Oblivion

Varen’s eyes slid toward Gwen.

“Right,” she said, holding up a palm. “Outlaw don’t need no sling. I smell what you’re steppin’ in.”

Turning back to Isobel, Varen brushed a thumb across her cheek, over her scar, his touch causing her eyelids to flutter.

“I still attest it’s a good look,” he said.

Oh crap. He meant the mascara.

Flushing, Isobel bowed her head and fiddled with the tissue wad, sending a rain of graham cracker crumbs onto the dirt mound.

Having known how hard this would be for Varen—his first visit to Bruce’s grave and, consequently, the last time she and he would be together before the next school year—Isobel had wanted so badly to be strong. She’d been relying on the old cheerleader trick of fake-it-till-you-make-it, but tears or not, she should have known better than to think Varen wouldn’t see through her facade. Weren’t they done with masks, anyway?

Isobel heard the clink of his wallet chains as he shifted to stand in front of her, his ash-free combat boots sliding into view. Tucking his fingers under her chin, Varen lifted her face to his. With his other hand, he took the tissues from her and dabbed gently beneath her eyes.

“Good look,” he said, “but . . . not you.”

“No, no,” Gwen said after a beat, and stuffing the cookie sleeve under one arm, she snatched the tissues from Varen and inserted herself between them. “Not like that. Look. You gotta lick it first.”

“Gwen!” Isobel squealed, yanking her head to one side and batting away the now saliva-swathed tissues. “Gross!”

“Yet effective,” Gwen said. “Potent as paint thinner.”

“You were dropped as a child, weren’t you?” Varen asked her.

“Maybe once or twice,” Gwen said, “but at least I wasn’t raised by highly literate vampires who, every night just before bed, fed me a steady diet of dark sarcasm and gothic horror fiction.”

“Every morning before bed,” Varen corrected. Stepping forward, he moved toward the headstone. “We slept during the day.”

“Right,” Gwen joked, but even Isobel heard the hitch in her friend’s voice.

Varen crouched in front of the stone, resting one hand on top of it as quiet settled among the three of them. Birds twittered in the trees, and somewhere far away, cars swooshed by.

Isobel watched Varen as she tried again to suppress the surge of sorrow that flooded her system. But waves of emotion washed through her at the sight of that upside-down crow spread over his back, safety-pinned to the hunter green mechanic’s jacket that, for a time, had been hers.

After placing the bouquet at the base of the marker—three red roses for the three buried family members—Varen stayed low, staring down at the place where polished granite met dirt.

“It’s beautiful, you know,” Isobel said at last, when he didn’t rise. “The epitaph. Bruce, he . . . he would have liked it.”

Varen nodded, though he still did not rise or look back. Just hung his head.

More quiet. More birds. Swoooosh. Swooooosh.

“O Captain, my Captain,” Gwen said, brightening suddenly and snapping her fingers. “I know that from somewhere. Wait—don’t tell me. I got this. Eeehhh—Walt Disney.”

Slowly, very slowly, Varen rose. He turned his head with equal deliberateness to send a penetrating stare over his shoulder at Gwen. Minus the shreds of inky locks that had caged his face before, the look was the same one Varen had given Isobel on many occasions. Most notably when they’d met in the library that first time to study for their project. And again in the attic of Bruce’s bookshop.

“Whitman,” Varen said. “Walt Whitman.”

“Oh yeah,” Gwen said, plastic rustling as she dug for another cookie. “The guy from Breaking Bad. I knew that. Anybody want a Thin Mint?”

Varen shut his eyes.

He remained that way for what must have been an entire minute.

Then, without warning, tears escaped his lowered lids, rushing fast down his cheeks and over his own scar—that still-healing patch of torn skin dealt to him by the Nocs.

“Aaaand . . . looks like my work here is done,” Gwen said. “Think I’ll go try to chat up the Warden while you two . . . catch up. See if I can get m’self off the naughty list, since he’s in a pardoning mood.”

Gwen didn’t wait for permission but quickly walked away, hurrying toward where Isobel’s father stood beside the sedan.

Without looking, Isobel knew her dad had to be pacing, arms folded, scowl firmly in place. Blood pressure high, forehead vein well pronounced.