The Mechanic

-Chapter Twenty-Five-

Because in front of me here, there's a strong young man with eyes full of fire and power, and the belief that he actually knows things.

He does.

He's grown up.

"Why won't you?"

"You need help," he replies. "I helped you last time. I'm not going to leave you this time. Even little brothers can do things, you know."

I do know. I used to do things for Matt. Still do. Brothers. Family.

I need help.

"She's gone," I whisper, choking.

"I know," he says, holding eye contact with me, unshaken.

"I killed her."

He shakes his head lightly. "No. You didn't. Mechanic, things happen."

I close my eyes.

"Mechanic, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that this is happening. But like last time, you need to remember, there is still life. Right? There is still a reason. You still have a purpose."

"It hurts," I breathe, breaking. But then, that isn't the best word for what was happening to me. I'd already been broken so many times... so what was this? What is breaking again after you've been broken before?

"I know," he says. "I know that it hurts. But you're going to survive. She would want you to be okay, right?"

"I don't know what she'd want. I didn't do it last time..."

"And now you know. Listen to people, Mechanic. Like you told me. Don't assume. Listen when people talk. And she would want you to be okay. Listen."

"What if I don't want to be okay?"

"Then you're volunteering yourself to the pain that will always follow when you decide not to listen."

I look away. I don't want him to be right.

There are so many things that I don't want right now.

And deep inside, something that I want with more fervor than all of the things I don't want combined. It's my most obvious secret.

"You can't bring her back, Mechanic."

"I know," I whisper. That's what I want, though. For her to come back. But what are the odds? It happened before, which was beyond miraculous. If it happened again it would be scarily thrilling. There are no words to describe how encouragedly hopeless that thought makes me feel.

"It's been almost a month. You need to try to get better."

"I'm fine," I reply, wiping my face. "I feel fine."

"You're not fine. The inside of your head looks like a crime scene."

"The inside of my head feels like a crime scene. You should try it some time."

He frowns a little. "Please don't be sarcastic."

"I'm alright, Spero."

"Prove it." He crosses his arms, and I feel like slapping the disbelief off of his face. But I don't.

I swallow the frustrated hurt that rises in my throat. "I don't hurt."

He rolls his eyes. "Not even an 'okay' you would say something like that. It's a lie."

I scowl at him. "I'm over it."

He shakes his head. "Paris, that is not an 'okay' response. You wouldn't say something like that if you were okay, do you understand? When she was still gone, and you had healed, you would smile at her mention, and say something that implied soft memories. You weren't bitter about it. You weren't adamant. You didn't want to forget her."