Page 188 of The Spider & the Storm

God, how had I not recognized him?

Because I didn’t want to.

“Got your letter,” I said, only feeling a little foolish for talking aloud to seemingly nobody. “I, uh … I don't know when I'll be able to read it. I don't know if I'lleverbe able to read it, to be honest with you. A-and it's not that I don't want to, you know. It's just that I, um …”

I hung my head and gripped the back of my neck, squeezing my eyes shut and pulling in a deep breath. “This is such bullshit, Luke,” I struggled to say against the tidal wave of emotion that wanted to sweep me away. “It’s such fucking bullshit, and I'm not ready to say goodbye to you, okay? I feel like-like-like if I read this fucking letter”—I held it up again, shaking it for the stars to see—”then I'm saying goodbye to the last piece of you that I have, and I won't do it. Ican't. Okay? Maybe I will one day, maybe I'll be ready, but it's not today. I don't give a fuck if that's what you'd do because now, I have to do whatIwould do, and that is to run as far away from this as I can. Not forever. Just … for now. Okay? Can you be good with that?”

With tears streaming unabashedly down my face, I lifted my head and surveyed the hill my house stood upon. Nothing had changed. Everything was as it had been moments before, and the sconce beside the door remained still and shining.

“I'm so stupid,” I muttered to nobody, shaking my head. “God, I'm so fucking stupid.”

There was nothing left to say. There was no point. Nobody was here, lingering between the veil separating the living from the dead. Nobody was listening. Nobody had ever listened.

I deflated with a forlorn sigh, clutched the letter in my shaking hand, and dragged my feet toward the door. Knowing that life would continue as it always had, knowing it would never feel the same again, and knowing my only choice was to accept it or die.

And I had to choose to live.

It was what Luke would've done.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CONNECTICUT, PRESENT DAY

Where's Stormy?

Not wanting to open my eyes yet, I reached my hand across the bed to blindly pat the empty mattress. It was unexpected. Stormy wasn't one to wake up early without me, and suspecting something might be wrong, I opened my eyes to climb out of bed.

“What the hell?” I bolted upright, immediately awake as my breath caught in my lungs, and I swept my bewildered gaze around a room I hadn't slept in for over five years.

This isn't my room, I thought, remembering the tour Melanie had given us just the day before.This is Danny's room.

But it wasn't the room of a toddler; it wasmine. Everything was as it had been years ago. The back of the door, defaced with my scribbled art. The dresser, piled high with black sweatshirts and black jeans. The closet, opened and showcasing a pile of sketchbooks. The floor, not cluttered by toys, but with a pile of laundry I hadn't yet washed and a box of Sharpies I must've knocked over at some point.

I'm dreaming. Of course I was dreaming, and of course I'd dream about this place. I often did.But why does it feel so real?

I swung my legs out of bed and slowly walked over the worn carpet to the mirror beside the door. It was intact, not shattered the way I'd left it, but my bare chest and arms were etched with the asymmetrical lines of the black widow spiderweb I'd gained from my life in Salem. And why this struck me asodd in a dreamworld, I didn't know, but I tipped my head with curiosity and confusion when the scent of cooking eggs wafted up to my nose.

Stormy?But Stormy didn't cook, and I laughed.I guess that's how I know it's a dream.

I studied the back of the door for a moment, allowing myself the time to appreciate the rough drawing. It was good though, for a sixteen-year-old with zero artistic experience. That kid had been in so much pain and anguish; he was so lost, weathering a storm he didn't know how to survive. Yet he did, and somehow, he found shelter. In a town he identified with. In the heart of a woman who hadn't given him a choice but to love her back. That kid back then, he’d had no idea what to do but suffer the abuse of the pelting rain, dodging bolts of lightning and quivering from the thunder's monstrous boom. But …

“We turned out okay,” I muttered to the door, to that scared little spider beneath the angry clouds and lightning and torrential downpour. “Not everything is okay, butweare.”

Then, following the scent of eggs, I opened the door, half expecting to see Tommy's blood still staining the hallway carpet. But it wasn't, and I was glad, knowing this would be one of thosegooddreams. They didn't happen often, but I was grateful when they did.

I ran down the stairs, feeling lighter and happier than I had in months, wondering if it was, in fact, Stormy in the kitchen. Or maybe it was Mom—God, it'd been a long time since I'd dreamed about her, and I wished that I would. Maybe it was even Dad or Melanie, two people who hardly made appearances in my sleep, and I let the excitement bubble up to an uncontained boil as I bounded through the dining room to the kitchen doorway.

But there was nobody there, nobody manning the stove as the eggs sizzled in a frying pan. I was in an abandoned house; it was only me, and the happiness I'd felt was quick to vanish, leaving only panic in its place.

Turning on my heel to survey the rest of the kitchen, the hallway leading to the basement, and the dining room entrance, I began to mutter, “What the—”

“Shit, shit, shit.”

I spun quickly to face the hallway, where the bathroom door was thrown open and the last person I'd expected to see ran out to hurry back to the stove. Luke caught my eye and lifted one side of his mouth in a casual, lopsided smile.

“Hey, Charlie. You wanna grab me a spatula?”

“Uh …” I stammered as a hard, tremendous lump formed in my throat. “Y-yeah, sure.”

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