The Gender Fall (The Gender Game #5)(78)

The silence stretched out, and I resigned myself that it was what Owen wanted. As much as I wanted to talk to him, to apologize even, I knew it wouldn’t do any good. His grief was too deep, and my words wouldn’t absolve either one of us.

We sat there long enough for the sun to fully come up over the mountains, for the camp to begin to stir.

“Everyone says I shouldn’t blame you.” His voice came so suddenly it took me a second to register that he was actually speaking to me. I turned toward him, and was surprised to see him looking at me. “They keep telling me it wasn’t your fault. You were just trying to help.”

I disagreed. Not about trying to help—I had been doing that—but that it wasn’t my fault. No, maybe I wasn’t solely responsible, but there was no way of telling what had finally caused Ian’s heart to give out. The result was still the same. He had died in my arms.

I bit my tongue to refrain from saying anything to the contrary. Owen didn’t need my validation or an affirmation of guilt. He didn’t want to hear any of it. He just wanted to talk.

“I know they are right. Logically, I mean. I can see it as being a messed-up situation where you just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I mean, we both were, I guess.” He drew his hands into fists and looked at them, shaking his head. “I can see the logic,” he repeated, his voice thick with emotion. “But so help me, I can’t feel it.”

He looked away then, his hand going up to brush across his eyes, almost mechanically. He took a deep breath and turned his eyes to the sky. “I hate everyone so much for trying to, I don’t know, defuse me with their logic. I hate them for trying to spare you my anger.” He turned, meeting my gaze. “I hate you too,” he whispered, his eyes glistening wetly. “I hate that they are right, and I hate you for it. Because I can’t… I can’t blame you like I want to.”

I met his gaze head on, accepting everything he was saying. He clenched his teeth and then looked away. “I can’t even look at you,” he said hoarsely, his voice breaking. “I can’t. Not without wanting you dead. Not without wanting to… to… hurt you. I know it’s not right. I know it’s not fair. But nothing about this is right. Nothing about this is fair.”

I just nodded. I felt a deep anger and a simmering hurt on behalf of my friend, and I wished, once again, there was something I could do to help him. Something anyone could do to help him—I wasn’t selfish. I didn’t care how he started to feel better, as long as he started. One day, at least.

“I hate feeling like this,” Owen admitted after a moment. “I hate hating you. You are one of my best friends, in spite of everything. But… I can’t stay here. I won’t. I need time and… and… space. Away from you. From this. I mean… I actually suggested using Violet as bait, dammit! That isn’t me, but at the same time, in that moment… it was me. I wanted that. So… I can’t be here.”

I let out a breath, a fresh wave of guilt moving through me. Not only had his brother died, but now he was running away from everyone here who cared about him. I hated it, but I could understand it. He had to do this. Or at least, he thought he did, and that was all that really mattered.

Owen slowly picked himself off the ground, as if every muscle and bone in his body bore the brunt of his sorrow. Casting me one last look, he simply moved away from me, heading toward the tents. I watched him go, a desperate, concerned part of me wanting to catch up with him and try to convince him to stay, but unable to figure out what combination of words would dissuade him.

But maybe it was better to let him go. After all, if he needed time and space, then he should get it. He’d given enough—too much—in this fight. He’d earned a reprieve. I just hoped it would also lead to peace.





31





Violet





“Owen’s gone,” Ms. Dale announced, and I gaped at her, shock rolling through my body.

“Gone?” I repeated back to her, certain I had misheard. It didn’t make sense. I had sat with him for a while again last night, the day after his brother’s funeral, after the camp work had been done and the reports from the scouts had come in, and he hadn’t told me anything about intending to leave.

Ms. Dale nodded, dropping into a chair next to mine, her lips pursed. “He came to me early this morning.”

I checked my watch—it was barely after eleven in the morning—and then looked back down at the papers I had been perusing before she came in. The words on them seemed to blur together; I couldn’t remember what they had meant.

“I don’t understand,” I said, looking back up at her. “Why would he just leave us? I mean… he didn’t even say goodbye.”

Ms. Dale gave me a sympathetic look and reached over, patting my hand. “I think saying goodbye would have been a bit too much for him, Violet. He’s hurting. Badly.”

“Is this because of Viggo?”

Ms. Dale sighed and leaned back into her chair. “Probably,” she admitted with a small shake of her head. My face must’ve reflected the sudden stab of irritation I felt, because she leaned forward again, catching my gaze in hers. “You have to give them a little latitude, Violet. They’re both blaming Viggo.”