Page 114 of Wicked & Wildflower

“I can’t stay here.”

“This is where you live.”

“It’s where he died.”

“We’re all hurting, Elena. We need each other to heal.”

“Watch someone you’ve let inside your body get buried and then tell me what the fuck I need, Everett.”

“You don’t get to monopolize grief.”

“I’m not. I’m monopolizing guilt.”

I still don’t understand what she meant by that. The morning after that argument, she was on a flight to New York City, one I hadn’t even known she booked. I didn’t see her again for eight months, not until Leo and I took a trip to New York.

By that time, she seemed content to pretend Zach had never existed in the first place.

She hasn’t talked about him since.

“What are we supposed to do?” I ask, my tone coming out rough and broken.

A soft, warm touch lands at the center of my back, moving in soothing circles.

“I think that’s something to discuss tomorrow,” my mother says quietly. “It’s still Dahlia’s birthday; let’s not ruin it with this.” I hear her chair slide out from the table. “I’ve got to get home and tell your father. We’ll get together tomorrow and talk this out.”

I nod, palms pressed against my eyes as I fight back tears and the scream I want to release.

“Should I wait up for my sister and Leo?” I hear Dahlia ask.

“I told her to text me when they came back up the hill. I think they’ll be fine.” I feel my mother’s lips brush against the top of my head, her hands running through my hair softly. “Ti amo, tesoro,” she whispers.

“Ti amo, mama.”

The front door shuts a moment later, and that soft hand at my back moves up to my neck, tugging me against her chest as she cradles my head. Her breath is shallow and steady—comforting.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dahlia whispers.

I shake my head. Words are lost on me at this point.

I feel utterly hopeless. They say when someone leaves their hometown, they only come home for two reasons: weddings and funerals. If we can’t get her back here for the happiest day of our brother’s life, we’ll never get her back at all.

If New York was healing her, if it’s where she was meant to be, I’d try harder to understand, but I know the reason she hides out east is because she’snothealing. She’s letting all of her wounds fester. She’s fucking killing herself.

And I’ll be damned if the only way I get her back here is by her own funeral.

I take a deep breath, knowing it’s unfair to Dahlia for her birthday to end this way, not after I worked so hard to give her a perfect day. Pulling my head from my hands, I look at her, and she’s smiling softly at me. “Come on,” she says, standing from her chair and grabbing my hand. “Let’s go to bed.”

I pause, eyes fixated on her outstretched arm and the direction she pulls me, toward the stairs. Her room. “You…You want me to stay?”

A grin splits her face, light shining in her blue eyes. “Yeah, baby. I want you to stay.”

A little while later, as Dahlia’s breath—heavy with sleep—lands against my chest, I don't feel quite so hopeless. I run my fingersthrough her hair, and the darkness doesn’t feel quite so all-consuming. The exhaustion isn’t quite so heavy.

In my arms, she’s my peace.

39

Wicked

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