Page 74 of Irreversible

“That’s the kind of guy he is.” He says it almost regrettably. “I would do the same for him.”

I allow his answer to sink in before I inhale a breath and continue, “‘Separate Ways’ by Journey.”

“Mm. My sister playing that cringey music video that goes with the song in an endless loop. She was obsessed with eighties music. Drove me insane.”

Sara?

I don’t push the subject, too afraid to snap the moment like a delicate thread. “‘I Kissed a Girl’ by Katy Perry.”

He scoffs. “No.”

“‘Hey, Soul Sister’ by Train.”

“You have terrible taste in music. Next.”

A laugh slips out. “‘Blackbird’by The Beatles.”

He pauses long enough that I nearly give up. When his voice finally reaches me, it’s low, strained with a tension that wasn’t there a moment ago. “My mother used to sing it while doing the dishes.”

Twenty responses sit on my tongue, everything from “that’s nice” to “I love that song” to “tell me about your mother.” That’s the one I want to ask—the one his tone tells menotto ask. The silence has grown thick, and I’m not sure how to bridge it.

Then he adds, “It made me feel…jealous.”

“Jealous?” I want to cry, and I’m not entirely sure why.

“It’s a song about hope. It always felt like she was rubbing it in.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter now.” He pauses. “Give me another.”

Inhaling softly, I turn my face toward the divide between us and offer him one final song, my hand pressing firmly against it. “‘The Scientist’ by Coldplay.”

He goes quiet.

Seven charged beats pass between us, sounding as loud as my heart.

When he replies, I’m already calmer, the low rumble of his voice the strangest lullaby.

But I hear it, clear as day.

“You.”

And when the door whooshes open a half-hour later, I have all the courage in the world.

It’s not Roger.

Why isn’t it Roger?

Terror infiltrates me, siphoning every bit of courage from my bones. I stumble backward until my spine hits the wall, shaking my head.

Was there sound on the video, after all?

Did we just seal our fate?

Do they know?

The nurse stalks over to me, her face unreadable, and pulls a needle from her front pocket. I glance at my cold plate of untouched lunch, knowing it’s dinnertime. Roger should have been the one coming through that door, bringing me supper, not her.

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