Page 68 of The Impossible Princess
My face crumples, and I feel a tear slide down my temple. Ella shifts from my chest and flops down at my side. I should be able to breathe but I can’t. Ella’s question is too big. It matters too much.
I fumble for the truth. “Yes.”
“Good thing,” Ella laughs, “because he’s hot. I saw the TV segment. It’s a wonder the whole forest didn’t burn down.”
I laugh because if I don’t, I am going to howl.
“Third,” she says, her gaze meeting mine across the bedspread, “would he have fought for you?”
Stultes es. Ella does not play fair. Max’s words haunt me again.Be brave for us. Fight. I’ll fight with you.My heart is twisting in its cavity, straining to find an anchor.I’ll fight with you.
“Yes.”
30
Life Raft
MAX
When my parents drive Susi back to civilization and Rita and Hals have packed up every one of Ava’s toys, I get drunk for the first time in a decade.
I sit on the dock with a six-pack of Kurtzburg and tell myself that it’s fine. I’m fine. The whole damn country is fine. There have even been long stretches this weekend when I haven’t felt anything. Sure, the numbness aches like atayve, but even that’s fine, I think, taking a long pull of beer.
Liquid trickles down my throat, and I give the bottle a betrayed look. Empty. I throw it into the sailboat and reach for another.
Only when my family asked about Clara outright did it feel like I’d taken a torpedo to the chest, the force of it tearing a hole through me. I knew they’d stop using her name if I told them we’d broken up, but the words lodged in my throat. Even the Kurtzburg can’t knock them loose.
The next morning, I am bleary-eyed and full of regret. I begin on my deployment checklist, hoping to lose myself in the routine, and lay the caretaker’s binder open on the kitchen counter, updating each phone number and utility for easy access. My pen makes careful marks, tracking my progress.
Clean out the sailboat. Check.
Laundry. Check.
Dusting and sweeping. Check.
Take out the trash. Check.
Water the garden.
My pen hovers over the list, and I look out the window, at the rock wall and the spindly wildflowers, tops heavy, tapping against the stones and ready to bloom.
Vede.
Before I can dam them up, I am flooded with angry questions. The numbness cracks painfully, and I fire the pen at the wall. It bounces against the backsplash, skitters across the countertop, and rolls to a rest where we slid the seed packet back and forth. That was a lifetime ago.
Taking a long, careful breath, I rub my face and the bristles of my chin and then brace my hands against the counter, staring hard at the list. It’s just a chore, no different than checking the expiration dates on the perishables in the fridge. But walking into the yard, my grip tightens around the pig-shaped watering can. I fill it from the spigot in the garden before I can succumb to the wish to fling it into the lake. I resolve to chuck it in a donation box when I return. I’ll find something sleek and Scandinavian, so minimalist it won’t even have a spout. After giving the plants a good soak—they didn’t break up with me, this isn’t their fault—I return to the checklist and strike a dark line through the task.
“Finished,” it seems to say. Clara and I are finished.
On Monday morning, I leave a message for the caretaker, turn the key, and give the cottage a final look. Clara is in every corner of my property, has touched every surface in the house, like a ghost I can’t banish.
I heft my bag over my shoulder and begin to talk myself into believing that I’ll feel better when I come back to no Clara. Time is my friend. It’s going to help me exorcise her ghost. If not, I’ll sell the cottage. I’ll get an apartment closer to base, within walking distance of loud bars, loud people, and so much noise I won’t have to think. I’ll swipe right and keep on swiping until I return to a life that looks nothing like the one I had with her.
I toy with the idea for several kilometers.
Ping.
My heart kicks up, but then a soothing robotic voice reads out the text and it takes me a few beats before I recognize it’s from Mom.
