Beside

69 - coda

ｃｈｒｉｓ

It's September 24th.

It's not that this day is significant, but there are pumpkins outside the Chemistry building today, squat against the grey stone steps. Someone lined up little pieces of the cheer to fight the chill.

And there are crunchy leaves under my boots! Boots I bought with my own money from the job I adore. Boots I bought at the mall while the man I love sat on a bench and rated my outfits, stress-eating sour keys.

Turns out med school is hard and Fox Weber, the smartest, most handsome, most understanding person I know, can unravel over human anatomy diagrams and midterms.

But I'm learning he can also knit himself back together. And he lets me help. We're not afraid of the threads anymore, no matter how tangled they get.

I pull my cardigan tighter as the wind picks up, swirling leaves into a burnt-gold tornado that dances around the quad.

But right now, Fox is either studying again, or better yet, sleeping. So I'm on my own. And that's all right.

I love chem lab days, anyway.

ᖴO᙭

It's October 6th.

I lean back against the wall outside Skyfall, wrecked from a jump rope session with Cam. I didn't know skipping was so hard but she says it's good stress relief. 

Med school's a circus. They keep throwing rings for me to jump through. My brain is a tightly wound clock, ticking away until my next lecture, next exam, next mountain of flashcards. Chris tells me I need to breathe more, try some yoga with her on Sundays.

Chris is the reason I haven't snapped. The reason I wake up, even when I'm face-planted in a library textbook with three hours of sleep. She looks at me, and I feel like it'll be okay.

I'm catching my breath when a tall guy steps forward, a dark jean jacket slung over a shoulder. Shaggy brown hair and a silver nose ring.

"Your sister's out back. Just thought you should know."

I blink. "Who the hell are you?"

He sighs, exasperated like I'm the problem. "I work here. You've met me four times."

I squint, trying to place him. Nothing. "Why do you know my sister?"

He shrugs. "I went to Hillard High."

That's the school Gwen went to. I look him over again—eighteen, maybe nineteen. Probably still sleeps with a binky under his pillow.

Before I can respond, he turns and starts walking.

"Wait—" but he's already disappearing around the corner.

I follow, my heart thumping in a way that feels both hopeful and stupid.

The last time we tried to see Gwen, Faro and I showed up at Whispering Pines only to find her gone. Discharge papers and a voicemail: "I'm fine. See you... whenever." And that was a month ago.

It hurt. But it was something.

Now she's... here.

We round the corner, and holy shit. Yeah, she's here.

She's leaning against a sleek Honda Nighthawk like it's a throne. Black leather jacket, long pale hair spilling around her face, and a cigarette dangling from her fingers. The scars on her hand are exposed, curling over her knuckles, and trailing under her jacket up to her jaw and neck.