Page 72 of 72 Hours of You

“He wanted me to fix it. He was convinced that because I knew I must have made it happen and so I could also somehow undo it. He wanted me to bring her back. He didn’t get it. I couldn’t do anything. I never could. And like, I loved her too, you know? I would’ve done anything to get her back. Except this is real life. Death is it. There’s no coming back. The more I told him that, the angrier he got. He left that night but he couldn’t let it go.

“He started trying to find me everywhere. Sending me weird Reddit articles about witchcraft and links to these crazy websites about bringing back dead people. Sometimes he would just beg me over and over and sometimes he would get really mad. It was like … when Caroline died, he broke in a way that could never get put back together. And I couldn’t fix it.

“I kept trying, you know? Talking him through it. Letting him be mad at me. But it just got scarier and scarier. I kept trying to apologize. To help, but … it was never enough.

“Once he cornered me outside the movie theater and forced me to read some article about harnessing electricity as a way to, like, regenerate cells or something. Another time he walked into a conference room at the library and wouldn’t let me leave until I promised him I’d ‘recharge my powers.’ He’d always go away for a while after one of the incidents. And sometimes I’d think that was it. He never comes to my house, but he always comes back. Finds me again. And at that track meet … it was bad. The worst it had ever been. He … It was …”

Peter’s body tenses, but he doesn’t say anything.

“He felt shitty. Afterward, you know? Shitty enough to leave me alone again for a while. I kind of thought it might be over. But now …”

“He’s trying again.”

“Yeah.”

“Have you ever …” Peter rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry, I don’t know if I’m allowed to ask this. But have you ever thought about reporting him?”

“No. I can’t report him. I can’t cut him off.”

“Why?”

“Because.” I take the phone and flip it over, facedown on the bed. “He was right, in a way. It was my fault.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Peter sits up straighter, leaning back against the headboard. “It wasn’t, Sydney.”

“You don’t get it. If she had just died, then maybe he would’ve been okay. Like maybe he would’ve been really, really sad for a while, but he would’ve kept on living. But telling him … that’s what made him like this. That’s why he can’t stop obsessing. He’s convinced there’s some secret to life and death that I’m just refusing to let him in on. I made it this way for him. It is my fault.”

Tears, stupid fucking big tears well up in my eyes. And then the real question, the one I’ve been too afraid to put into words even in the darkest nights, comes spilling out of my mouth. “What if I hadn’t said anything? Maybe she would be alive? Because it was a car accident, you know? And he left the lake because of what I said? What if—” The tears fall fat and wet down my cold cheeks. “What if I did kill her?”

Peter pulls me into him, holding on so tight I can’t tell where he starts and I end, my face pressed against the waffle pattern of his shirt. “No. No, Sydney,” he whispers into my hair. “You are a good person. You are maybe the best person.”

“There is something bad inside me, Peter. Something dark.”

Peter pulls back and looks me in the eyes. “Bullshit.”

I must look startled, because he doubles down and says it again. “Bullshit. God, Sydney, we’re specks in this universe. Little nothing motes in the sky. And none of us—not a single soul—knows how it works or who we are or what the point is. But you …” He wipes a tear from my chin with his finger. And it almost looks like maybe he wants to kiss me again. But he doesn’t. He just keeps talking. “You see something else. What’s inside you isn’t dark, Sydney. It’s beautiful. You’re more connected to reality than the rest of us ever will be.” Peter runs his hand through his hair. “We all keep living our lives as if they’ll go on forever. As if our story is the one that doesn’t end. But in real life, there is no epilogue. The words run out. And you’re the only one who really knows it.”

Forty

I WAKE UP TO THE SOUND of some guy yelling, “I’LL END YOU, YOU FUCKING CUNT!” outside our window. And then someone else screaming back, “LIKE YOU HAVE THE BALLS! YOU’RE A LI’L BITCH-ASS LIKE YOUR FATHER!” Magical.

I lie there, super still. A jolt of heat squeezes my stomach as all of last night rushes back to me. His lips … my face … his hands … oh god, my words. All those fucking words.

Peter’s arm is draped over me, and I’m using his other elbow like a pillow. It’s a fully clothed, active spooning situation and now that the morning light is filtering in through the curtain and all of last night’s word vomit is hanging in the air, I don’t really know what to do. Like, do I slither out from under his bicep and pretend that things are casual? Roll over and … like … do stuff? No. No. Just be normal. Whatever the fuck that means.

“Are you awake?” Peter whispers.

“Yes,” I say. Great. Solid start.

I’m glad I’m facing away from him because 1) I am acutely aware of the fact that I had three beers last night and have not brushed my teeth in twenty-four hours and 2) I am not at all confident that I could maintain a neutral face in this moment.

“Do you want to get some breakfast before we go home?”

“A morning hot dog?” Ha ha. So funny. So casual. So easy. Breezy even.

Peter does me the courtesy of laughing and we start to untangle ourselves from each other and it’s kind of awkward and also kind of fine at the same time? Peter gets up, slips on his shoes, and starts collecting his phone and wallet.

My phone is facedown on the nightstand. I sit there on the edge of the bed, staring at it.