Saying Goodbye, Part Two (Passports and Promises Book 1) (11 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

T
he next few days, I waded through a fog of grief and sorrow. I put on a brave face, trying to convince Dr. Brown and everyone else I’d be fine, deceiving them all. Except for Thomas. He saw right through me. He let me have my space. He didn’t push or pry. But when I caught him staring at me, I knew he understood exactly what game I played.

The day of the funeral turned into the hardest day of my life. Thomas and Hana took turns hovering around me until I finally begged for some privacy.

I felt so helpless. So far away. Bethany and Gabriela Skyped me before and after, mostly because I insisted. I made my mom do the same. I made all of them tell me every detail, every moment. What had Mr. Hunter said? How had Mrs. Hunter looked? Was Jake okay?

Max Skyped with me, too. We cried together, both of us mired in shared guilt over what had happened.

“He never saw the video of us, Sam. I’m sure of it.”

I closed my eyes, a fresh wave of pain washing over me. “How can you know?”

“I double checked with the police after they sorted through everything with Seth’s phone, which took months. The video had been uploaded, but they took it down in seconds. It had no views. No one ever saw it. We can kind of pretend it never existed.”

“No we can’t, Max, but thanks for letting me know. Tell me more about the funeral.”

I needed to feel a part of it. I was so far away. The one thing I didn’t have to ask was about how awful it had been. How emotional. How completely devastating. That part was obvious.

My thoughts kept touching on all the moments Dylan and I had together. The way he’d looked and smelled. The way he’d spoken Italian and brought me picnic lunches. The way he’d held my hand and made me feel protected. Important. A special person and he made me feel special too.

He’d been mature for his age, wise beyond his years. Because of his illness. Because he’d suffered. He’d rushed into a relationship with me, the same way he rushed through everything in his life, like he knew he didn’t have much time left. The thought made me so ill I actually started to heave. He’d been on death row the entire time we dated, and I’d acted like a silly, selfish child. Picturing his sad, dark eyes, I knew I could have done better. I should have done better.

I hadn’t brought anything with me to remind me of him. I’d left all his gifts at home. But I went over photos of us together online. I avoided other people’s pages, afraid of what I might read there. There could be accusations. Lies. Different theories about how or why Dylan had died. I didn’t want to see any of that. I didn’t want to know.

People got excited about tragedy. The death of a young, handsome, wealthy man fascinated them. But until it happens to you, until you meet this sort of agony face to face, you have no comprehension of the depth and breadth of it. The pain felt like a dark ocean. Powerful. Immense. Impossible to cross. And the scariest part wasn’t on the surface, it existed far below, in places no one could see.

I found one picture I posted not long after we’d started dating. Dylan held me close, a happy smile on his face. I studied it, trying to remember how I’d felt before all the darkness came and ruined everything.

The hardest thing for me to look at turned out to be the photos of Jake’s birthday. A nice kid, he obviously idolized his big brother. I wondered what would happen to Sophie if she lost me. What would happen to my parents? I couldn’t even begin to process what Mr. and Mrs. Hunter felt right now. It made my ocean of loss look more like a puddle.

Dylan hadn’t died in a traffic accident or something random, like an earthquake or a tornado. He’d been sick, but not with something socially acceptable, like cancer. Although he died as a result of the illness, it wasn’t the illness that killed him, and it made him seem like a coward. He’d killed himself. He
took
his life.

He’d died alone.

I spent a lot of time picturing that bathroom. Making it up in my head. I imagined something sterile and white. Tiled. Cold. With a florescent light and a mirror above the sink.

I saw Dylan take off his pajama bottoms, his face pale. His eyes hollow and empty. The pajama bottoms were blue. He wore an undershirt on top. He’d lost weight. I could see the bones in his shoulders and the outline of his ribs. He’d once had muscle there. Now he looked skinny and frail.

I watched as he did things methodically. Locking the door. Knotting the pajamas around the showerhead after he’d created a complicated slipknot to put around his neck. He’d planned this out, his hands working quickly. Efficiently. He knew he didn’t have much time. He wanted this to be over.

The way I imagined his death was probably a million times worse than it had actually been in real life, and I created several different scenarios. In the worst one, it happened slowly, with his eyes bulging and his face turning purple. At the last moment, he changed his mind, but it was too late. The slipknot he’d created worked too well. I pictured him clawing at it, desperate, until he finally died.

Death by asphyxiation took close to five minutes. I learned that online. I set the timer on my phone, laid down on my futon, and waited. Trying to imagine every second of those five minutes. I couldn’t do it. It was too much.

That night I decided to go back to the medical wing, afraid about what dreams would come if I tried to sleep. The nurse welcomed me with quiet understanding, tucking me back into the bed and putting the IV in my arm. Even with the sedatives, though, I woke up screaming. Thomas stayed by my bed the whole night, holding me when I cried out. Walking me home when it was over. Not saying a word.

A week to the day after Dylan died, he showed up at my door, books in hand. “What are you doing here?”

He ignored my attitude completely. “Time to hit the books, lassie. We don’t want you to forget everything I’ve taught you.”

I furrowed my brows. “Everything
you’ve
taught me?”

“Yes. Get dressed and let’s go.”

I grumbled, but did as he asked, whipping off my pajamas right in front of him, stripping down to nothing, and shooting him a dirty look over my shoulder. “I have to shower first.”

He nodded, trying not to stare at my bare bottom. I’d taken off my clothes in front of him to shock him, as a sort of a punishment, but still enjoyed the way his eyes darkened as they raked over me and the way he swallowed hard, trying to pretend it didn’t affect him, but I knew his reactions better than my own at this point.

I was mad at Thomas. I blamed him, as illogical as that might seem, for what had happened. After resisting and pushing him away for so long, as soon as I’d let him in, tragedy struck. And it felt easier to point my anger at him. It gave me a target. A big, muscular, Scottish target.

I came out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, and attempted to brush through the tangles in my hair. I hadn’t exactly been practicing proper hair care the last few days. In fact, this may have been the first time my hair had gotten close to a brush all week. I’d gone to classes, wearing yoga pants and a hoodie with my hair pulled up in a bun, but I’d come back straight after class, curled up on my futon, and went to sleep. Hana had been an angel, washing my clothes, forcing me to eat, making sure I stayed on something resembling a schedule without interfering too much. I’d needed her. She kept me afloat.

The brush got stuck in my hair and I swore loudly, slamming my fist on the counter and ready to cry. Thomas came up behind me, not saying a word, and slowly and painstakingly removed the brush from my hair. I watched him in the mirror, his eyes completely focused on the task, being extra careful not to tug too hard or hurt me. When he got it out, he started brushing through the tangles. My eyes never left his face. His eyes never left my hair.

“You’ve got a right proper rat’s nest here.”

Once he got the knots out, he started at the top and brushed in slow, even strokes. My hair fell wet and cold against my bare shoulders. I hugged the towel closer to my body. In spite of the horror of what had just happened, in spite of my anger at Thomas, I felt it again. Contentment. It pissed me off.

I pulled away from Thomas and tossed my towel on the floor. “I need to get dressed.”

I grabbed my clothes, yanking a top over my head. Not bothering with a bra, but putting on undies and sweats. I stuck on my Theta hoodie, twisted my hair into a bun, and picked up my backpack.

“Are you ready or what?” I asked, stomping to the door.

“Yes, my little ray of sunshine. We’ll go to the library. It’ll be nice and quiet there.”

My hand paused on the doorknob. “There’s somewhere I’d like to go first.”

“Your wish is my command.”

I wanted to smack him. “Don’t be so freaking accommodating all the time. Especially when I’m being a total bitch.”

I started to open the door, but he put a hand on it to stop me. “You’re not being a bitch.” He thought about it a second and then changed his mind. “Well, you
are
being a bitch, but it’s because you’re in pain. Like a lion with a thorn in its claw. I’m trying to help you get the thorn out, but your natural response is to take a swipe or two, isn’t it?”

“That’s a nice little analogy, but you’re forgetting one thing.”

“What?”

“My claws are sharp, and you’re going to get hurt.”

We walked to Ryoanji in silence. Well, I was silent. Thomas blathered on and on about his university in Scotland, the weather in St. Andrews, the best pub food he’d ever had, and other completely meaningless and unimportant things, but I felt myself starting to relax as he spoke, the tension easing ever so slightly in my shoulders. By the time we reached the gate, I no longer felt like a ball of fury. More like a little bubble of irritation.

I loved Thomas. With all my heart. I’d never felt anything close to this for anyone else, and probably never would again. But every time I looked at him, I saw Dylan in my mind’s eye, knotting his pajama pants around his neck. I had a feeling the images would get worse and not better if we slept together again. The idea terrified me.

Thomas’ face lit up when we reached the gates of Ryoanji. “I haven’t been here yet. I’ve been meaning to come.”

The guard recognized me, bowing and giving me a little smile. “Ando isn’t here today,” he said in English.

My shoulders slumped. “Will he be back tomorrow?”

“I’m not certain. I’ll let him know you were here.”

Disappointed, my feet dragged as we walked into the complex. I’d really wanted to spend time with Mr. Ando. I needed my friend.

“So who is Ando? My competition?” He wiggled his eyebrows, teasing me, but I couldn’t smile. Thomas did have competition. A dead guy named Dylan.

“He’s my friend. He helps me. A lot.”

Thomas put a friendly arm around my shoulders. “Sorry, Sam. I just wanted to get a smile out of you. I miss seeing you laugh.”

“I don’t think I can,” I said softly. “I wonder if I’ll ever laugh again. It’s like I’m…”

I searched for the right word. Thomas supplied it. “Frozen?”

I nodded. “On the inside and the out. Like the actual muscles of my face can’t move or have forgotten how to smile. Does that sound stupid?”

“Not at all. After my da died, it was strange. At first, we all felt relieved. He’d been in pain for so long, suffering so much. A horrible way to die. Then we felt guilt for feeling relieved. After that, we got angry because he’d been sick at all. Finally, we accepted it. Sadness is part of the whole journey, but at the end, it’s more of a dull ache, a tug at your heart, and not the blinding pain you feel at first.”

Thomas saw the tsukubai
and got excited. “Is that what I think it is? Your puzzle?”

I nodded. “Mr. Ando gave it to me as a homework assignment. He likes to do stuff like that.”

I told him about how I’d met Mr. Ando and brought him to the viewing area for the rock garden. Being Saturday, it was a little busier today than usual, but we still found a spot and spent some time staring at the strange, quiet beauty of the rocks and sand. Still, and yet somehow in a constant state of motion and change.

Thomas, for once, didn’t make a sound. The garden seemed to affect him as much as it did me. Just being there made me feel better, and more at peace, than I had in a week.

The next few days, I visited Ryoanji frequently, but never saw Mr. Ando. I spent hours staring at the rocks. Trying to find some kind of balance and meaning. My life had tilted off its axis and I needed a way to make it right again.

I spent all my time at class or studying. Sometimes, I studied with Thomas although I kept my distance. Any time he touched me, I tensed up. Every time he made me want to laugh, a cold wave of pain washed over me. A tsunami of guilt.  I struggled to maintain my anger, to be faithful to Dylan’s memory in a way I never could in life. Loving Thomas meant letting go of the anger and the guilt, and I just couldn’t do that.

It was easier to study alone. Like my visits to Ryoanji, working on kanji helped me. Focusing on the complicated shapes and strokes took so much concentration it gave me a brief hiatus from the burning, awful, agonizing thoughts about Dylan.