Red Moon Rising

58. confessions

Chapter Song: I'll Believe in Anything - Wolf Parade

XX

At the house, the bathroom faucet runs for too long as Jack washes away whatever death still clings to his hands. The faucet stops as the shower beats against the drain instead, and I wonder fleetingly if Max's death has rattled him more than he's let on. After twenty minutes, I knock on the door, but Jack doesn't answer.

"Do you need anything?" I call softly, unsure if he'll even be able to hear me.

"The door's unlocked. You can come in."

The knot in my stomach worsens, but I step into the thick steam of the bathroom anyway. It's hard to breathe in here, but it's a gentle sort of suffocation, the kind that makes me sleepy as I sink down against the bathroom door and glance quickly at his silhouette beyond the curtain.

"I'm tired of watching people die," he murmurs, and I sense that he's staring back at me, wondering if I'll be next as I've wondered of him so many times before.

"Me too."

"I don't think we're near the end."

"Maybe not," I agree. "But we're closer than we were before."

"Layla the optimist."

"Don't get used to it. I'd still be running if it weren't for you."

"Maybe it isn't such a bad idea, to run away. Maybe if we left, this would all stop."

I know he understands how little truth there is to the idea, enough that I don't speak to it. Instead, I lean my head against the door and try to imagine running my fingers through hot ocean sand.

"Where would you go, if you could go anywhere?"

"Iceland, maybe."

"Iceland? No white sand and sunshine, margaritas on the beach?"

"Sometimes I forget that your only concept of space beyond Minnesota is through cheap novels."

"Why Iceland?"

"I want to see volcanoes and mountains. I want to see wide open space that isn't at risk of disappearing anytime soon."

"I wish it were that simple, you know," I say finally. "I miss the simplicity of home and what that meant."

The silence rises again, and I realize that Jack is simply standing in the shower, hot water beating against his shoulders. It occurs to me that I should feel strange sitting here with him, but death and fear have given us a unique intimacy. It's like I've always known him somehow, like I've only just rediscovered him.

"Jack," I begin, running my tongue over my dry lips. "Are you okay?"

A pause, and then, "No. You?"

"Not so much." I listen to the click of soap bottles, the way the water scatters across the shower floor. In the bitterly dry cold of Minnesota winter, the steam of the bathroom lets me believe I'm somewhere tropical. "I'm sorry, you know," I whisper, and Jack's silhouette stills beyond the curtain. "I'm sorry I left you alone on that lake. I'm sorry I brought all of this trouble here."

"You're sorry?"

"I thought...I was worried something would happen to you. I'm glad you're okay."

"I'm okay," he breathes. "But I sent you back alone. I should have realized that it was a trick, that they were trying to separate us. I almost got you killed, and I don't really know how to make up for it, or if I even can."

"You're messing up my apology, Jack."

I smile at his soft laugh, and then my stomach is in knots again as he clears his throat.