Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Finn sighs sadly, running a reassuring hand down my arm. “Losing a child would be hell,” he says, pain etched on every feature. “They were going through hell.” But then he squeezes my arm. “But you were, too, losing your sister.”
I get why they acted the way they did. “We all blamed each other. I blamed myself. I even told them as much,” I admit, inching closer to that terrible day in therapy when I told them.
“Why would you blame yourself?” Finn asks with a furrowed brow, like that’s the craziest notion.
“I taught her how to sneak out,” I say, impressing it on him, even though I just said it. I just admitted it. “And I should have gone. But I stayed home for a dumb reason. To text my college friends. I was sitting there on my bed with my phone and reminding Willa what window to escape through. Then I told her to come back in through my room using the door that wasn’t on camera because it was farthest away from Dad’s,” I say, both choked up and mad at myself all over again. “And while I was texting about meaningless stuff, my sister got drunk, jumped into a pool, hit her head on the side of it, and drowned.” I sound dead when I say that last part because a part of me died that night. “She was my best friend. The person I was closest to in the entire world.” I take a deep breath, and I push on. “And it was my fault.”
Finn’s jaw comes unhinged. His eyes darken with anger. “It was not your fault. Who told you that?”
I purse my lips together. I don’t know if I can say it.
But Finn isn’t done. “None of that was your fault. It was terrible and it was tragic but it was not—”
“I taught her to sneak out.” I say it again so he gets it. “I was the older sister. I should have been responsible. If she hadn’t snuck out, she’d still be here.” Doesn’t he get it?
He breathes out hard. Grips my shoulders. “No.”
That’s all. A firm, clear no.
My eyes sting with tears.
“No, Jules. It’s not your fault,” he goes on, biting out each word. “You have to know that. It’s not your fault.”
“But if I hadn’t taught her that, she’d be here—” I insist, but more tears fall, sobs stopping my words.
His eyes flood with concern and rage. “Who told you that?” He asks again, this time more urgent. “Who made you believe this?”
I close my eyes. My throat is too tight. My head hurts too much. I don’t want to say it, but I’m tired of not saying it. “My father,” I say, barely audible as I give voice to the hurt I’ve carried for years.
“What?” Finn hisses, like I can’t have just said that.
But I can and I did. I said the thing I’ve told no one. I take a huge breath and meet his intense gaze. “We were in therapy a few months afterward, and I told my parents that I’d taught her. They said it wasn’t my fault. But the next day we went to visit her grave, my dad and me, and he was a mess, but he said, ‘If you hadn’t taught her to sneak out, she’d still be here.’”
Finn’s eyes flicker with shock. For a few long seconds, he’s simply speechless. “Fucking Tate,” he mutters, then he blows out an angry breath and shakes his head vehemently. “He’s wrong. He’s just wrong. Things happen. Life happens. Your sister made a choice, and it was tragic. But you didn’t push her. You didn’t make her drink. And you should never have to carry that with you.”
Finn lets go of my shoulders so he can cup my cheeks instead as he implores me: “Promise me, just promise me you won’t carry that guilt with you anymore. I’m sorry about the loss of your sister. I’m sorry that she’s not here. I wish you had your best friend. But it’s not your fault. Not at all. Not one bit.”
Could he be right?
I replay Finn’s words, trying to hear the story through his ears, trying to see that day through a new lens.
“You’ve been telling yourself that for years?” he asks.
“Yes,” I admit.
He half looks like he wants to punch the wall like he did the night at the Albrecht Mansion when he learned who I was, and he half looks like he wants to hold me in his arms forever. “Jules. My sweet, wounded, wonderful Jules. If it had been reversed, would you have wanted Willa to punish herself like that?”
My head swims with that unexpected question. One I’ve never contemplated till today. But one I know the answer to deep inside myself. “No, I wouldn’t.”
And saying that, something in me lifts. It rises from my heart, and maybe, just maybe, floats away into the summer breeze, carried on the scent of roses.