m not crying. I’m not fighting. My skin is not burning with anger or fear. My brain is in charge of my body, and it is telling my instincts to go fuck themselves. As I look out over the dark river, it is all falling into place. The picture is whole.
His breath is steady, deep. He’s always been the calm that feeds off my turmoil, is thrilled by it even. But not today. Today there is only peace. I know what he needs from me, and even as I stand here on the edge of everything, I love him. If he asked me to jump, I would. There would be no hesitation. I know that now, and he knows it, too. I suspect he always has.
I can feel the remarkable beauty in his anticipation. Doing this one thing is going to make him very, very happy, far happier than anything else we have ever done together. It is going to make everything better. I know it.
I will not fail.
I suddenly feel his hand on my face. I quietly sigh and push my head into his palm, feeling the softness of his skin. Inhaling his scent. His smile is small, sheltered. But if I do this, if this happens, his face will open with joy and his teeth will show and his eyes will brighten. He will be unstuck.
His hand falls from my face, and he drops to his knees. The sacks of sand at my feet—on my feet—feel dense. I stand still as he knots them slowly to my ankles. I am quiet because I am not afraid. I am not sad.
Right after we met, he brought me to this bridge. He showed me the colorful graffiti painted across the trusses and told me that this illicit art had turned a simple bridge into a masterpiece. It was someone’s opus, he said. The fact that some kid, probably unaware of his own talent, could create something so moving obviously touched him deeply. At the time, I wondered why he was so captivated by it. But now...now it is clear. He knew, even then, that all this would come to be. Because it had happened before. With the others.
Still, none of it matters.
Because I am here now, and I am the one.
He pushes me, and I fall, falling for him a second time. But this time, I am not falling in love. This time my descent is not in sweetness and metaphor. It is real. Bruising and literal. I am falling from the sky because I want him to love me as much as I love him. I want to put all of his broken pieces back together. And this is the only way to make that happen. I love him, in spite of all this. In spite of the son of a bitch that he really is. In spite of myself.
The fall is not as I anticipated. I thought it might be a rapid rush, but, instead, I feel light. As if I am floating. I struggle to see the riotously painted bridge trusses as I pass, but the darkness makes it impossible. My mind is moving slowly, thoughtfully even, but before I can take hold of another breath, I hit the water. The bubbles rise around me, tickling my body in a frothy, hard caress.
The weight of the sandbags pulls me down faster than I expected. I am under the water, and yet I can finally breathe. And I grin because I know that he is up there, on the bridge, smiling. His perfect teeth exposed. His eyes alight. He is elated. And maybe, I hope, filled with a deep, appreciative love. For me.
David’s Epilogue
The sandbags are the last thing to fall from the ledge, and, as they do, I hear a sickening swipe. It licks at my heart. I watch her fall. She is falling for me. Her body tilts softly in the air, and she hits the water feet first. I know the sandbags will pull her down fast. They always do. The bubbles rise, and the ripples widen, and she is gone. Gone because I am a goddamned son of a bitch.
I put my face in my hands and drop to my knees. I am crying. I am sobbing. I am screaming.
Shit. What have I done?
To be continued...
* * * * *
Acknowledgments
The blame for this book is to be placed squarely on the shoulders of my friend Melissa. She is the one who encouraged me to write David and Emma’s story, and her enthusiasm for this book led me through both the dark spots and the bright. Thank you, Melissa, for leading me down this road and for being such a kick-ass cheerleader. Your faith is mind-boggling.
To N.A., L.S., B.O., M.S. and M.K.: I still can’t believe I suckered you into reading an entire ream of paper full of my words. And I didn’t even have to ask twice! Your trust and confidence gave me an instant pair of “author legs” and a firm push in the right direction. Without your feedback, I would not have had the courage to put this book out into the world. You are my “fab-five,” and I will be forever grateful to have you in my life.
I feel blessed to have a set of parents and a sister who always offer me their support, no matter what kind of harebrained idea I fling at them. They have my back, and I am thankful for all their positive energy and love. My chin is up because of them.
To my agent, Nalini Akolekar of Spencerhill Associates: I knew from our very first phone call that we were going to be a perfect fit. Thanks for your patient ear, your steadfast enthusiasm, and your practical (and emotional!) advice. Your faith in this book, and its author, is so very appreciated.
Emily Ohanjanians, my editor at Harlequin MIRA, had no small task in bringing out the best in David and Emma’s story. Emily, your gentle guidance, kind words and professionalism did not go unnoticed. I know I can be a little overly passionate sometimes (okay, let’s call it what it is, kids: I can be an opinionated b#tch); your ability to corral that passion and help me turn it into a string of perfect words was more vital than you know. You deserve a medal.
And last, to my rock-solid husband: Thank you for tolerating all my neurotic outbursts, for encouraging me to take risks, for inspiring my creativity, for always allowing me to be myself, and for being the strongest person I know. You and that beautiful boy of ours are the best parts of me.
ISBN-13: 9781459256156
PUSH
Copyright © 2014 by Claire Wallis
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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