Damsel[ed]: Rescue Required (#3 of the Damsel[ed] Series)

Chapter Twenty-Five: A Fitting Goodbye

By the time Jay and I return from the museum, the city is chilly and dark. Though the sky is technically full of stars—whole constellations of them—Jay and I only get a few sad specks amid the golden moon and neon lights tonight.  My left hand is clasped in hers, my right a shaking fist at my side. 

"It's pretty," she says, looking up at the sky. The dying light outlines each soft curve of her face, and I want to bring my hand to her cheek again. But I don't. I only squint at my apartment building, trying not to think. "When I was little, us kids could never leave the hideout. Couldn't go to school until we were thirteen. Not even a private one. I used to look out the bars of my window every night, staring at the stars until I couldn't keep my eyes open."

I wish I can say I can smell her perfume, the balmy smell of her shampoo, the soft, earthy scent of her hand lotion. I wish I can say I can feel the warmth of her hand pressed to my skin. I wish I can say my heart swells so big I think it'll break.

I can't. Because ever since she told me how much time she thinks I have, free, I've been hearing her as if I'm standing in a glass box. Like there's layers between us. And all I feel, despite the spring wind, is cold. 

Lonely and cold and shivering with fear. Lonely because no one else will ever feel this, unsafe in their own mind, crowded out by their own body. Cold because lately, nothing can warm me. Fearful because when I try to think of my future, I only hear my father's voice, a voice like mine. And I only see fire.

"Ang." Jaylin lifts my hand.  We're still staring up at my building, all glittering chrome finishes and blocks of light that stain the night sky with a greasy, golden glow.  "I, uh, with what might happen, I want to, um, to tell you..."

"Hmm?" Jaylin never speaks like this. Never mumbles, never stammers. Roses stain her cheek, her eyes flutter, and the knot in my stomach tightens. Jaylin's supposed to be my constant. The mountain battered by a sea of chaos. Always the same, always strong. But in a few short breaths, my world is coming undone again.

"I...love you."

I cough. Love me? How can she love me when I'm what drove her life apart? This is what I  I wanted, what I wanted since we fell together. But for the second time tonight, what I wanted doesn't seem to matter. I'm watching who I am and what I wanted lift into smoke, and it should scare me, but I'm too tired to feel a thing. If Luce is fire, then it's fitting I've become smoke. Fleeting and inconsequential. 

"Are you crying?"

I bring my thumb to my eyelashes. They're dry. I blink a few times at the sidewalk.

"Angel, this is weird. It's hard to think when you're quiet like this." She laughs, harsh and humorless. "I know it's rough, but—"

"I love you too." The words leave me in a big whoosh of air. I mean them, and I mean them so sincerely something cracks in my chest. Because I don't want to think about how irrational and hormone-driven and stressed-induced this love is.

I want to stop thinking, stop our lives from unraveling around us, stop. I just want to stand here holding her hand and knowing she's close. That I'm safe with her. "I really do.  I really love you."  And I'm sorry, I want to say, I'm sorry that my love for you and yours for me may never become more substantial than irrationality and hormones and stress. I'm sorry that I'm Romeo and you're Juliet. I'm sorry that we've always been star-crossed. I'm sorry that we're going to die. 

I'm so sick of feeling sorry. I'm so sick of feeling cold. She brings my knuckles to her lips and kisses me, but I still can't shake what she's told me enough to respond. I only flinch a little, thinking of the night that may be ahead of me. I'm looking away from her and the sky, a little right, a little low, and I'm noticing cars parked out front of the apartment I've never seen. Several small, black cars, and a van.