Full daylight is a little over an hour away, so the sky is sewn with golden needles, pink fingers pulling at the threads. I stop at the convenience store and buy one of those pitiful, plastic-wrapped roses that sit in a dirty water bucket all day. This is a memorial gift I’d be ashamed to offer anyone else. The poor rose is blush pink, browning at the edges inside the cellophane; it crinkles as I carry it back to the car. Already the air is balmy, warm enough to make me think it’ll be sweaty-hot later. I don’t mind, but Morgan would.
Driving to the cemetery takes about ten minutes. I must be buried near my grandparents, so I cut through the ornate wrought-iron gates. The caretaker has already unlocked them, chain swinging free as I slip by. I see him in the distance getting his tools out of the shed. He waves to me and I lift my hand in turn, picking a careful path so I don’t walk on anyone’s grave. As I crest the hill to where most of the Burnhams in Monroe County are buried, my feet stop.
Because someone’s already here.
From the shoulders to the shape of his back, I can tell it’s Nathan, the last person I wanted to see, mostly because I planned to avoid him until I could make sense of that betrayal. Just thinking about his hands on Morgan’s body—this body—fumbling, awkward, while they learned everything together? I nearly get sick. Hopefully I’ll be okay by Thursday, well enough to fake it. But despite the discomfort, there’s also a warmth in my chest that feels like sunshine. No matter how complicated it is now, what we had was real; he misses me.
Even if it’s done.
It has to be done.
Stepping closer, I can smell the booze. The cemetery is four miles from his house; did he stagger here in the dark? I can’t decide if I’m touched or angry. A little of both, I guess.
He’s sprawled against the headstone, one arm curved around it, head tilted to where my name is carved. Below it, my family has chosen an Emily Dickinson quote as my epitaph. It starts, “Hope” is the thing with feathers … There’s one more line beneath that simply reads, We’ll meet again.
Just barely, I swallow hysterical laughter. Sooner than you think. Thursday, in fact.
Nathan bangs his forehead against the stone, whispering, “Where are you? Nobody…” His voice hitches and breaks, then he cries quietly for a few seconds. “… told me that surviving is the shittiest thing.”
Tell him. You have to tell him. You can stop this.
But that’s a Pandora’s Box. Once it’s open, I can’t close it. If Nathan believes me, he’ll want to tell my parents. I can already imagine it spiraling, and then Mr. Frost will step in. He won’t tamely accept me seceding from the family, especially since Morgan is all he has, apart from money. As long as I’m underage, it’ll get complicated. Ugly. The road always leads back to a psychiatric unit, no matter what angle I take. Last but not least, I think of Clay and the life Morgan gave me—at least according to the crazy dream—which is mine but also … not mine. The pain in my chest is excruciating. My fingers clench on the rose stem, rustling the plastic.
Nathan raises his face with a bleary look. “Why is it you? Why are you the one who always finds me?”
“I wasn’t looking. I came for her.” But the question rattles me to my bones.
The idea of a soul mate is ridiculous. We’re not magnets pulled together because we can’t resist a predetermined charge. Yet here we are again, despite my best intentions.
What the hell, universe?
With a soft sigh, I sit down next to him and unwrap my spindly flower. From what I can see, Nathan only brought a bottle, now empty. But this visit can’t be what I originally intended, some solitary vigil where I ponder my existence and make peace with the strange imploding star that is now my life.
He plucks the rose from my fingers and twirls it. “Sad. You can afford a decent bouquet.”
“Hey, it was an impulse buy. At least I brought something besides self-pity.” That sounds more like Morgan than me, as if I’m … fading.
“Harsh,” he mumbles.
Taking in his wrecked expression, I soften. There’s no way I can drop tough love on Nathan when he’s grieving so hard for me. I settle my shoulder against his and lean back on my own grave marker. The ground is still damp, probably wrecking the back of my shorts. Morgan would’ve remembered to bring a change of clothes or a blanket, probably, but I can’t keep up the pretense forever. Over time, people will notice small inconsistencies and it’s better they get used to the new me, I guess.
“How often are you here?”
He shrugs. “First time this week.”
“It’s Tuesday. Are you doing homework at all? I can’t believe your so-called friends are letting you melt down this way.”
“You think Braden Wilkes ever stopped anybody from drinking?” His sneer is more than a little mean.
“Find better friends, people who care if you ruin your life.”
“You sound exactly like my brother … which makes sense since you’re banging him.” Without looking at me, he adds, “I hate you, Morgan. I hate you for being here when she isn’t.”
That stings, but I don’t show it. “Why don’t you spout some shit about how you can’t believe the earth still turns and the sun still rises? Then I’ll sing some crappy folk song and we can both die of ‘feelings.’”
The chuckle bursts out of him, strangled, but out. Nathan’s expression becomes comically horrified. Like, I can practically see him thinking, I’m laughing on Liv’s grave.
I rest my hand on his arm for a second and say, “Trust me, she wouldn’t mind. Now get your ass up. If you think you’re ditching school for no good reason, you’re crazy.”
He sighs, letting me help him up. “I suppose you’re driving me yourself? They’ll probably suspend me for showing up half-toasted.”
I nudge him ahead of me so I can keep an eye on his balance. No letting Nathan fall and crack his head open on a tombstone. Some things are too morbid for life. I’m quiet until we get close to the looming gates.
“Not exactly,” I say.
He half turns, looking irritated. “What, then?”
“I’m giving you a reason.”
“Huh?”
“Wow, Honor Roll, booze really makes you stupid. Let me try again in smaller words. You’re coming to the doctor with me, so you won’t get in trouble. I’ll even buy you some cruddy gas station coffee.”
“Is this for Clay, too?” he asks through his teeth. Without waiting for my response Nathan kicks a spray of gravel toward the VW, like it’s responsible for his problems.
“No. It’s for me. And Liv.”
Some of the tension seeps out, leaving him limber. He must feel so alone right now, regardless of how many dude-bros he has. We were inseparable this summer. The urge to pull him into my arms is overwhelming, but things are too raw and agonizing between us for me to trust that I can stop at comfort. Last time was a mistake, and repeating that error would be cruel. Nathan’s like a Jenga tower; one wrong move will topple him.
“I can live with that.” He hops into the car and puts the seat back.
Which is when I realize Clay didn’t yesterday, even though he’s taller. That says something about both of them. Nathan doesn’t hesitate to make his mark, even when he’s hurting, whereas Clay hides his strength and sweetness like a turtle, intent on making a slow, quiet passage through the world. Life has made opposites of them, one brother stoic, the other assertive, and I can see all too clearly that they’re both lovable.
I keep my promise, stopping again at the convenience store for stale pastries and fresh coffee. Nathan devours the sticky bun and licks the plastic while I drive to the clinic. I’m just as happy not talking. A sad song pops on the radio and my heart drops. Before, it was nothing special, a couple fighting. Who is this again? I remember asking that.
You’re still here, but I can’t touch you. Just a wall, just a wall between us, might as well be a thousand miles.
My eyes cut to Nathan and he’s pale, so pale, sweaty. He reaches for me, blind with it. His fingers tangle with mine. And I’m shaking so hard that I have to pull over.
This. This is the song. That played while I was dying.