Page 137 of Bring You Back

“Big plans for the rest of today?” I tease, but it’s flat.

Julian manages a smile and teases back, “Well, we have to get cleaned up, andsomeonetracked a mess in here.”

I eye the small water puddles and sand on the floor. “Yeah, why’d you do that?”

Julian manages another smile, this one bigger, more playful, but his eyes fall back to my toe and it fades as they trail back up my wetsuit. He opens his mouth to ask, and like he knows he won’t get an answer, he closes it. He looks toward the front door next, to the porch light. He wants something from me, any piece he doesn’t already have, and I decide I can give him this one.

“Ask,” I say, my voice low.

His eyes reconnect with mine and he doesn’t hesitate. “Why do you need the light?”

That’s a specific question that doesn’t require the entire story, but I give it to him so this doesn’t have to go on all day.

“He had a night class. Two nights a week,” I begin, focusing my stare on the stool legs, away from the blood and Julian’s scrutinizing. “I’d leave the light on for him, and he’d turn it off when he came home. That’s how I’d know he was back.” I chance a look at Julian who averts his stare from mine now, his head shaking, and I say what I know, what he’s now thinking. “That night, I got the call, and the light was still on. He never got to turn it off.”

That was my first time seeing that—the light left on. The hardest first.

The familiar and annoying sting finds my eyes, and I still can’t stop the tears from sliding down my cheeks. I swipe at them and take a breath, try to regain control of my voice. “So, it just stayed on. I couldn’t turn it off,” I say with a scoff that brings more tears, more swipes.

Julian’s hand finds my ankle and squeezes. “So, when someone else turns it off, it’s like he’s. . .” he trails off with the conclusion, but the thought still hangs heavy in the silence.It’s like he’s still here.

Caleb’snotstill here. I have to see the light. I have to turn it off myself now so that hopefully, one day, I won’t have to turn it on anymore.

“He wasn’t supposed to be out that night,” I say, finding myself laughing. “It was supposed to be me.”

Julian’s hold on my ankle tightens, prompting me to look at him. “But it wasn’t.” His voice is firm, eyes steady. “And I’m so sorry you have to live with that, but thank fucking God you’reliving.” His voice shakes now, fear shaping his features at the thought of having lost me—for good. “It wasn’t your fault,” he adds.

“You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

“And I won’t be the last.”

I think of my friends—the family I found here when I was just a kid. We all need someone there to tell us the truth, to remind us that everything will be okay. We all need help sometimes, even if we—I—don’t want to acknowledge it.

I didn’t want to accept that I was now a broken one. I wanted to fix myself, take care of myself. But Julian’s right. I came back here for a reason. I’m not alone anymore.

“Okay,” I say with resolve, my voice low as I hold Julian’s stare and finally admit, “I need help.” I don’t say the actual words—help me—but it’s a start.

His eyes dance between mine, and he releases a heavy breath around a soft smile as his stare falls to my foot.Relief.I feel it, too.

His hand loosens around my ankle and he gestures to my toe, saying on a tease, “Let’s get this taken care of first.”

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

I mentally curse myself for trying to prepare. I havescars, for crying out loud, and I can’t handle a toe injury?

The answer is no.

As if to solidify that conclusion, Julian says, “It’s gonna hurt, Camille.” The warning seems to be more for him than for me, that dread returning as he prepares to finish the job my toenail failed to do. “I’ll be fast,” he assures us.

“Just do it,” I say.

He comes in close with the tweezers. “Count of three.” I look away, closing my eyes as he counts. “One. Two—”

I scream.

33

Identity Crisis

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