The Love That Split the World(51)

I don’t believe in love at first sight but maybe this is as close as it gets: seeing someone, a person you have no business loving, on a football field one night and thinking, I want you to be mine and I want to be yours. Lying on a closet floor with someone and thinking, I shouldn’t know you but I do. Recognizing someone as a part of you before they’ve even become that person in your life, and knowing, without a doubt, that neither of you will ever be who are you in this exact moment ever again and believing, against all odds, you will continue to belong to one another despite that.

I don’t love Beau yet, I don’t think. But being with him feels like a better version of being alone, and in that way, I think we are each other’s.

I look up at the ceiling and wait for another story to come to me, feeling the threads pass through my mind like the light of knowledge Grandmother Spider wove through the first humans.

“What do you think it all means?” Beau murmurs against my ear. “All those stories she told you.”

“I don’t know. Maybe she just didn’t want them to be lost.”

But as I say it, I remember what she said the last time I saw her, how she gripped my hands and said, It’s all in the stories. Everything. The truth. The whole world, Natalie. That girl jumped through the hole, not knowing what would happen, and the whole world got born.

“Before the flood, there were the Yamasee,” I tell him. “The world had gotten so dark and violent that no one could survive without fighting back. And the Yamasee’s hearts were broken, because they didn’t want to kill to live. They couldn’t justify it. So when the water started to rise, rather than wasting their time fighting, they walked deep into the flood, singing as they went. And that was how they were lost.”





17


I wake up in the closet and Beau’s gone, his sweatshirt still draped over me and the windowpane slid shut but unlocked, catching drops of rain and purring with distant thunder. For a while, I just stare up at the ceiling, wondering if last night was only a dream.

If Beau is a dream. If Grandmother was a dream.

I sit up and a tiny white flower falls out of my hair. I pick it up, twirling it between two fingers: one of the blossoms that will someday grow in my wall, years and years and years from now. Holding it, I feel Beau’s mouth against mine, a simultaneous flush of heat and a rush of confusing guilt.

It’s not just Rachel, though that’s definitely part of it. Beau has a whole other world he’s cheating on with me. Another Matt Kincaid who’s his best friend. Another Rachel Hanson, who’s his Not-Girlfriend-but-Something. Another Union, where I don’t exist.

That’s when I remember it’s Thursday.

I jump up and run into my room, nearly tripping over Gus, who moved to sleep against the closet door in the middle of the night. I catch myself and step over him, then throw on jean cut-offs and a tank top and lunge for my phone to check the time.

Eight-thirty. With the Jeep in the shop, Jack’s carpooling with teammates, but I’d still meant to call Alice as early as possible to beg her to come get me for our meeting. I scroll through my phone until I find her name, but the call won’t go through, and when I look up I see why: Gus is gone, the walls are covered in pale pink floral wallpaper, and a single bed sits in the far corner, its tan quilts neatly folded. Oh God. No, no, no.

I’m in someone else’s room. I take a deep breath, poke my head into the hallway, and check that the coast is clear before running toward the stairs. I open and close my eyes, hard, like I used to do when I realized I was having a nightmare and wanted to wake up. I spin around the corner and fly down the steps.

Thank Grandmother. I’m back in my world. Coco’s standing in the foyer, front door open, and I draw up short when I see Matt on the porch. “Hi,” he says tentatively over her shoulder.

Coco turns back to me and mouths sorry. “I was just about to come see if you were up yet,” she says aloud, glancing back and forth between us. “I’m going to go eat breakfast,” she stammers, then slips down the hall toward the kitchen.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, guilt twisting my insides. This Matt doesn’t know Beau, I remind myself, but part of my mind is still reasoning that I’ve just stayed up all night making out with my ex-boyfriend’s best friend, and thinking that Matt is better off in the version of Union where he didn’t waste all his energy on me.

He runs a hand up the back of his neck and over his sandy hair. “I’m not sleeping,” he says, and it shows in his red-rimmed eyes and rumpled clothes, the tang of beer on his breath. “I can’t think straight. I needed to see you.”

“I’m late.” I look over to where the Jeep’s usually parked and groan at the realization of what I’m about to do. “Fine, you need to see me? I need a ride to NKU. You can take me.”

“Okay,” he says eagerly. “Sure.”

“This doesn’t mean we’re friends again.”

“That’s fine.”

“I probably won’t even speak to you.”

“That’ll give me a chance to talk, for once,” he says, smiling meekly. It’s the kind of joke that would’ve made me laugh a few weeks ago. Right now it just makes me feel sad and empty. I want Matt to be happy. I want him to be happy somewhere else, because I want to be happy too, and right now, seeing him doesn’t bring back memories of our years of friendship. It only brings back memories of one night.