Page 22

twenty

Dead Eyes and Sad Goodbyes

Silas

" I was always going to win, Noah," Tate says. "You should have known better."

"Noah! He doesn't—"

I don't finish the sentence before she leaves.

"What is wrong with you? What are you doing?"

Tate shrugs. "What do you mean? I'm just being honest with her."

"Tate, you can't…"

"Can't what?" he challenges.

You can't do this to me again. I'm not exactly sure if I can say that—if it'll make things better or worse, so I don't.

Eggshells. It's always eggshells when it comes to Tate and Noah. I know she hurt him, but I know he loves her, too, and he's lying. Hasn't he hurt her back enough?

He looks away, unaffected, and pours whiskey into a dirty coffee mug while absentmindedly scratching at the stab wound on his shoulder. Like he really doesn't give a fuck.

"We can't leave her. You don't really want to leave her."

He turns, looking me dead in the eye. "Yeah, I do."

I jump off the bed and chase after her, shooting Tate a glare over my shoulder, but he shrugs it off like it's nothing. I catch up to her before she rounds the front of the building.

"Hey, wait a second," I say, grabbing her by the arm. It's not so much that she stops for me as it is that she gives up. And that's what I hear in her tone—resignation, like she's given up.

I back her into the side of the building, placing my hands on her shoulders, and find her eyes in the dark. "He doesn't mean it," I tell her.

She sighs, her eyes welling with tears. "Yes, he does, Silas."

"Come back inside. We'll talk, okay?"

"I'm not going back in there. I never want to see him again. I'm not letting him do this to me ever again."

"I'll talk to him. I'll tell him it's too much, and he'll…he'll tell you he doesn't mean it."

"Silas…" she says, shaking her head. "You're wrong."

"No, I'm not. Just stay here. Just for a minute, okay? Maybe five minutes. Don't leave." I take off my hoodie and pull it over her head, knowing she must be cold in a t-shirt, and rub my hands up and down her arms to warm her. "Promise you'll stay right here."

"It won't…"

"It's that, or I drag you back inside."

She wipes her own eyes with the heels of her hands. "Okay, Silas."

"Okay." I lean in and kiss her lips. "Thank you. Don't move, okay? "

Nervously, I leave her there, glancing over my shoulder before I step inside the room, attempting to gauge whether she's just going to leave when I close the door.

But she looks at me like she'll stay, and I know where to find her; I copied her house key. That makes me feel a bit better about pulling the door closed behind me.

"Tate…" I say cautiously.

He sighs, rolling his eyes. "What? Can it wait for a commercial?"

I remember when we were on television. On every news station in every shitty motel. We didn't pay unless we had to; we mostly broke in or swiped key cards from cleaning carts, and no one noticed. They'd put our pictures up and call us psychopaths. They never talked about Mia or what happened to her, and if she was mentioned, it was only briefly and inconsequential, because you can't speak ill of the slaughtered, and so the people we slaughtered became saints.

We got to be psychopaths. It never bothered Tate, but it bothered me. I can't quite put my finger on why—it's just a word, after all, a spectrum of human behavior even. But it did, and I don't think I've ever googled a word as much as I did that one. I don't feel like a psychopath. I feel empathy. I know I love Tate. I love Noah, and I love my mom.

But she used the word once, too. When I broke that kid's arm in high school, she asked, "Are you a psychopath?"

And not out of anger, it was a genuine question that genuinely shook me to my core. So, I don't know. Maybe that's why I hate it so much. Because I thought I was a good son, and so she should know that I wasn't and that I loved her .

There was a lot of talk about Tate's eyes, too. They said he had dead eyes, but it was just that damn picture they chose. Nothing has ever looked more alive to me than Tate's hazel eyes. They're like the forest we grew up in—shades of dark green and deep browns and definitely alive.

They look dead right now.

"You have to apologize to her."

"Why? I didn't do anything; I just told her the truth."

"But it's not the fucking truth!"

"Why do you think I brought you here, Silas? You're the smartest person I know, so surely, you didn't think we were just here for money and guns that we could have gotten somewhere else."

"No, I didn't. I thought we were here because you missed Noah. Because we both missed her, and we're supposed to be together." I sit at the foot of the bed, and again, he just looks annoyed because I'm blocking his view of the television. "Because she's our phantom limb, and we can't live without her when we can still feel her. You said that."

"I said it was hard when I don't know where she is or what she's doing, but that won't be true for long."

"You said you weren't going to kill her."

"I'm not going to kill her," he says. "She's going to prison for the rest of her life."

"What do you mean?"

He shrugs. "Well, it won't be long before they find out that missing finger didn't come from a packing facility and that it belongs to a missing hiker instead. After that, they'll find his blood in her locker, in her apartment and on some of her clothing. They'll find the rest of the arm in the dumpster behind the café. And then, they'll find out who she really is, and that will seal the deal. I won't have to worry about Noah anymore. I won't have to worry about where she is or what she's doing, because I'll always know where she is."

I sit there, dumbfounded. He's kidding, right? The finger and the other things—they were just tests to see if she was still loyal and if she was still our same lost girl, and she passed . So why is he doing this?

"You can't," I say, jumping up. I pace in front of the bed, my hands on either side of my head. "You're fucking with me, right? You can't do this."

"It's already done," Tate says. "I mean, unless the police here are complete fuck ups. I couldn't take it back if I wanted to."

"But I got her a passport. I—"

I did it a while ago. I planned this life for the three of us in my head, just in case. And it was a good one—one that was peaceful, purposeful, and worth waking up and living.

It was fate.

"Well, I didn't ask you to do that. Actually, I think it's a little fucked up."

"You think that's a little fucked up?"

Tate scoffs. "Don't do that. Don't act like you're not a fucking murderer, Silas. Don't act like you haven't always known who I am, either."

"I promised her we wouldn't leave her. I told her she wouldn't have to be alone anymore."

"Yeah, well, you should have fucking checked with me first."

"You love her! I saw you with her all week. "

"I needed her complacent so she wouldn't try to run, or this wouldn't work."

"Tate!"

"What!?" he shouts back. "This solves my problem, and you have lived the vast majority of more than two years without her. You don't need her. We don't need her. She's untrustworthy, and she's a liar. Noah ran away from you when you went to buy her snacks, Silas. She ghosted you after a decade of friendship, and you spiraled into a months-long depression and an even more self-destructive behavior pattern than usual. And where was she?"

"She left because of you ."

Tate ignores me, continuing. "She let her friends literally torture my sister to death and didn't even bother to go to her funeral…or my mother's. If you took the time to think about it, you'd probably realize you don't even love her; you just love the idea of her and a time when everything was a lot more simple."

"You know what? I think that's what you try to tell yourself. But you're wrong."

"Wow. That's deep. You should write one of your fucking poems about it."

"Fuck you, Tate."

I rifle through my backpack, and he jumps from the bed. "Hey…" he says, crossing the room and placing his hands on my shoulders before turning me to face him. His tone is gentle again, sweet even. His eyes have come back to life, and I wonder if they're real or not, too, or if it's always just been something he can turn on and off. "Look at me." His hands slide down my arms and take hold of my own. "We don't need her. We ha ven't needed her. And this will be fine—it'll be better than not knowing; you'll see. You'll always know where she is, and I bet the trial will even be on TV. She'll be safe."

"Prison isn't safe, Tate. She'll be miserable…and scared and alone. She isn't…" Isn't what? A psychopath? Isn't like us? "She's not even a killer."

"Yeah, tell that to the gash in my fucking shoulder."

"That's not fucking funny," I say, shrugging him off. I go back to digging through my bag; I know it's in here somewhere…unless he found it.

"I'm not trying to be funny!"

If he found it…if he knew what I wanted and what I was planning for and he still did this to her and to me, then I don't know what I'll do. I love him, but…

"It's too much, Tate. It's too far. You've done enough to her." My hand closes around the passport and driver's license, and I exhale a sigh of relief. "And she loves you."

"Well, that's her mistake. It's not my fault she's so fucked in the head that she doesn't know what love looks like."

"Yes, it is, Tate," I throw back before storming toward the door.

"Hey! Where are you going?" Tate calls after me. "Silas, I do love you . You know I love you. I would never hurt you."

I pause with my hand on the doorknob. Red seeps into my peripheral vision, and I take a moment to squeeze my eyes shut and breathe. It isn't the first or second time rage has crept up on me like this, and I know if I don't get it in check now, I'm going to fucking lose it, and I won't be able to reel it back in until it's too late .

I can't do that with Tate. I can't do that with Noah, either.

One more deep breath before it recedes, and I push the door open.

She's still there. I don't see her at first; she's in the same place like she promised, but she slid down the wall and now sits on the sidewalk in my hoodie, hugging her knees to her chest.

Noah isn't my Sydney; she's my Eurydice. I guess this is what we both get for looking back.

Maybe she knows me well enough that she sees in my eyes, even through the darkness, that something is wrong. We've always communicated well in silence. Or maybe it's that I come back alone, and there's only one reason I'd be doing that.

"Noah…I…"

She looks away and drops her head to her knees. I sit beside her and wrap my arm around her.

Tate steps out, peeks around the corner at us, and then just goes back inside without saying a word.

"Noah, I'm so sorry. I have to tell you something, and you're not going to like it."

"Yeah, I know," she says.

"I don't think you do."

"He doesn't love me back," she says. "He doesn't want me, and I'm going to be alone again, aren't I?"

I can't even say it. I can't bring myself to tell her I lied to her. I lie all the fucking time. I'm good at it, too; I always thought it was funny. I mean, fuck, my entire existence depends on lies now.

But I've never lied to Noah .

"I think he does love you, Noah," I tell her, but I'm less certain than I was a few minutes ago. "But he's not good for you anymore. He's too…" Stubborn no longer feels like the right word. Selfish doesn't quite fit, either. Is there a word for someone who would gladly burn everything they care about to the ground and tear themself apart in the process just so they can say they were right until they die?

Maybe it's that other word—the one I hate.

"He did something to you." Noah looks up, but says nothing. She just looks at me and waits. "You remember the finger?"

She nods, and I continue. I tell her about the man we killed in the woods, and that Tate framed her for his murder. I wait for her to freak out—to scream or cry, to punch me in the face or storm back into the room and try to stab Tate with something else, but she doesn't. All the color drains from her face, and she just sits there. When I finish talking, she looks away from me, her vacant stare fixed on the forest in the distance.

"But…you'll be okay," I tell her. I hand her the plastic bag with the new IDs I made for her. "You can take these and leave tonight before they can get to you, and you'll be fine."

"How?" she asks, her dull tone barely above a whisper. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Just do whatever you did before."

"You don't want to go with me."

It's a statement, not a question.

"It's not that I don't want to be with you. I love you. You know I love you." She scoffs, but I continue. "Noah, if I went with you, he wouldn't leave you alone. And he needs me more. You and I…we're good alone. He's not—he'll get himself killed. He'd get us all caught."

She drops her head to her knees and sniffles, and it tears me apart. "You're wrong. I'm not good alone. I need you."

"You did good here. You can go somewhere else, and with those IDs, you'll be able to get a job and a bank account. You can find someone nice, like that guy from the car repair shop or that girl from the café, and be happy."

"But I'll have to lie to them."

"That doesn't matter, Noah. You could have a normal life. You could be a mom if you wanted."

"I can't do any of those things. I don't even think I want to try."

"Yes, you can. Here." There's a pen in the bag I gave her; I remove it, take her by the hand, and then I push the sleeve of the hoodie to her elbow and begin writing. "When you get to a good spot, send an email to this address. Use the name on the ID, and I'll know that it's you. I'll send you enough money to get you through for a while, and he won't even know. But you need to leave tonight, okay? Go home, pack a bag, and get the fuck out of here. Don't take your phone."

Still, she says nothing. She doesn't move. Did she not hear me? She has to move.

"Come on," I say, pulling her to her feet. The bag with the IDs in it falls to the ground, and I bend down, pick it up, and stuff it into the front pocket of the hoodie. "Do you want me to drive you home?"

"No, I'm fine," she says. "I'll just go. "

Noah turns to leave, and I stop her. "Well, wait," I say, pulling her into my chest. She doesn't hug me back, her arms hanging limp and heavy at her sides, but that's okay. I don't really blame her.

"I love you, Silas," she says.

"I love you, too. I'm so sorry, Noah. He'll leave you alone this time. I promise."

She pulls away as I kiss the top of her head, my own eyes watering.

"Tell Tate that…" She trails off, and then says, "Never mind. It doesn't matter."

I watch her walk away, fighting the urge to chase after her and make it worse. She moves so slowly—maybe it's just in my head because I'm panicking, but it's like she has to talk herself into taking each step before she can do it.

Once she disappears around the front of the building, turning toward home, I head back inside.

"You told her, didn't you?" Tate asks. "You're a fucking—"

"Don't talk to me right now. Just get your shit—we're leaving."

"What if she goes home and calls the police? Did you think about that?"

"She loves us. I'm not sure why anymore, but she does. She's not going to call the police."

"Silas—"

"No. We're leaving, or I'm leaving, Tate. I'm not going to let you go after her again. Maybe she'll get away, maybe your stupid fucking plan will still work, but she's going to get her head start. You hurt me, and you fucking owe me that."

"Fine," he says. "There's no public transit here; there are no planes, trains, or bus stops. I don't really like her odds for a head start, and she might call the police. We can leave after I shower; I don't want to have to smell her on me the whole way there." He nods toward the door. "You coming?"

"You're fucking kidding me, right? No."

"Fine."

Tate closes the door, and I toss the keys onto the table, sit at the edge of the bed, and lie back. After the water turns on, the door opens again.

"How did she take it?" he asks.

"You'll be disappointed. She just kind of sat there, like I'd just told her the fucking grass was green. I don't even think she was surprised."

"Hmm. Okay."

Tate closes the door again, and I turn off the stupid fucking television and just lie here, staring at the ceiling. I take out my phone a couple of times, barely resisting the urge to text her and ask if she made it home okay.

Like it would matter. Like it wouldn't just make it worse.

It's over—again. She's gone.