Page 106 of Near Miss

She blinks at me, eyes swollen with dark circles that have no business on that face, and visible stains from old tear tracks.

I feel a bit like turning around and punching something.

“Greer.” I reach for her, but her eyes squeeze shut, and I can’t tell if it’s a flinch, so I scrub my face instead.

She doesn’t say anything, but she wraps her arms around herself—she’s wearing my fucking sweater—and turns, walking into her living room.

It’s probably the closest thing to an invitation I’ll get, seeing as this is all my fault, so I close the door behind me and follow her.

She’s not sitting, she’s just standing there, one arm wrapped around her stomach, hand pressing down over her scar, and the other holding her phone.

Her voice cracks, and she inhales, shoulders shaking. “I don’t tell anyone those things, Beckett. It’s not—it’s not only my story to tell. My dad, his sobriety ... it’s the most important thing in the world to him and people are talking about him like he’s this vile, disgusting thing, not a person who struggled with an illness so much bigger than him.”

“I know.” I take a hesitant step towards her, and when she doesn’t pull away, I bring her to my chest and press my mouth to her forehead.

She shakes her head against me. “All the horrible, hateful things I think about myself—” A choked sob cuts her off beforeshe pushes back and takes a measured step away from me. “They’re all saying them.”

“Baby.”

I haven’t been my own biggest fan in a long time, but I don’t think I’ve ever quite felt like this.

She looks back down at the phone, finger jabbing the screen as she starts to list off each one. “‘She must have no self-respect.’ ‘I wouldn’t want her operating on me.’ ‘Who gave her a medical license?’ ‘She should have let her father die.’”

Her voice cracks again on that last one, and I think this one might be irreparable.

“What do you need me to do?” I hold my hands up uselessly.

Her shoulders slump, resigned, and she gives a sad little shake of her head. “Nothing.”

And I think part of me finally breaks, too.

“Do you want me to sue them?” I open my arms and I start shouting. “I’ll fucking sue the stupid website; I’ll sue every person who fucking commented on every single picture! I’ll sue that reporter and take everything he fucking has and give it all to you. What can I do to fix this?”

“This isn’t something you can fix, Beckett!” Her voice rises, cracking on the crescendo of a sob.

“Of course it is. I’ll do anything.” I grip my jaw, shaking my head, before I drop to my knees in front of her. I look like an idiot, but I’m not entirely sure I ever got up off the concrete floor of that closet anyway. “I can fix anything.”

“Well, you can’t fix this.” She throws her phone onto the couch, presses her hand to her face, and starts sobbing.

I bury my head in her stomach, grip tightening around her when I shift the sweater up, pressing my mouth in these tiny kisses I’d like to imagine were Band-Aids or stitches or whatever it is she needs.

My mouth reaches the bottom curve of her scar. I kiss up the entire line, and I hope it hears the words, too. That maybe they’re going to be able to fill up all the empty spaces or just make the whole thing disappear. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She whispers it, and I think, maybe, that it’s all going to be okay, that I can fix this just like I’ve fixed everything else for everyone else, but she says this other thing that splits me open entirely. “Please just go.”

I pull back, and I know I look pathetic. Down here on my knees for her, but I’d stay here all day if that’s what she needed. “Are we still—”

“I don’t know.”

I hate myself a bit for asking, but I do anyway. “Are you still coming tomorrow?”

“I don’t know,” she repeats, words flat but still sharp enough to stab through my chest.

She takes a measured step back. It’s tiny, but she might as well be standing across the Atlantic. I scrub my face, feeling a bit like shouting. Not at her—just at the whole thing.

Boy isn’t real. Boy becomes real.

Boy loses the only thing he ever really wanted anyway.

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