The Words We Keep: Chapter 57

He’s here.

He stands at the end of the sidewalk to the parking lot, chalk in hand. Below us, words adorn each concrete square.

In the final square, Micah stands, two words at his feet:

“I’ll wait in the car,” Dad says. He pats Micah on the back before he goes, and I definitely missed something, because when did they get all buddy-buddy? My posse hauls my bags away.

“So,” I say hesitantly, piecing together words to articulate the emotions bubbling up in my chest. “You and my dad?”

“Right?” Micah says, eyes wide, and then his voice gets small and tight as he adds, “Turns out nothing brings two people together like almost losing someone they love.”

Love. The word bounces in my head. Everything in me wants to touch him, to have him hold me, but he just stands, staring at his chalk-stained hands and then at me for what feels like eternity.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I say.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m going to shatter. Make fun of me. Be normal.”

“Okay, but first I have to tell you something kind of serious.” He inhales and closes his eyes, but I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. “I saw your butt. Before they realized I wasn’t family and kicked me out, they put you in a hospital gown, and I totally saw your butt.”

I shove his shoulder slightly. “Well, was it good for you?”

“Oh yeah.” He smiles, but it’s strained, and his face goes serious again as he looks down at the chalk words below us. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I didn’t want to be in the way, and your family was always there and I thought you’d want some time, you know, with your inner circle and all.”

I step closer to him, and all I want is for him to grab me and kiss me and remind me that I’m still me and he’s still him and we’re still us.

“You’re in that circle, too, you know.”

He puts his chalky fingers into his front pockets. “There’s something else, too.” His hair dips in front of his eyes, and I want so badly to reach out and tuck it behind his ear. “I wasn’t sure I could be here.”

Here it comes.

“I want to, of course. But being on that cliff, seeing you there. Like that. It was…” He swallows hard. “It was a lot.”

In my chest, my heart thuds.

“And my whole life—my whole damn life—I’ve pictured what I would have done if I had been there on that cliff with my dad. How I would have stopped him.” Micah’s crying now, and so am I, partly because I’m a selfish jerk and don’t want him to finish this train of thought that clearly ends with him dumping me, and partly because seeing him—strong, self-assured Micah—in tears is about the worst thing I’ve ever seen.

“But when I was up there, with you, I was helpless. And I hate myself for it,” he says. “And after, I just kept thinking that maybe you were right: we’re a bad idea. Maybe we’re both too broken.”

“Of course,” I say, wiping my own tears. “I get it. Totally.”

He reaches out and touches my fingers with his, lightly. “But—”

My heart clings to that but.

“But here’s the problem. This life, in general, sucks. And most days, all we can hope for is pockets of air. And with you, I can breathe.”

Through his dark curls, he looks at me.

“And I’m not sure I’m ready to give that up. So maybe it’s totally selfish or stupid, and even though I’ll probably hide in my room sometimes, and you’ll probably tell me to shove off sometimes—”

“I would never—”

“You will. There will be days when you’re done with it. With me. With therapy. With everything. But if it’s all right with you, I want to stay. And keep trying. And failing. And breathing. And being with you.”

The pain in his eyes sears me.

“And I’m sorry I wasn’t here, but I’m here now. And I’m just sorr—”

I weave my fingers between his. His semicolon tattoo touches up against the Band-Aids on my arm from the IVs. I push the hair from his eyes, and that’s all it takes for him to pull me close.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he says.

“Me, too.”

He’s holding me so tight, the bum-bum-bum beating inside his chest pulses against me.

“I can feel your heart,” I say, my mouth brushing the skin of his neck.

“It’s yours.”

And he’s kissing me, soft and slow, and his black curls tickle my forehead, and I know Dad’s probably covering his eyes and Margot’s probably squealing, but I don’t care. Because all I can think about is the feel of his hands on my back, his mouth on my mouth, and his heartbeat next to mine, reassuring me that we’re both here.

We chose to stay.

And the thought makes me so happy, I can’t help smiling.

He pulls away, his lips red and splotchy. “Is my kissing amusing you?”

“No, no. I…,” I say, searching for the words. “I’m just glad I didn’t miss this.”