Page 15 of Broken Things

That was, indeed, the question. What would happen to them? What would happen to Lovelorn, to the doors in and out? And yet they had to go home. They had to move forward. Because if not, then

—The controversial last page ofThe Way into Lovelornby Georgia C. Wells

Mia

Now

“I don’t know about this,” Abby says, gripping a birch tree around the trunk and sliding backward down into the creek bed. “This feels suspiciously like exercise.”

“We’re almost there,” I tell her. “Besides, the water feels good.”

Abby stares skeptically at the creek, which, after the most recent rains, is now pummeling and frothing across a pathway of small rocks, forming little white eddies, and then wiggles awkwardly out of her flip-flops.

“Have you ever noticed,” she said, “that people don’t feel the need to endorse things thatactuallyfeel good? Sleep in, it feels good! Finish those nachos, it’ll feel good! Only things that cause physical discomfort need the extra advertising dollars.”

“Don’t be a baby,” I say. She wades into the water and squeals.

“See?” I say, when she makes it to the other side of the creek, gripping her flip-flops in one hand, and hauls herself up the bank. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“Compared to what, the Inquisition?” She swats at a mosquito with a flip-flop. “Most people celebrate the Fourth of July the American way—by sitting on their ass. Where’s your sense of patriotism?”

“Fresh out,” I say, reaching over to squeeze her shoulder. She grumbles something that sounds a lot likeevil.

It’s Monday morning, ten a.m., and I’m doing something I’ve never done before, something I swore I would never do: I’m going back to Lovelorn, and I’m taking a stranger with me.

But of course, as Brynn was quick to point out, there is no Lovelorn, and so the rules don’t matter. There is no ancient magic, nothing but a big stretch of woods that gobbles up the hills and the houses, and an old supply shed. Still, as Abby and I fight our way up the mud-slicked bank and start across the meadow, I can’t help but feel excited. Butterflies zip through the trees and insects chitter.

“So this is where it happened?” Abby breaks the silence. Today she’s wearing a short black skirt, thick black-framed glasses, a white T-shirt that saysSave a Horse, Ride a Unicorn, and a knotted necktie.Harry Potter–punk, she calls her style.

“Where what happened?” My voice sounds loud in the thin morning air.

“Where Summer’s body was found,” Abby says bluntly, the way she would if she were talking to anybody else.

“Not here,” I say. “In the long field. I’ll show you.” Weirdly, I’ve never actually spoken about the way her body was found—only what came afterward, and where I’d been.

Soon the trees run out at a long, rectangular meadow, a place mysteriously devoid of trees that we named the long field years ago. I point to a line of thick pine trees, through which I can just make out the roof of the old supply shed. “The police think she was killed over there. There was evidence she ran. Someone hit her on the back of the head with a rock. Then she was dragged.”

Standing here in the sun, it all seems so surreal, like I’m only narrating a story I once heard. Birds swoop over the field, bright blurs of color, sending their shadows skimming over the grass.

Abby squints at me. “You okay?”

“Yes.” I close my eyes for a second and say a quick prayer to Summer, if she’s out there, if she’s listening.Tell me, are the only words that come.Tell me what happened.

A bird cackles somewhere in the trees. I open my eyes again.

We keep going. Halfway across the field we come across a circle carved out of the underbrush, as if a giant cookie cutter has removed a portion of the meadow. A large wooden cross is staked in the ground. On it, someone has written in purple marker:5 years later... we will never forget you. Amazing how many people claimed to love Summer after she died, even people who didn’t care at all when she was alive.

Next to the cross is a beautiful flower arrangement, red and white roses interlinked in the pattern of an enormous heart. It must have cost three, four hundred dollars. Curious, I bend down to look at the card. There’s no signature, only a quote from the Bible.

I read it out loud. “‘Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For you are with me.’” I look at Abby. “It’s a psalm.”

“Hmm.” Abby frowns. “I’ll stay on the hill of the brightly lit land of happy, thanks.”

“The Bible was written, like, two thousand years ago,” I say, standing up. “They didn’tdohappy back then.”

“Probably because they didn’t have Wi-Fi.”

We keep going, passing once again into the shadow of the trees. The shed is even smaller than I remember it, but otherwise looks the same, except for a flimsy chain lock cinched like a belt across it. Funny that the shed never got much attention from the police or the press, despite all the time we spent lying on the braided rug, giggling, playing music on our phones, or just talking about nothing. We never knew how to talk about what had happened: how Lovelorn had materialized overnight.

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