Page 46 of Trick Me
“I want to help you fight anything that hurts you,” he says simply, like it’s obvious, like it doesn’t make my chest feel too small for my heart.
“That’s… that’s actually really sweet. Stupid, but sweet. Stupidly sweet. Sweetly stupid.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“Absolutely. It’s that or cry, and my face is already a disaster without adding tears to the mix.”
“You’re beautiful,” he confesses, and the sincerity in his voice almost undoes me.
“Nowyou’redeflecting.”
“I’m really not.”
“We should—” I gesture vaguely at the pool, unable to finish the sentence because what we should do and what I want to do are very different things.
“Right. The curse. The breaking thereof.”
We approach the pool again, slower this time, like we’re approaching a wild animal. Or a bomb. Or a wild animal holding a bomb while juggling chainsaws.
Our reflections are waiting.
They look normal for exactly three seconds before the wrongness starts again. This time, I’m ready for it. Or as ready as anyone can be for their reflection to develop sentience and attitude problems.
“Back for more truth?” mine says, and her voice is clearer now, more present. “Here’s one—you’re terrified he’ll leave. Everyone does. Your parents, emotionally. Your friends, gradually. Now him, inevitably.”
The words sting because they’re true. Every relationship I’ve ever had has had an expiration date, some faster than others. My parents still love me, I know they do, but they’ve always loved me from a safe distance. Like I’m radioactive. Like caring too much might infect them with whatever wrongness I carry.
“You’re right,” I say, and my voice only shakes a little. “I am terrified of being left again. Of not being enough to make someone stay. Of being the person everyone eventually realizes they can live without.”
My reflection’s smile falters slightly, like she wasn’t expecting agreement.
“But here’s what you’re missing,” I continue, finding strength in acknowledging the fear rather than fighting it. “I survived everyone who left. I built a life, maybe not a perfect one, but mine. I learned to be alone without being lonely. Well, mostly. Sundays are still rough. And holidays. And birthdays. Okay, so I haven’t totally mastered it, but I’m working on it.”
“Pretty words—” my reflection starts.
“I’m not done,” I interrupt, which feels weird, interrupting myself, but here we are. “If I can be complete on my own, if I can function and survive and even sometimes thrive alone, then I can choose to bewith someone without needing them to complete me. That’s not desperation. That’s choice. That’s freedom.”
“You think you’re free?” She laughs, and it sounds like ice cracking. “You’re bound by your gift, your fear, your desperate need to matter to someone, anyone?—”
“True words,” I cut her off again. “I talk to the dead for a living. I’ve learned that the only lies that really hurt are the ones we tell ourselves. And I’ve been telling myself I’m not enough for so long that I started believing it. But here’s the thing—I’m scared, yeah. Terrified. But I’m here anyway. Standing by a cursed pool at three-something in the morning, facing my worst fears made manifest, because breaking this curse matters. He matters. We matter.”
I squeeze Ash’s hand, drawing strength from his solid presence. He does the same back, and I know he’s watching, listening to me.
“That’s not weakness,” I continue, voice stronger now. “That’s courage. That’s choosing to try even when failure is not just possible but probable. That’s human. And I’m human. Flawed and strange and sometimes I talk to my houseplants even though they’re dead, but human.”
My reflection ripples, distorts, the silver light in her eyes flickering like a dying bulb. For a moment, she’s monstrous, all teeth and hunger and void, and then suddenly she’s just me. Tired and scared but standing her ground, mascara smeared but chin up.
Ash turns to his own reflection.
“You want my truth?” His voice is steady, the Alpha one that makes people listen whether they want to or not. “The reality is I wake up every morning with their names in my throat. Seven names, seven faces, seven futures that ended because of my choice.”
His reflection watches with those wrong eyes, patient as a spider.
“But here’s the rest of that truth—forty-three children woke up this morning because of that same choice. Forty-three futures that exist because I was willing to carry seven ghosts.” His voice strengthens, gaining power with each word. “My father would have let them all die rather than lose warriors. ‘Acceptable losses,’ he would have called them. Children. Babies. Acceptable losses.”
“Pretty philosophy for a killer,” his reflection says, teeth too sharp around the words.
“Iama killer,” Ash agrees without flinching. “I’ve ended lives with my hands, my teeth, my choices. I’ve washed blood from my skin so many times I sometimes forget what clean feels like. But I’ve also saved lives. Protected them. Shielded the weak from the strong, the innocent from the guilty. The killing serves the protecting, not the other way around. That’s what makes me different from my father.”
