Page 60 of The Narrow

“It’s fine,” I assure her. “Ancient history, all that.” I’ve ended up with Veronica’s flask somehow. I take a tiny sip. I’m going to need to go down to the Narrow soon; I want to stay relatively clear-headed.

“I can’t believe I said that to you. ‘You’re cool, but there’s no spark.’ Those wordsactuallycame out of my mouth,” Ruth says. “I was a total jerk.”

“You weren’t. I get it—we were better as friends,” I tell her, though the memory is still tender. I’d thought things were going great, and then she just dropped me and disappeared.

“That wasn’t entirely true,” she says, eyes on her cup.

I give her a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”

She shifts almost nervously. “When we broke up, I said it just wasn’t working, but it was actually because my parents freaked out. I figured I was bi, so why not just date guys so I don’t rock the boat? Except that meant hurting you and hurting myself because you were the one I really wanted to be with, and why was I making decisions based on my parents’ bigotry anyway? And then they went to therapy and joined a queer-friendly church and literally willnotstop sending me rainbow Pride swag.”

“Oh,” I say eloquently. I’ve been hung up on Ruth and pretending not to be for years.

She bites her lip. “I know things have been kind of fucked between us all, but... I miss you, Eden. We all do.”

“I miss you, too,” I say, my voice hoarse. I look away, blinking back tears. Why can’t things just be easy? Why can’tsorryfix everything? It still hurts.

“I know you haven’t really dated anyone since then,” Ruth says leadingly.

“No. I mean yes. I mean... I’m sort of seeing someone,” I tell her, stammering and blushing. I hate how easily I blush.

“Seriously? Wait, who?” she asks. Her eyes widen. “Delphine.”

“Nothing’s happened, exactly,” I say.

“Wow. I have really terrible timing, huh? Well, that’s great. I’m happy for you,” Ruth says with forced cheer. Silence falls between us, excruciatingly strained. She looks down at her drink. “I need a refill.” She wanders off, and suddenly I’m alone in front of the fire.

Why would Ruth tell me that? Why would she do itnow? I shut my eyes, feeling the heat of the fire against my face. I feel like I can’t stop screwing up.

I open my eyes and look for the others. Ruth has joined Zoya and Veronica in the line for drinks, talking to them. Zoya glances briefly over my way, and I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, knowing they’re talking about me. But then Zoya looks away, and for a moment I’m unobserved.

I slip away. I stick Veronica’s flask in my jacket pocket and take out my phone, using the flashlight to light the path. Soon thesounds of revelry die down behind me, replaced by the steady tramping of my feet. The rain is still a soft mist pattering down on the leaves. As the light of the bonfire vanishes behind me, I wait to hear that choking sound, to feel her cold hand on my arm, but there’s nothing.

In the dark, the shores of the Narrow are hard to discern, the water as black as the stone. I stay well back from the slippery moss and the uncertain edge.

“Maeve?” I whisper, the rain hissing down around me. “Are you here?”

Something pale catches my eye to the left. I turn, heart in my throat, knowing what I will see. And there she is. Standing on one of the outcrops of stone, near the very edge. Her dark hair hangs bedraggled around her shoulders, her clothes soaked through, clinging to her body.

“Maeve,” I call. It’s soft, but she turns toward me. I take a step in her direction. She watches me, water trickling from her lips. “Maeve. I want to help you. But I need to know what happened.”

“Grace,” she says. The word is garbled. Her body shakes, a convulsion so abrupt it blurs her outline.

“I know. I want to help you find her. But I have to understand. What happened that night?” I ask, drawing closer.

She turns away from me. Looks back toward the water. And then it’s like watching a video played in reverse. She judders backward step by step, then wheels around to face the trees. Her hair is damp now, not sodden, her leg straight. She wears shoes, practical-looking things—she must have lost them in the river.

“Where is she?”

She’s looking at the trees. It’s like in my dream. Someone is there, but I can’t see them. Maeve is angry. Her voice is a snarl, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

“You can’t keep her from me.”

Her image tears like tissue paper, reforming into the Drowning Girl again.

“I know this part,” I say. “You argued with someone.”

A flicker, and she’s standing at the edge of the river again, her back to me. She stands—and then she’s falling, a sudden, violent explosion of motion as if shoved by a great force. She pitches forward into the river, her arms outstretched in a futile attempt to arrest her fall.

---