And there’s Z in front of me, wide-eyed. Looking at me like I betrayed him.
“So youarefucking him. It’s more than just feeling each other up?”
I throw my hands up. “That’s all you heard? JesusChrist! Enjoy your nice, warm bed.”
I turn to go, and I can already feel it—the way this will end. I’ll walk up those stairs. Z will stay down here, bitter and hurt. Tomorrow will be awkward. Next week will be worse. And everything we survived—Frank, the trailer park, the Todds, the years of planning our escape—will be for nothing.
Z must sense or feel some of what I’m thinking because his hand cinches around my elbow again, in a death grip this time. Pinning me in place.
“No, Harp, don’t go. I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m sorry. You’ve always had your guys on the side. I don’t know why I-I’m sorry I’m being shitty.”
Some of the tightness in my muscles relaxes at his apology, even though I hate the way he puts it.Your guys on the side.
But still. This is Z. The boy who left his window unlocked so I could climb in when things got bad athome. The one who held me when I cried. The one who understood without me having to explain that some days just existing was hard enough without adding words to it.
He’s been through hell. Frank’s been beating him for years. Ofcoursehe’s not in the best state of mind right now.
I turn back to him. “Can’t we just be happy that we made it here?” My voice comes out softer. Pleading. “I was so fucking scared when I saw Frank come at you like that.”
I reach out and squeeze his hand. “Z. You never have to see him again. You’refree.”
His face crumples.
“I know.” His voice is small. Broken. “But I was supposed to be the one to saveyou.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t be an idiot.”
His lip trembles for half a second before he pulls me into a hug so fierce it knocks the air out of me.
“I missed you,” he whispers into my hair.
I hug him back, and my heart physically aches. He’sso thin. Just skin and bones. I can feel his ribs through his shirt.
I’m going to direct Helen’s baking obsession toward him immediately.
“Me too. It’s still so hard to believe you’re really here.” My voice cracks. “But we did it. We actually got out.”
“You’re right,” he whispers, voice thick and shaking. “Look, I’ll get a shower, sleep off the worst of this, and we can hole up for as long as it takes to get a job and build up a stash. Then, just… pick a place. We’ll start over.”
He pulls back slightly, and his eyes lock on mine.
“You and me are still endgame.”
And just like that, the air changes.
My stomach drops again.
Endgame.
I spent so many years picturing it—me and Z in some shitty apartment with peeling linoleum and a broken air conditioner, splitting ramen between job shifts. We’d be tragic. Gritty. Romantic in that Bonnie-and-Clydeway. You know, if they worked at a gas station.
His hands lift to my face, thumbs caressing my cheeks. “I’ll take care of you, Harp. You know that, right?”
I freeze, like a goddamn deer in headlights. Z was always supposed to be my future. That was the plan, even if unspoken. Even if vague.
We were going to patch each other up with spit and spite and maybe make something whole out of our broken pieces.
I always thought that when the time came—when we were both safe and free—the feelings would just... happen. That I’d look at him one day and feel the way I’m supposed to feel about the person I’m going to spend my life with.