Page 170 of Runaways

I stare up at the lights in the sky, feeling small and insignificant in a good way for a few more minutes, and decide to go back inside once I realize the only thing I'm feeling is Tate's eyes.

"We can go now," I tell him.

We trudge back through the snow to the front door. Tate makes a point to stomp off his boots and take them off on the rug, and I fight the urge to praise him for the common courtesy before doing the same.

"Good night, Noah," he says. "I'll give you your space, and if you need anything…well, you'll probably just ask Silas, but I'll be here, quietly loving you from a distance. And okay, I do kind of hear it now—that everything I say sounds like a threat—but Idon'tmean it in a creepy way this time."

"Good night, Tate. Thanks for painting my nails."

"You're welcome. Anytime."

He smiles sadly before closing the bedroom door. My heart drops into my stomach; I can't breathe, and I barely get to my own bedroom and close the door before the tears fall. I bury my face in my pillow, hoping it stifles the sobs enough that they can't hear me.

Once my eyes run dry, and I can't cry anymore, I get out of bed, cross the cabin to the other bedroom, and push open the door. I tiptoe across the room to Tate's side of the bed and stand there, debating whether I should wake him up or just go back to my room.

"Noah, I'm awake," Tate says after a couple of minutes pass like this. "I can see you standing there."

"Oh…sorry."

"Are you okay?"

I bite my lip, shaking my head in response before realizing he probably can't see it. "No," I say, sniffling. "Can I sleep with you?"

"Yeah, of course," he says, pulling the covers back. "Come here."

I crawl into the space in the middle of the bed, rest my head against his chest, and wrap my arms around him. And I feel…relief. Giving in is such a fucking relief, I want to cry all over again.

"I love you, Tate."

"I love you, too."

He kisses my forehead before threading his fingers through my hair, his thumb rubbings circles against the skin right behind my ear, and I feel like, for the first time in days—maybe years—I can breathe again.

"Noah," Silas says, stirring beside me. He throws an arm around my waist and kisses the back of my head. "Are you happy, baby?"

"Yeah," I tell him. "I'm happy."

twenty-seven

Peace

Noah, almost two years later

"How about right here?"

"That's fine."

"Are you sure you're not going to be mad at me? It's going to be really short."

"I said it's fine, Tate. Just cut it."

"Okay…"

He pulls my hair tight in his fist and cuts through it with the kitchen shears.

"There," Tate says. "It's done." He drops the fist full of dark brown hair into the small garbage can beneath the bathroom sink.

I shake out my chin-length hair in front of the mirror. There's still a bit of brown in the front near the ends, but for the first time in years, it's blonde again. My cheeks are full again; there are no bags under my eyes. I have color back in my face. The freckles I spent so many years hiding under makeup are on full display, deeper and more plentiful than ever, thanks to a summer spent outdoors. Not that it gets particularly hot—but with about twenty hours of sunlight, the days are long, and the sun at this latitude can be intense.

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