Instead, I sink down on one of the chairs and finally, finally let the tears come.
There are a lot of them—I haven’t cried, really cried, since the funeral, and now that I’ve started, I’m not sure I’ll ever stop. Grief is a wild thing within me, a rabid animal tearing at my insides and making everything hurt.
I’m trying to be quiet—the last thing I want is to draw more attention to myself—but it’s hard when it hurts this much. In self-defense, I wrap my arms around myself and start to rock, desperate to ease the pain. Even more desperate to find a way to hold myself together when everything inside me feels like it’s falling apart.
It doesn’t work. Nothing does, and the tears just keep coming, as do the harsh, wrenching sobs tearing from my chest.
I don’t know how long I stay here, battling the pain and loneliness that comes from losing my parents in the blink of an eye and then everything familiar in my life less than a month later, but it’s long enough for the sky to turn from the dark blue of civil twilight to pitch black.
Long enough for my chest to hurt.
More than long enough for the tears to run dry.
Somehow, running out of tears only makes everything hurt worse.
But sitting here isn’t going to change that. Nothing is, which means I might as well get up. Macy should be done with dance practice soon, and the last thing I want is for her to come looking for me.
Having her see me like this—having anyone see me like this—is the threat that finally galvanizes me. Except that when I climb to my feet and turn around, it’s to find that someone already has.
Jaxon.
32
It’s Not a
Coincidence that
Denali and Denial
Use All the Same Letters
Jaxon’s standing at the head of the stairs, face blank but eyes searching as he stares at me.
Embarrassment slams through me, makes my face hot and my breath stutter. I start to ask him how long he’s been there, but it doesn’t really matter. He’s been there long enough.
I wait for him to say something, to ask if I’m okay again or to tell me to stop whining or to say one of the million and three things that fall somewhere in between those two reactions.
He doesn’t, though.
Instead, he just stands there, watching me with those black-magic eyes of his until I lose my breath again…this time for a whole different reason.
“I-I’m sorry,” I finally stumble out. “I should go.”
He doesn’t respond, so I move toward the stairs, but he keeps blocking them. And keeps watching me, head tilted just a little, like he’s trying to figure something out while I pray for the ground to open up and swallow me.
Now would be a perfect time for another one of those earthquakes, is all I’m saying.
When he finally speaks, his voice sounds a little rusty. “Why?”
“Why should I leave? Or why was I crying?”
“Neither.”
“I…have no idea what I’m supposed to say to that.” I blow out a long breath. “Look, I’m sorry I threatened to hit you in the art studio today. You’re just…a lot sometimes.”
He lifts a brow, but other than that, his blank expression doesn’t change. “So are you.”
“Yeah.” I give a watery laugh, gesture to my still-wet cheeks. “Yeah, I can see why you might think that.”
I’m only a few steps from him, but he closes the gap, moving in until he’s only inches away from me. My mouth goes desert dry.
I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. I wait for him to touch me, but he doesn’t do that, either. Instead, he just stands there, so close that I can feel his breath on my cheek. So close that I’m sure he can feel my breath on his.
And still his eyes are dark, empty, blank.
More seconds that feel like minutes tick by until finally, finally he whispers, “What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?” I’m baffled, and a little afraid that I’m setting myself up to be the punch line of some joke.
“What’s it like to just be able to let go like that?”
“Like what? My crying jag?” Embarrassment swamps me again, and I wipe at my cheeks, trying to disappear even the remnants of my tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for anyone to see me. I—”
“Not just that. I mean, what’s it like to be able to show what you feel and how you feel, whenever you want, without having to worry about…” He trails off.
“What?” I ask. “Without having to worry about what?”