Page 139 of When the Stars Rise
The look on Dale Peterson’s face when he resigned himself to his fate.
Take care of Hayley.
I’m trying, Dale. I swear on my life, I have tried so fucking hard to honor your last wish.
But I couldn’t save him, and I have no idea how to forgive myself for that. I was fine. Two working legs and arms. Barely a scratch on me. If only I’d acted faster. If only I hadn’t hesitated for even a split second maybe everything could be different.
“There is not a single day that has gone by that I don’t wish I could have just had two more minutes.”
“Oh, Noah,” Hayley cries. Her arms wrap around me, and I hold onto her like she’s my lifeline.
“Just two more minutes. That’s all I needed.” I choke on a sob. My chest is so tight that I’m struggling to breathe but I need to get the words out. “I’m so fucking sorry, Hales. I’m so sorry.”
My voice cracks on the words and I break.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Hayley
We fallto our knees and cling to each other, the survivors.
We cry for all that was lost. The secrets we’ve kept. The pain we buried. The lies we told in the name of love.
But most of all, I cry for him. This beautiful boy who has carried this burden alone for far too long.
I need so much for him to believe that he did everything he could and that he has nothing to feel guilty about.
I wipe away my tears and grab his face, forcing him to meet my eyes. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” I say. “Nothing. What you did was nothing short of amazing. My parents would be so proud of you.”
Tears course down his cheeks and he buries his face in my hair, his body shuddering on each breath he takes, and even though facing the truth is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, I’m not running away anymore.
I’m right here, in the moment, holding on to the boy I love, facing the horrible truth that he’s been living with for all these years.
I don’t know how he did it. I really don’t.
But for the first time in forever, it’s my turn to be strong for him.
Hours later, we end up making the chili topped with Fritos and the pecan pie. The pie was Noah’s favorite, never mine, but I guess I never told him that.
Every time my mom made it, she’d set aside a few slices for Noah, and when he’d come over, she would serve it to him on a pretty china plate with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
The pecan pie made Noah happy, and it always made my mom smile with pride when he’d eat every crumb on his plate and declare, “This is the best pie I’ve ever eaten.”
Without fail, he said it every single time. Maybe that’s why I always asked my mom to make it. And maybe she secretly knew I requested it for Noah. But she didn’t mind because she loved him too.
So I guess this meal doesn’t have to be my favorite to hold some of my favorite memories. And maybe it’s okay to change and grow and evolve while still cherishing all your wonderful memories.
I’m not stupid. I know that he’s not miraculously healed now that he’s shared the truth with me. And I know that we both have so much work to do before we can come out the other side and be okay.
But for now, I have no more tears left. Just a dull ache and that hollowness inside me that hasn’t gone away since I remembered what really happened.
So I cut a big slice of pie and serve it on a pretty china plate that my mom’s mom passed down to her and that now lives inmy kitchen cupboard. Noah takes a big bite of pie, and I don’t think he’s hungry, but he eats it anyway.
“Best pie I ever ate,” he says, and we share a smile as he reaches for my hand and lifts it to his mouth, pressing his lips to my inner wrist over the small black heart and initials inked on my skin before entwining our fingers, tethering us.
When he feeds me a bite of his pie, I try to pretend that it doesn’t taste like ashes and tears and together we eat every crumb on his plate and then I stand and take his hand and lead him to my bedroom.
It’s only when he tugs off his T-shirt and I slide my hands up his chest that I see it. I trace my fingers over the tattoo, over the wings of each bird, and isn’t it funny that we both got tattoos?
