I sit in my car on the far side of Wellhouse Bridge, staring at Wellhouse Turn. Wallace’s words pound in my head. They bring to the surface all the forum posts, all the emails, all the messages from the people who want to know who I am and what I am and when I’m going to finish Monstrous Sea. I’m alone here in the middle of the road, but it doesn’t feel like it.
The weather-worn ribbons tied to the cross at the top of Wellhouse Turn are still. The sky is velvet black, punctured by stars.
Car tires squeal in the distance. I freeze, lightning in my veins and fear coiling in my chest. Anyone who sees a car stopped at Wellhouse Turn will know what I’m doing here.
A minute passes. The night is quiet again.
My body settles and the fear ebbs away, leaving only that tight tension in my stomach that hasn’t faded completely since my name was revealed. I am not okay. I know that I am not okay and that there are ways for me to be okay again, but I can’t wait that long. It won’t be worth it to be okay again, because people will still hate me. I’ll always be the letdown, the weird girl, the low-level villain in the sewers.
Everything will work better when I’m gone, anyway; I won’t be around to mess up family togetherness time, or bother Max and Emmy with my problems, or remind Wallace of everything he could have had.
I’m so tired. I’m tired of anxiety that twists my stomach so hard I can’t move the rest of my body. Tired of constant vigilance. Tired of wanting to do something about myself, but always taking the easy way out.
I thought that’s what this would be. I stare at Wellhouse Turn, and Wellhouse Turn ignores me as it ignores everyone. When I drove past an hour ago, it seemed so convenient. Providential, even. So many times I looked at Wellhouse Turn and thought it might be nice to fly. And here it was, right when I needed it. An hour ago, when I stopped, I thought it would be an easy decision to drop my foot on the gas pedal and hold the steering wheel straight. But just thinking about it—the speed, the rush, the drop—no, that’s not easy at all. Anyone who thinks that’s an easy way out hasn’t had to face it.
It’ll be okay, I tell myself, then let out a hysterical laugh.
I’m thinking about killing myself. Of course it won’t be okay.
I bury my head in my arms. I don’t know anymore. I don’t know, I don’t know, god, I’m so tired. I miss Davy, and my nice quiet room where no one gets hurt, and the perpetual hum of my computer. I want to be there.
So maybe I should go. The idea blunts the edges of my panic. I could go home. Just for tonight. I’m more stressed-out sitting here than I would be at home, anyway, and I don’t have to rush into this. For now I can sleep, and at least that’s a few hours that I don’t have to think about anything.
Yes. That is what I’ll do.
I lower my legs and search for the gearshift. I never take my eyes off Wellhouse Turn, as if it’s a sleeping dragon that might wake and attack me. Not today, I think to it and its pretty memorial. You can’t have me today.
The words send a thrill up my arms. Not today.
Tires crunch on asphalt. Headlights appear ahead, coming around the turn. The lights blind me as I fumble for my seat belt and my keys.
The other car stops in the middle of the turn, near the memorial. The driver’s door opens and a bulky, dark figure flies out so fast he trips and has to catch himself before he hits the pavement. He sprints through my headlights—Wallace, moving faster than I’ve ever seen him move before—and he skids to a stop and almost rips off my sideview mirror.
He scans the interior. Our eyes meet. He pounds on the window.
“GET OUT OF THE CAR!”
He doesn’t wait for me. He tears the door open, pushes my half-on seat belt aside, and lifts me out like I’m as heavy as a bag of leaves. He sets me on my feet right outside and immediately lets go.
“You should have been home by now. You didn’t answer your phone.” His voice rasps with every harsh breath. Eyes wide, face flushed. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
“I turned it off. I’m going home now.” I don’t need to tell him the whole truth. He already knows it. I see it in his eyes as they fill with tears.
Then I’m crushed in his arms. He has forgotten how big he is; I bend backward to fit the curve of his torso, the breath squeezed out of me, tingles flushing from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet at how nice it is to be held.
I don’t move. I can’t, not yet.
“You were angry.” My voice doesn’t come out much louder than a whisper.
“Jesus, Eliza, no.” He doesn’t pull back to say it, but his arms tighten. His voice breaks over and over, rapid-fire. His whole body trembles. “No, I don’t care about any of that. Did you come here because of me? I was such an asshole. I should’ve seen—I did see what was going on, but I didn’t . . . I didn’t even try to help, I was so stupid and focused on what I wanted—” He sniffs, hard, his voice broken and high. “Please don’t. Please. I can’t lose anyone else to this stupid turn.”
Then I understand what I was going to do, and what it would have done to Wallace, and I start to cry too.
How terrible it would have been if I’d actually done what I thought about. How terrible it is that he found me here, thinking about it.
“I’m sorry.” The words hiccup out of me. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t mean to . . . I didn’t think. I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have—not here.”
“No, no.” He grips the back of my neck. His fingers are hard and reassuring, keeping me from putting distance between us. “I’m just glad you’re alive. That’s all. You’re not a bad person. Please don’t think that.”
“But I lied to you. And the transcription is important.” My hands creep up his sides, around his back, to his shoulders. “Writing and college and doing what you love. That’s important.”
He squeezes me, hard. We fall against my car and sink to the ground.
“Not as important as your life.” He sniffs again, loud, then sits back and lets me go. I rock toward him, then force myself to sit back too. Wallace uses his shirt collar to wipe his face. “Dammit, I’m going to poke my eyes out, I’m shaking so hard.”
I laugh, just a little, because even though I still feel like a shitty person and an even shittier friend, I’m shaking too. It’s a constant tremor from nerves held taut for so long, and it radiates from the base of my skull out through the rest of my body.
“Were you really going home?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Please don’t come back here.”
I nod. I don’t want to. I won’t.
Wallace grabs my hand and holds it with both of his against his stomach. Closes his eyes. His palms are rough where he fell on the pavement. “I was so scared.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too.” Wallace hulks when he sits with his head bowed like this, and his hands dwarf mine. Thick hands, thick wrists, thick arms. Every part of him shivers with guilt, and so does every part of me. There are no rights and wrongs between us anymore. At least, I hope there aren’t.
“Wallace.”
He looks up.
“I want to be happy,” I say.
“Me too,” he says.
We sit in silence for several long minutes, until we both stop shaking. I stand and tug him with me, but with his weight it’s more like me leaning into air until he picks himself up. He hugs me again, softer this time.
He watches me get in my car and head toward home. I wake up to Sully tossing an envelope at my face.
Sunlight streams through my bedroom window. Davy lies on my feet. Sully leaves the door open, letting in the sounds of Mom and Dad and Church moving around downstairs. On the front of the envelope is my address, and a return address that’s just a P.O. Box with no name. The handwriting is flowing script in heavy ink. I pry open the flap and pull out a note written on thick parchment.
I know whose signature will be at the bottom before my eyes ever get there, but it doesn’t make it any less unbelievable.