If I’d been enough.
If we were actually soul bound, if I’d had Bolan, and even Sully … if I’d claimed them. Maybe I would have been — we would have been — enough to balance Armin.
Bolan looks up from the notebook. His eyes are red rimmed. He presses his hand against the strings to mute the guitar.
I take a shuddering breath, unable to stop the tears snaking down my cheeks.
“You hate it,” he whispers.
I shake my head, sobbing just once before I get it under control. “Armin,” I gasp. “I just … I just wish I’d been enough for Armin.”
Bolan’s chest heaves as he also strangles back a sob. “He wanted something we couldn’t give him. We, Mirth. It was just a stupid, fucked-up accident.”
“You don’t think … if he had the support of a fully realized bond group —”
“No!” Bolan says harshly. “He still would have made the same choice.”
I take another shuddering breath. I wipe my face with my borrowed tank top as I take a deeper breath. Then I whisper, “Play the rest for me?”
Bolan watches me for a moment. Then he nods and starts playing again.
She transformed my soul
Vanquished my fears and gave me strength unknown
My invisible shield
When life gets real
She is my magic girl
I rest my head back and just listen this time, willing my mind to empty, then to fill up with Bolan’s voice and words.
This was always enough for me. This was always where I ached to be. And I’m here now.
The last notes linger between us for a moment. Then Bolan leans over, plucks up his pen, and scribbles more notes across the page, crossing out lyrics and subbing in other thoughts.
“I haven’t written in over eighteen months,” he says, not looking up at me. “Haven’t played since Armin died.”
But he picked up the guitar for me. Once in an attempt to woo me, and now because he wanted to play. For me. For us. For our future.
I rise from the chair, leaving the quilt behind me.
I take those last couple of steps to Bolan.
He sets the guitar to the side, gazing up at me.
I place my hands on his shoulders.
I lean over him.
He lifts his face to mine.
I brush my lips against his, softly — a question.
He presses up into my kiss, sealing our lips together — an answer.
Mine.
