Page 276 of The Fall
Does it matter if a scar brought me to him? Does it change the fact that loving him remade me, and that he lives in parts of me no surgeon could ever reach? If they opened my skull tomorrow and cut away that damaged tissue, Blair would still be inside me, written into the spaces between synapses. He exists in me beyond anatomy, beyond what any scan could capture. He is the other half of me.
No, I am not a bystander to this scar, and I will not reduce the hardest, most brutal work of my life to this shadowy smudge. This love is not a symptom. Whatever brought me to him, whatever made it possible for us across time and space and impossibility, I claimed it.
Blair’s fingers rub over the pulse point at my wrist. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
“Torey.” My father’s voice cracks. “Whatever you decide, whatever happens, we’re here.”
“I need—” Need what? Time? Answers? Some guarantee that I’ll still be myself on the other side of whatever comes next? This isn’t a power play strategy I can work on, or a shattered stick I can replace. I have to cross this chasm alone. It’s my brain, my memories.
I turn, burrowing into Blair. The scent of him—salt and coconut and Key lime and the unbreakable strength that is his own—surrounds me. I turn my face into his, hiding against his throat. “I’m fucking scared.”
“I know. Me too.”
What does brave look like when the map is your skull and the path cuts through memory? If courage is a choice, where do you aim it? At the knife, at the waiting, or at the life that might be different after?
Dad is a steady silhouette by the window, holding himself together with stubbornness for me.
The room holds us all suspended, Blair’s heartbeat against my cheek, my father’s control, the monitors tracking proof of life in digital green.
There’s no version of this where I win everything.
“Whatever you need,” Blair whispers into my hair. “Whatever it takes. We’ll get through it.”
We. As if my brain is our brain, my future our future, as if there’s no version of this story where he walks away.
A soft knock lands against the door, and Blair lifts his head. The door opens, and Hayes is there, a small shadow clinging to his leg: Lily.
“Hey, guys.” Hayes’s voice is soft. “Brought you a visitor.”
“Hi, Lily-pad,” I manage.
Lily peeks out from behind his jeans. She’s holding the pink teddy bear I gave to her when she was in the ER, and she pads toward the bed with Hayes’s hand on her back, guiding her.
Hayes lifts her and settles Lily on the edge of my bed. She reaches for my hand but doesn’t say anything. “I made these for you.” Her voice is small as she holds up a sheaf of papers. On the top page, a green tyrannosaurus in a Mutineers jersey wields a hockey stick, a frantic scribble of a puck sailing toward a net. I flip through the rest: a stegosaurus in goalie pads, a pterodactyl mid-flight, dropping a puck onto Blair’s stick, and a tiny, triumphant allosaurus lifting a crudely drawn silver cup. “They’re for you to feel better,” she whispers.
I trace a finger over the waxy lines. These dinosaurs have played out a future I might not have: the playoffs, the cup, the team celebrating together. “These are amazing. Did you draw all these yourself?”
She nods. “Daddy helped color the jerseys. I did all the dinosaurs.”
“I like this stegosaurus goalie the best.”
“That’s Stella,” she says. “The plates on her back help her block the goal.”
“Thank you, Lily-bean.” She clings to me when I lean forward, her small arms wrapping around my neck.
Hayes settles his hand on her hair and looks me in the eyes. “You absolute madman.” His voice is rough, and shaking. “You insane bastard.”
“Takes one to know one.”
Hayes laughs, but it sounds gruff and torn from somewhere deep, the sort of laugh that’s really grief with a different mask. His eyes flick to Blair, then to Lily curled close beside me.
Then he crosses to Blair and hauls him into an embrace. Hayes’s hand finds the space between Blair’s shoulder bladesand stays there, holding him upright through whatever’s crumbling inside. “We’re all here for you,” Hayes says into Blair’s ear.
When they break apart, Blair’s eyes are glassy, and Hayes keeps one hand on his shoulder. “We fly out in the morning,” Hayes says. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll make sure the guys are dialed in.”
Hayes’s words set off warning bells. He’s talking to Blair like Blair isn’t going, like he isn’t playing.
