Page 140 of What We Become

“And I love him. I love him so much. And Drake is—Drake is this wonderful, ridiculous surprise that I wasn’t expecting. But I keep thinking . . .” She picks at a thread on the pillowcase. “What if I’m using all of this—the sex, the intensity, the drama—to avoid dealing with the fact that I killed Tyler? What if this is a trauma response? I just . . . I don’t know if I can live like this forever.”

The room is quiet. Through the window, I can hear birds in the yard, distant traffic, and chatter from the street.

“You don’t have to decide forever right now,” I say.

“That’s what Dean says.”

“Dean’s right.”

“Dean also runs a crematorium and his twin brother is currently downstairs wearing my underwear since he couldn’t find his. So his judgment is not unimpeachable.”

I laugh—can’t help it. She laughs too, and it lets a little air in.

“Can I say something honest?” I ask.

“Since when do you ask permission?”

“Since you’re sitting in a robe with hickeys on your chest looking like you might cry.”

She pulls the robe tighter. “Go ahead.”

“You’re allowed to not be okay with this. All of it—the crematorium, the world we all exist in now, the things you know that you can’t unknow. You’re allowed to love one twin and want the other and still wonder if this is the life you want.” I take her hand. “And you’re allowed to figure that out on your own timeline. Not Dean’s. Not mine. Not anyone’s.”

Her eyes are glassy. She blinks and a single tear tracks down her cheek and she wipes it away with the back of her hand like it personally offended her.

“When did you get wise?” she asks.

“I have a boyfriend who’s a bartender. Wisdom by osmosis.”

She sniffles. Laughs. Wipes her face again. “I don’t want to leave him. But I don’t know if I can process everything while I’m still here.”

“Then tell him that. Dean’s a lot of things, but he’s not the kind of man who’d want you to stay if it’s breaking you.”

She nods. Slowly. Like the idea is landing somewhere she hasn’t let it sit before.

“Can we talk about something else?” she says. “Literally anything. Tell me about the diner. Tell me why Milo named the bed fuck pit 2.0—because what happened to version one? Oh! I know—tell me Knox did something hot and silent. I feel like we don’t know enough about him.”

“Oh God. Knox. When we were at the cabin, my favorite thing in the world was watching that man chop wood with his shirt off. He does it with, like, one hand. Just grabs the wood and brings the axe down—ka-chong. My ovaries explode just thinking about it. I’m thinking of asking Holden to renovate so we can have a fireplace.”

“See? That’s what I need. Give me that energy.”

“Food first. Your burger is probably getting cold,” I say, jumping off the bed and heading back out into the living area.

Amy follows, and I grab the sack of food and start setting out the fries, burgers, and the most melted milkshakes known to man.

“This is pretty much just lukewarm milk now,” I say, handing one to Amy.

She grins, takes it, and makes an obscene slurping sound. “God, that’s good,” she says, tears officially banished by the power of sugar and grease. “You know, there’s a parallel universe where you and I only have boring jobs and cheat days and never have to have intense feelings about crematoriums.”

I take a fry and chew thoughtfully. “In that universe, we could have a podcast. Girls Who Lunch.”

“Or Waitress versus Teacher,” Amy says. “We could tell all our most unhinged stories about entitled customers and parents.”

“I like that version of us,” I say.

We eat in silence for a while. Amy flops back against the couch, eyes closed, half-eaten burger in hand.

“I’m glad you came,” she says. “Even though you literally interrupted the coming.”