"Were you goin'?" Marcus acts like he's surprised, but he's not. He's a terrible actor. "My bad. Didn't look like it."
"Dude, why? You could've just said, 'Go see her.'"
"Go see her."
"I'm going."
He steps aside. "Get it done, Deon."
I climb down and walk to Daryn's RV, not sure this is the right move, considering everything. But I want to see if she's okay. Except she won't be, because today no one's okay.
Why am I going to see her?
So she can act like she wants me, then change her mind and act like I'm the biggest mistake she's ever made?
Keep moving, Blake. Forward march.
I get lost for a while in the maze of RVs and trip on air a couple of times. Either the earth's having an earthquake or I'm having trouble walking. But I find Daryn's RV and knock.
Sophia answers the door. Her eyes are red from crying. Everyone's eyes are red. We're like a new subspecies of human.
"Hey," she says. Sad smile. She looks toward the kitchen, where Daryn's sitting at the table. "Call me if you need anything, okay?"
"Sure. Thanks," Daryn says.
Sophia leaves and I step inside.
Daryn is sitting at the booth, slumped forward, her chin resting on her arms. She's wearing an oversized sweatshirt and her hair's wet, like she just got out of the shower. The smell of her shampoo or lotion or something else amazing hits me as I sit in the bench across from her.
"How are you?" she says.
She has red eyes, too. Puffy red eyes. She still looks amazing. "Pretty shitty. You?"
"I cried for twenty minutes straight," she says. "I timed it by the microwave clock."
Why wasn't I here? Why didn't I come sooner? "I maxed out around five. But it was intense. I threw up."
"You did?"
I shrug. "It was more like heaving. I had nothing to give back, but you know my stomach. Any excuse to get attention."
"I know you cared about him."
"Do."
She nods. "Do." She brushes her hair behind her ear and reaches across the table, taking my hand. Her fingers are soft and cool. Much smaller than mine. Then her other hand comes to my prosthetic and she takes that, too.
It surprises me that I don't care. Right now my hand hang-up seems stupid, so. I just focus on how it looks. Her pretty hand holding my bionic hand.
It looks okay. Not as bad as I'd imagined. I adjust the gesture for a better position, but the whirring sound of its inner gears seems loud and makes me feel self-conscious. And stupid. I guess I do care.
Too late now. We're holding hands.
"What can I do to help?" Daryn asks.
Somewhere in camp a generator cranks on.
"This is good."
"Should we pray for Travis? For his family?"
This surprises me. "Sure."
We do that, silently but together. For Low. For his ex-wife and his son, who's got it much worse than me. I got eighteen years with my dad. Low's little kid-Austin, I remember-only got three.
Out of nowhere, I remember Suarez and Low a few days ago in the warehouse, talking over boxes of pizza.
Hey, Low. You missed it. Blake just made a joke.
He did? Man, that's inspiring. He's been trying for so long.
Low. There was no one else like him in the world.
Another one of the day's huge swells of emotion sweeps over me. I drop my head in my arms and count backward from a thousand.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine.
Nine hundred and ninety-eight.
Daryn slides into the bench next to me and lays her hand on my shoulder. The light pressure quickly becomes the only thing I feel. I want to face her, hold her, but that seems insane and like it could go bad, so I count.
She starts to run her hand up and down my back. It has a totally different effect than what I think she's going for so I just keep counting, feeling hot and jumbled up, all haywire and like I'm just an animal reacting to everything-life and death and lust.
I get to nine hundred and eighty before I feel confident enough to sit up.
I should leave, but I can't make myself. I want to stay, but my emotional brakes are burnt out. I look for distraction, something that doesn't mean anything. My eyes drop to the journal on the table. My name jumps out at me. It's in Daryn's handwriting.
"Wait, does that say-" I bring it closer and read it. Then I read it again. "How'd you get a picture of my butt? And when? And why?"
Daryn winces. "Give me that." She grabs for the notebook but I hold on and we jostle for it. "Gideon, give it! It's embarrassing."
"'Reasons'?" I laugh, reading the title of the list. "What kind of reasons are these exactly?"