WITH HIS VISION ANGLED DOWNWARD, Rueben viewed the worn rubber of his high-top Converse and wondered when his life started its tumulus roll downhill. He rested his forehead on the table, shielding his expression and heart from those who he knew were watching him fall apart like he was a circus display.
He wanted to perform for them—like some rat begging for peanuts.
There was a very strong, very vicarial urge to bash his head against the metal—enough times that blood coated the floor he sat above—enough that his face was gory and unrecognizable. But he couldn't. Whether it was because he didn't have the balls, or some reasonable part of him was shouting that hurting himself wasn't going to change anything, he didn't know.
Rueben's ears quirked at the sound of the door opening and shutting. He quickly raised a hand to his cheeks, collecting his overflowing emotions before Jonah could use them against him. It was one thing to have forged evidence stacked in his name, but it was another to transform his grief into something horrifying.
If that happened, he'd actually deserve to go to jail.
—because nothing would stop him from bashing Jonah's head into the concrete.
He let his fantasy crumble to the floor like tarnished paper as he sat up, removing one mask for the other—plastering on, I'm a man, like his father and everyone else expected of him.
What Rueben didn't expect, however, was Rayne.
He blinked, and forced his eyes to focus on her fragile body—her short legs and long torso—and he drew his head back in confusion. It had been well over four hours at this point. If they were letting her back here, what did that mean for him?—what did it mean for her?
"Hi," she whispered.
The sound of her voice curdled like spoiled milk in his abdomen.
The last thing he wanted was her here.
Still, he played the part as well as anyone in his situation could. Rueben gave her a slight hand-wave, incapable of having a voice after spending the last thirty minutes crying it raw. Rayne moved closer to him, crossing the square room until she found a place beside him.
He closed his eyes, head still tilted upward at her, and breathed in her scent, her new familiarity, her humanity, and he wondered how she could stomach being near him. He had killed well over a hundred people in his lifetime, but he still mourned like the next mother-fucker.
How could she stand him?
"Stupid question, but how're you doing?"
"Guess," he barely shoved out.
She didn't respond, which begged the opening of his eyes.
Rueben sighed and took her in. Devoured the sight of her heart-shaped cheeks, and the smooth sharpness of her jaw from the seating he was in. With her still standing, he saw every underside and crevice she had to offer, and suddenly, he didn't feel so weak having her around.
In fact, he never wanted her to leave.
But rather than suffocating her with his gaze, he let his head hang limply on his neck. He ignored the hair that caught between his lashes and imagined he was anywhere else but here. He imagined he was laying in his bed, tangled amongst sheets so warm, it was as if the blanket was stitched to his skin.
It didn't take long to acknowledge that that type of cordiality emanated from the woman next to him.
"I didn't do it," he said gently, "I didn't kill my sister."
"I know that."
"I would never—" he hiccupped, his voice breaking, "I would never hurt her."
"Oh, Rueben, we all know that. I know that and I barely know you."
His mouth folded into itself as he pressed his closed fist to his lips, attempting to contain himself. He didn't want to cry in front of Rayne, or any other audience that was likely staged behind the mirror, but with each passing second, another brick in his wall crumbled.
So he submitted to them—he let them take over.
"I don't know what to do," he shuddered, "I-I don't know how to fix this."
"You don't need to worry about that," Rayne confirmed, "Let me handle it."
"I can't ask that of you."
"You don't need to," she stepped closer, "I'm offering."
The room quieted, silencing to nothing more than the sound of his muffled sob. Somewhere during the shift, Rayne had found the courage to touch him—to place her delicate fingers alongside his shoulder blade—and to soothe him with a rub he'd never been given before.
He blinked away the electricity that stunned his veins and instead allowed that burning current to bring heat to his body—to soften his cheeks with tinted blush—to open the valves his lungs desperately sought so that he, for once in his life, could be emotional in the way he needed.
"It's okay to cry, Rueben," Rayne murmured, "No one is judging you."
The utter astonishment from her coolly collected voice continued to spread through his limbs—around his navel, down to the tips of his toes, through the carbon dioxide escaping his lips.
And if he thought that was surprising on its own, then he had no preparation for her next move. Without a word, Rayne stepped to his side, wrapping both of her arms around his neck, embracing him crookedly, but embracing him, nevertheless.
Her frame against his sent his mind into a frenzy.
Nothing ever felt more fitting than this—made more sense.
But he didn't reciprocate, unsure if that was the right move.
"It'll be okay," she persisted, "I'm here for you."
Rayne had no reason to be here with him, reassuring him, when he and his family had done nothing but slowly ruin her life. And that fact was enough to shatter his resolve.
Rueben turned to the side, slipping like butter around her extremities, and hugged her properly. A sharp exhale engulfed his ears as he squeezed her tight, but something told him not to let go. That she didn't want that—that her noise was a misrepresentation of her feelings.
And when she didn't pull away, he knew he was correct.
More so when she initiated the conversation.
"I know this is strange of us, of me, but when I broke down in your house today, you were quick to comfort me. Without having to be asked, you helped me in my moment of weakness, so let me return the favor to you. You can hug me for as long as you need."
Rueben hesitated.
He'd never let anyone in—so why should he start with her? Why should he share this day of mourning with a complete stranger—one who just happened to share the face of his former best friend?
And it dawned on him that this was exactly what he needed.
A stranger who couldn't relate to him.
A stranger that didn't share his loss.
Rueben's façade crashed to the ground faster than he could hope to catch it. His fingers curled over the backside of Rayne's sweater, and he buried his head in her shoulder, taking her in and breaking apart all in the same breath.
Every ounce of pain, every memory, every image of his sister came to a screeching halt in his head. It was as if they were trapped in a car going one hundred and twenty miles per hour and the brakes weren't working. Like someone pressed pause on a tape only to grab it and rip the film to shreds.
That was how it felt—to think of her—to see her in his mind—because she was never going to come back. He was his sister's keeper, and he could even protect her correctly.
"You don't have to talk right now, but do you think you could listen?" Rayne asked.
Rueben merely nodded, still focused on the projection screen of anguish inside his mind.
"From birth, we are wired to search for something. The ability to walk, to chew, to run, to laugh, to be free. We are taught from a young age that if we want to see something, or feel something, we can make it happen with a little bit of effort. And when something as permanent as loss occurs, we lose our ability to have what we want. We lose pieces of ourselves in others."
Rayne sighed.
"—I'm not exactly sure what I'm getting at, but if how you feel is anything like how I felt when I lost Matteo, then at least I'm on the right track. When we're confused, or lost, or hurt, we tend to isolate ourselves. We shut every other piece of ourselves out because we're missing just this one part. And that's wrong. It's not healthy."
"Are you saying I shouldn't mourn my sister?"
"No, God, no!" she scrambled over her words, "I'm just trying to say that while I'll never understand your pain, you still have more pieces left over. And those pieces need to focus on finding justice, on seeking an explanation for what happened to Lilliana. I know you want to give up, I know you want to stop the search, but you can't. Lilliana is gone, but her story isn't finished. Her life isn't over until she can rest."
Rueben's breath hitched.
Her words and advice were all over the place, but they somehow made sense. If he were to give up now and wallow in his sadness, then the case would never be solved. He would be tossed behind bars, and his sister's killer would still roam the Earth as if he or she had never committed the crime.
The idea of it—it ignited something he thought he'd lost a long time ago.
Hope.
It took almost four years to break him—
—and only two days for Rayne to put him back together.
—-
(song of the chapter: what they'll say about us - finneas)