A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children #4) - Ransom Riggs Page 0,97
air. Then she said, “Have you ever loved someone so much it made you sick?”
“I love you,” I said. “But it doesn’t make me sick.”
She nodded. “I’m glad. I hope you never feel like that, because it’s terrible.”
“Have you ever felt like that?” I asked.
She nodded. “About Abe. After he left, especially.”
“Hm.” I tried to keep my expression neutral, but I was hurt.
“It was bad. I was really obsessed for a few years. I think he was, too, in the beginning. But for him, it wore off. For me, it only got worse.”
“Why do you think that was?”
“Because I was trapped in our loop, and he wasn’t. It makes the world feel very small to be cooped up like that for years and years. It isn’t good for the mind or the soul. It makes small problems seem very large. And a longing for someone that might otherwise have subsided after a few months became . . . consuming. For a while I was actually considering trying to run away and join him in America—even though it would have been extremely dangerous for me.”
I tried to imagine Emma as she was then. Lonely and pining, living on the letters he sent less and less frequently, the outside world a distant dream.
The factory gave way to rolling fields. Horses grazed in the morning mist.
“Why didn’t you try?” I said. Emma wasn’t the type of person to shrink from a challenge, especially for someone she loved.
“Because I was afraid he wouldn’t have been as happy to see me as I would’ve been to see him,” she said. “And that would’ve killed me. But also, it would just have been trading one loop for another, one prison for another. Abe wasn’t loop-bound. I would’ve had to find some nearby loop to live in, like a bird in a cage, and then wait for him to come visit me when he had time. I’m not cut out for that—to be a ship captain’s wife, watching the sea every day, worried and waiting—I’m meant to be the one out there, journeying.”
“But now you are,” I said. “And now you’re with me. So why are you still hung up on my grandfather?”
She shook her head. “You make it sound so simple. But it’s not easy to switch off something I felt for fifty years. Fifty years of longing and hurt and anger.”
“You’re right, I can’t imagine. But I thought this was behind us. I thought we’d talked it all through.”
“We did,” she said. “I thought I was over it, too. I wouldn’t have said all the things I said to you if I didn’t. I just . . . I didn’t know how much coming here would affect me. Everything we’ve been doing, all the places we go—it’s like his ghost is around every corner. And that old wound I thought had healed keeps getting sliced open, over and over again.”
“For pity’s sake,” said Enoch from the back seat, “can you two finish breaking up so I can go back to sleep?”
“You’re supposed to be asleep already!” Emma said.
“Who can sleep with all this heartbroken yammering?”
“We’re not breaking up,” I said.
“Oh? Could’ve fooled me.”
Emma tossed a wadded-up potato chip bag at Enoch. “Go crawl in a hole.”
He snickered and closed his eyes again. He may have gone to sleep, or he may not have. Either way, we no longer felt free to talk. So we just rode, and in lieu of words I reached out my hand, and Emma took it, our hands clasped awkwardly below the gearshift, fingers interlaced and gripping tight, as if we were both afraid to let go.
Emma’s words circled in my head. Part of me was grateful for what she’d said, but a bigger part of me wished she hadn’t said it at all. There had always been a small, quiet voice inside me that whispered, in dark moments, She loved him more. But I had always been able to shut it up, to drown it out. Now Emma had handed it a megaphone. And I would never be able admit it to her, because then she would know I had already been nurturing this little fear, that I was insecure, and that would only make the little voice louder. So I just squeezed her hand and kept driving.
Driving the cool car your grandfather owned, the little voice nagged. To go on a mission you inherited from him. To prove . . . what?