When My Heart Joins the Thousand(78)

I open my mouth to tell him that I can’t talk about this now. Instead, what comes out is, “Why are you so afraid of sex.”

He draws in his breath sharply. In the silence that follows, he doesn’t breathe at all. “I’m not . . .” His voice breaks. He covers his face with his hands.

I want to apologize, but the words stick in my throat.

Slowly he lowers his hands. “I’m afraid I’d do it wrong. That it wouldn’t be good for you.”

“But there’s more. Isn’t there.”

His breathing quickens.

I’ve gone too far, again. I should stop, pull back. But I can’t. “What are you afraid of, Stanley.”

He looks straight at me. He’s pale, lips pressed in a thin line. “What if I got you pregnant? Things happen. Even when people are careful.”

My mouth falls open. I’ve had the same thoughts myself, but still, I’m caught off guard. I don’t know how to respond.

And for a moment, I allow myself to visualize the possibility—a little human kit, a squirming bundle of life with my eyes and his hair. His smile and my nose.

My brain and his bones. “What would we do?” he asks. “What would you do?”

What my mother should have done when she was pregnant with me. Rabbits reabsorb their young when they’re not ready. In the animal kingdom, abortion is not particularly uncommon. You could say it’s kinder. In the wild, young born into unfavorable circumstances—or with genetic defects—don’t survive long.

I hear Stanley’s words in my head: I mean, obviously it’s better if these things are planned. But lots of kids aren’t, and their parents still love them.

And my own voice telling him, Love doesn’t pay the bills.

My stomach hurts. I feel like I’m going to be sick. “I don’t know.”

He looks away. When his eyes move, I see the flashes of blue gray in the dim light. Misty blue, twilight blue. Dark choroids visible through too-thin tissue. “Maybe the wine was a bad idea.” He smiles, the muscles of his face stiff. “Let’s just go to bed.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE


Long after Stanley has gone to sleep, I lie awake on the couch, staring at the ceiling. The mugginess in my head has cleared, but the queasy feeling in my stomach remains. Did we really just have that conversation?

Why are you so afraid of being loved?

I roll over, burying my face against the couch cushions.

Tomorrow, we will have breakfast together. I’ll drive him to school, and we’ll pretend that last night never happened. I’ll seal it away, along with everything else I don’t know how to deal with. There’s no sense in trying to untangle these feelings when our relationship is already irreparably broken.

You’re just using that as an excuse.

I curl into a ball.

He’s right. I just keep running, making excuses for myself, because I don’t know how to be close to someone.

I won’t run away this time. I can’t repair the damage, but I can stand my ground and face the consequences of my actions. After everything he and I have been through together, I owe him the truth. All of it. And if he doesn’t want to be with me after that . . . well, that’s probably for the best.

Quietly I get dressed, pull on my coat, and lace up my boots.

I have to open the Vault, and when I do it I can’t be anywhere near him.

I don’t know what will happen.

Outside, the world is still and white, cold and clear. I drive and drive, through subdivisions and snow-covered woods, until I see the dark expanse of the lake. I park, get out, and walk, snow crunching under my boots until I’m at the edge of the water. Despite the cold, the lake isn’t frozen. It laps at the sand, like hands reaching for me. I close my eyes and see the towering, shadowy doors of the Vault in front of me.

I can’t just reach out and open them. They’re too well constructed. When I built this place, I made it so that even I wouldn’t be able to break it open on a whim. But there is a way.

Standing on the shore, I begin to undress. When I strip off my shirt, the frigid air hits my bare skin, raising goose bumps. Ignoring the discomfort, I fold my clothes, placing them in a stack, leaving my car keys on top. I’m shaking hard, and not entirely from the cold. Every instinct is screaming at me to turn and run, run, run. The panic is like an alarm bell clanging in my head, drowning out my thoughts.

This is madness. I could get hypothermia. I could die.

But I have to do it. If I don’t face this now, I never will.

Naked, I wade into the icy water. It caresses me, wraps around me. My brain is still screaming, but I ignore it and keep wading in until the water reaches up to my chest. My breaths come quick and shallow. The cold eats into me, as though my skin has been stripped off and I’m burning alive.

I take a deep breath and submerge myself completely.

Cold water presses in around me, dark as tar. I open my mouth, and the air escapes my lungs in a flurry of bubbles. Mama’s face floats in the blackness, ghost-pale, hair drifting around her in a halo. Her eyes are closed. For a moment, we’re weightless.

Then we’re plunging down.

My mind is a chaos of static, but my body knows what it wants: it wants air. It wants to live. I claw off my seat belt and fumble in the darkness, my fingers numb with cold, my eyes straining against the black. When I find the car door handle and pull, it won’t open. It’s like something is pushing back, trying to close it.