Page 53 of Breaking Isolde
My thought is interrupted by the flush of a toilet and Isolde slowly making her way back to bed.
“Guess I’ll be all better for tomorrow and the Hunt.”
“Guess so.”
“You never give up, do you?”
“Not on things that matter,” my lips upturn in a small smile.
She studies me for a long time, as if she’s seeing something she missed before.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, “even though you’re a dick and I hate you.”
I reach out, take her hand in mine, and hold it there.
She doesn’t pull away.
I watch her until she falls asleep again, then lean in close, mouth at her ear.
“You’re not her,” I whisper. “And I’m not letting you go.”
She doesn’t hear me, but that’s fine.
I’ll say it as many times as it takes.
Chapter 11: Isolde
Thefeverhasburneditself out and left me in a shell, shaking with cold and memory, but at least the physical pain is gone. I’m empty. A cup overturned. So I slide under, deep and fast.
Dreams are for the weak. I always said that, and now I’m paying the price.
I’m five, maybe six, and Casey is holding my hand at the edge of a lake. The water is pale and glassy, sunlight so bright it turns us both to ghosts. Casey is taller, already strong in the arms, and she pulls me in despite my best “no, no, it’s too cold” face. She doesn’t even laugh. She just wades ahead, calf-deep, then thigh, then yanks me by the armpit and hucks me in. It shocksevery cell in my body. I thrash, wild for a second, mouth full of cold water.
Casey surfaces right beside me, grabs my chin in her palm, squeezes until my lips make a fish mouth.
“You’ll float, Issy,” she says. “Stop acting like a baby and swim.”
I dog-paddle, water slapping my face, and glare at her with pure venom. But she’s already turning, doing her perfect backstroke, auburn hair fanned in a ribbon behind her, mouth open in a toothy smile.
That’s how it was—always following her wake. Always.
We swim until our arms ache and lips go blue. On the shore, Dad has a towel spread out, but I ignore him, chase after Casey. She’s running barefoot, grass slicing her feet, all the way to the old willow tree. We flop down under the canopy, and she starts to braid my hair, hands still wet and shaking.
“Why’d you make me go in?” I ask. The voice in the dream is my child-voice, stupid and small. I hate it.
“Because you’re a Greenwood,” she says, tying the braid with a fistful of grass. “Greenwoods don’t get scared of water.”
“You were scared of the dark last night.”
She flicks my ear. “Shut up, Isolde.”
We both crack up, breathless, hair tangled, dirt all up the backs of our legs. We sprawl there until the sun drops behind the trees and the bugs start to find us.
“You think we’ll always be together?” I ask. It’s the kind of question only kids ask. In real life, I don’t remember saying it, but the dream gives it to me anyway.
Casey doesn’t answer. She leans her head back, eyes closed, and just hums a weird tune, not even music. Like she’s making her own song because the world is too boring.
I blink, and the dream flickers. The beach is gone. The ground is wet, slimy under my legs. Casey’s still there, but the sky’s gone gray, and the air smells like rot.
