Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
No.
That doesn't matter.
The situation is the same.
"I'm sorry you lost her that way, Patrick," she says.
"Thanks."
"But I… I don't know how to explain."
"You don't have to explain," I say.
"No, I want to. Because I know how it is when people find something ugly and they get scared and run away. Like it changed you."
"Yeah."
"And it isn't that. I'm not afraid of your pain." She looks at her hands. "No, that's not true. I am. I'm scared of what it means."
Is she going to tell me? "I'm glad you know."
Surprise fills her dark eyes. "You are?"
"It's not an easy thing to bring up. But it feels good, sharing it, like I'm not hiding anymore."
Her eyes stay glued to mine.
"My friends don't know. And my parents don't talk about it. They're ashamed. Suicide is a mortal sin, you know?"
"No. Sorta. Not the religious part, but the whole idea that people attempt suicide as an act of malice, and not because they didn't see another option." She rubs her thumb with her forefinger. "I don't even believe in god, but I don't know… if there is some creator, why would she fault us for trying to end our suffering?"
"I don't know. I don't believe anymore."
"You don't?"
"I'm not sure I ever did," I say. "But after Deidre, I couldn't keep pretending. I couldn't go to church on Easter and Christmas. I couldn't look at my mom's rosary without raging."
"You rage?"
"Yeah."
"I can't imagine that," she says.
"It's more stewing, I guess. I get mad, but I stay in my head. I think about how fucked up the world is."
She watches me carefully.
"It was so tempting, to believe that story, that she was selfish or weak or somehow at fault. Because then I wouldn't have to ask myself what I missed, what I could have done to help her, what part I played."
"It's not your fault."
I should object, but I don't.
"She… I guess I don't know your relationship, but if it's anything like the one I have with my sister… that was probably the only thing keeping her here."
"She was living for me?"
"She wouldn't want to hurt you," she says. "She'd hate that she was hurting you. Even if she was too depressed to see it, if she felt like a burden or a failure, if she knew you'd be sad but she believed you'd be better off without her…"
Did she really feel that way?
"I'm sorry… I… excuse me." She stands and moves toward the downstairs bathroom. "Restroom."
"Sure."
She locks herself in the bathroom and runs the water.
I stand, stretch, try to remind myself to do the honest thing.
Is that the right thing? I don't know, but I know it's what she would want.
Don't freak out. I know.
Don't leave.
Please.
I need this connection.
But that's the problem.
I can't lose her.
Not the Imogen I know here. And not the one I know there either.
If she changes her site, stops writing—
That's too big a loss. Not just for me.
For everyone who finds understanding in her words.
The bathroom door opens.
Imogen moves into my main room.
I call on my conviction, but it evaporates the second her dark eyes meet mine. There's only thing I want.
To erase the pain on her face.
She's so fucking hurt and I'll do anything to stop it.
"I'm sorry." She wipes a tear away. "This isn't how this is supposed to go."
I move toward her.
She meets me in the middle of the room. She lets me wrap my arms around her. She sinks into my touch.
"I'm sorry," she says it again.
"You don't need to apologize."
She shakes her head against my chest. "I do. You lost her and I'm freaking out."
"It's okay."
She shakes her head into my chest again. "I'm a mess. I tried to warn you. Or maybe I didn't. I'm not good at this."
"Everyone's a mess."
"I came here to end things."
"I know."
"But I don't want to," she says.
"I don't want you to."
"I just… I can't explain, Patrick. I'm sorry. I wish I could. But I can't be the person you need."
"How do you know what I need?"
She pulls back enough to look at me.
"I decide what I need," I say.
"But…"
"And I need you, Imogen. I do."
"But—"
"No buts. I care about you. I want you in my life. What else matters?"
Chapter Thirty-One
IMOGEN
I want you in my life. What else matters?
The words are on the tip of my tongue.
The truth is so close.
I attempted suicide too. I swallowed a bottle of pills too. I set the whole thing up, so it would look like an accidental overdose, so my parents would have a story they could handle.
But I didn't time things right. Or maybe I timed them wrong on purpose. I don't know anymore.
I'm glad I'm here.
Alive.
In your apartment.
Connected.
That's the problem. I'm too connected. And there's nowhere to go if I don't tell him.
This is the perfect time.
The only time.
I have to be brave, to give him the chance to digest this information, decide what he wants to do with it.