And that sends a shot of pure panic through me. Everything’s exposed, naked and bleeding, and people always say they’ll stay . . . but it’s not true, it’s not. No one can really say, not for certain, so what’s the point of anything, of—
I drop my head forward between my knees and clamp my hands over the back of my neck and breathe, breathe, in, out, slower, slower.
Say something.
“I know,” I manage. And those two words cost more than I have to give.
Remi leans closer, dips their head so their lips brush my shoulder as they whisper once more.
“Ask me to stay, Dizzy.”
I close my eyes again and give in for just a moment, picturing all the things they want. Things I want. We’ve been so close so many times. My heart clenches, panic speeding its beating back to double time. Just say it. I know this is wrong. I know I’m wrong. I do want this. I should tell them. I should say it. Please, Remi, just stay with me, stay in the city we met in so we can start the next part of our lives still together, so I can figure myself out and when I do . . . if I’m ever okay, then we can . . .
When I finally manage to speak again, it’s barely a whisper.
“I can’t.”
Rather than shrinking in defeat, Remi sits up straighter, staring straight across the hallway. They nod, once, firm.
“Well, that sucks. But I understand.”
I bite my lip and force slow breaths through my nose. Panic shifts to anger and back again, faster than I can keep up, a swirl of awfulness, speeding cars on a collision course.
“I understand,” Remi says again. “But I can still be mad about it. I don’t have to like it. I don’t have to think it’s fair or right for you to lash out at us for not doing something you refuse to admit to wanting. We’re not mind readers, Diz. If you want something, you have to say so. And we can’t hang in limbo until you decide you’re ready to actually have an emotion.”
Oh, fuck you entirely. My hands ball into fists unconsciously.
Great. Just great. What am I supposed to do, give them permission to hate me? To be mad forever? What exactly are they expecting? I don’t want this mess. I don’t want any of this.
What I do is push to my feet and stare hard at the ground, my mouth twisted in something between a frown and a scowl. Anger is winning, as always.
“Cool. Well. Have fun being mad, I guess.”
I turn and continue down the length of the train, listening for them to call me back, for a half-hearted “Dizzy . . .” to give us another shot, to take us back to our uneasy equilibrium.
They say nothing.
I walk on, my heart heavy from the awful freedom of finally knowing.
It’s over. Once and for all.
Seventeen
BY THE TIME WE’RE WITHIN half an hour of Jattapore, I’ve walked the length of the train three times, bought a sandwich, napped in someone’s empty seat, and generally done everything I can to avoid going back to the compartment. The train company’s weather alert system pings me with ever more concerned notifications the closer we get. Yes, I get it, Jattapore has high tides or something. We don’t have tides in the mountains, so that means nothing to me, go away.
When I feel the train start to decelerate for its final approach to Jattapore, though, there’s nothing for it. I have to go back. We made this MMC mess together, and we’re gonna fix it together.
A new message from Davon pops up as I thread my way through the crowded market car, resisting the urge to stop and buy all the therapeutic junk food I can carry. There have been a dozen more messages since the ones I ignored at the archives last night, but I’ve been too busy and head-explodey from the night’s revelations to say more than “I’m fine. Don’t wanna talk right now.” Guess I owe him a slightly longer response.
(private) Davon: Doing okay today?
Are you still at Ania’s? You could come stay with me if you want.
I snort. He had the chance to gain custody of me when he turned eighteen and I was still fourteen. He said no. To be fair, he wasn’t really in a good enough financial situation to take care of us both, and I