Page 147

“I won’t forget when he called me a puppet.”

“I shall not forget when she called me a fowl.”

“I won’t forget him sparing with me.”

“I shall not forget her teasing me.”

“I won’t forget the swing terrace.”

“I shall not forget the glade.”

My voice broke. “I won’t forget the moment I knew him.”

His voice shook. “I shall not forget the moment I knew her.”

Our chests pressed together, my arms winding around his shoulders. “I won’t forget kissing him in a crowd.”

“I shall not forget watching her twirl amidst a bonfire. I shall not forget her love for marshmallows, a feather hat, and a pair of axes.”

“I won’t forget his love for winged creatures, his affection for the wind, his devotion to friendship. I won’t forget laughing with him.”

“Dancing with her.”

“Fighting with him.”

“Yielding with her.”

My forehead rested on his. “I won’t forget when he filled my heart.”

His arms cinched around me. “I shall not forget when she restored mine.”

My lips wobbled. “I won’t forget this.”

A ragged sigh. “Or this.”

Our mouths fused. Heads tilted, my fingers in his hair, his fingers gripping me. My lips parted under him, welcoming the slant of his mouth, the swipe of his tongue. He probed deeply, uprooting a fractured moan from the back of my throat, coaxing heat to my cheeks.

We kissed so harshly, so urgently, that my heels lifted from the ground as he held me against him. And in that kiss was one last thing we wouldn’t forget.

The moment we said good-bye.

36

Honesty

Good-bye, a sentiment that has been a riddle to my heart for years, its purpose a comfort and a cruelty.

That word. It was a click at the back of one’s throat, then a punch off the tongue, simultaneously resistant and compliant, a battle and a surrender. In bidding farewell, there was harmony and resentment, a strange entanglement of peace and misery. I wore that word like another scar, or perhaps like many scars, my life a series of good-byes—my comrades who’d fallen, the country family that I rarely saw, the wife I couldn’t save—each a different shape and depth.

I should be used to loss by now, this sort ofgood-bye.

Sadly no, this one bled still, a fresh wound that had not yet sealed. It oozed, creating a hollow that I feared could not be filled.

Why? But I knew very well why. For this particular loss had not been involuntary.

This one had been a choice.

This one inspired a new sort of pain, a bright, self-inflicted hurt that tested my resolve. I felt it in the lame grip of my sword, the delayed reflexes of my muscles, the fledgling stance of my limbs as I blocked the jester’s attack.