You & Me at the End of the World

by Brianna Bourne

  She squeaks to a stop two feet away from me.

  I smile pathetically. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” I say, going for a charming grin, but it falters. She’s not fooled. “Okay, fine. I got impatient.”

  Something passes between us, some electric excitement—she’s really awake, yes I know, isn’t it wonderful, I can’t believe it—and then Astrid’s face sort of … twitches.

  “What?” I ask, suddenly alert.

  “What what?”

  “What was that … twitchy look for?”

  “What twitchy look?” she says, feigning ignorance.

  “Astrid.”

  She slumps, leaning against the wall, mirroring my posture. “Um.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Bracing myself. “Astrid. Is she okay?”

  “She’s good, she’s really good—it’s not that. God, I’m so sorry, Leo. It’s just—she doesn’t remember the accident. She doesn’t remember you.”

  My chest caves in. The world is falling apart around me. My ears white out, all the sound sucked out of the world, and I’m glad I’m leaning against the wall, because it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

  “What?” I hear myself whispering it stupidly. How can she not remember?

  “I’m so sorry,” Astrid says. “God, something really amazing must have happened at that coffee shop.”

  I nod. Because that’s not the truth, but it’s close enough to it. Something amazing did happen, somewhere. Maybe.

  No.

  No, no, no.

  It’s devastation and discordant feedback and broken guitar strings and everything bad in the world. Because I’m in love with a girl who doesn’t even know me.

  I’m flooded with an overwhelming urge to just see her. I don’t even know what I’ll do. I just need to see her. I need to look her in the eye and make sure that she really doesn’t remember.

  “Can I see her?” I ask.

  Astrid’s eyes swim with pity. She glances at Hannah’s open doorway, back to my face, over and over, thinking. “Um, ugh. You clearly like her so much. This sucks.” She bites her lip.

  “Please let me see her, Astrid. Are her parents here? Should I ask them?”

  “They’ve gone to deal with some insurance issue.” Astrid chews on her thumbnail. “Maybe if she sees you, it’ll help?”

  I nod again, afraid to get in the way of this girl’s decision-making process, but my eyes are beaming, Yes, let me see her, please, I have to see her.

  “Okay, chuck,” she finally says, nodding. “But only because you’re a ridiculously romantic asshole. Let’s get this done before someone comes back to run more tests on her.”

  My stomach somersaults with the victory, but then I’m hit with a crashing, numbing, all-consuming fear.

  I’m not ready for this.

  Before I can wipe that look off my face, Astrid drags me into Hannah’s room.

  Astrid’s just gone to get me another pillow. The one propping up the stupid cast on my arm has already been smashed into a pancake.

  Without her or my parents in the room, I start to freak out again. About the audition on Saturday that I’m going to have to miss. About my broken arm. About the uncertainty of everything.

  I’ve only been awake for an hour, and I’ve been on the edge of tears for every minute of it. It’s all too much to wrap my head around. It’s unbelievable how one small thing—one slender bone breaking—has the power to tear my neat career plans to shreds. When I think about my future now, all I can see is uncertainty and emptiness. I know I should feel lucky that I’m not more seriously injured, but every time I look down and see the cast I start to hyperventilate.

  I’m trying to figure out if I’m about to throw up or burst into tears when Astrid comes marching back into my room. I’m about to say, That was fast—but then I see the person she’s dragging behind her.

  It’s Leo Sterling.

  He’s the very last person I expected to see in my hospital room one hour after waking up. I reflexively tug my sheet to make sure I’m covered. I don’t want some random guy from school seeing me like this.

  Has he come to apologize or something? I know he was driving, even though I don’t actually remember being in a car with him. Besides, everyone keeps saying it was caused by a traffic light failure, so he doesn’t have anything to apologize for.

  But he doesn’t say anything at all. He just stares down at the floor by my feet, his face stricken and panicked.

  Well, this is awkward.

  I’m about to ask Astrid why she brought him in here when he finally raises his head. Our eyes lock and then—

  Oh—

  In the space of one heartbeat, my entire world collapses, then rebuilds itself into something new.

  Because it’s Leo.

  I clap my hand over my mouth to stifle a delirious laugh. Or maybe it’s a sob, or a shout, or every emotion in the world rolled into one. All the moments we spent together come rushing back to me, in a kaleidoscope of images and feelings and memories.

  Wait.

  How do I have all these memories of us? My mind runs up against a huge wall of WTF. This is impossible. We were together in what … a dream? While I was here in the hospital? That’s ridiculous.

  The last thing I remember is finding Starburst in my living room and walking out into my backyard. I was so sure I was dying. But now I’m here. It makes no sense.

  Leo shifts his weight onto one foot and sinks down onto his hip like he did so many times in the empty Houston. He gives me a small smile, and I don’t care that it doesn’t make sense, because I just know that it was all true. That it was all real, somehow.

  “Hi, Hannah,” Leo says, softly, almost nervously, shoving his hands into the pockets of his unfairly tight jeans. He’s wearing the same gray shirt that he was wearing when we met in the bookstore.

  “Hi,” I whisper.

  “Bloody hell,” Astrid says, breathy and mystified. “Did it actually work? Do you really remember him now?”

  I nod, too blissed out to speak. I remember everything, and I can’t take my eyes off him.

  Astrid squeals in delight. “Well, get over there, then,” she says, nudging Leo toward my bed.

  He comes to sit on the edge of my mattress. We stare at each other for a moment, and then—then I just throw myself at him, and he crushes forward too, and we’re colliding with an impact that’s almost painful, but I don’t care. I’m half in his lap and his chest is solid and huge and he’s all I can see. We’re pressing and wrapping and squeezing, so tight I can’t imagine ever being able to peel ourselves apart.

  I thought I’d never see him again.

  I bury my face in his neck, throat thick and close to tears. God, he smells the same.

  I’m glowing with one single, ultra-clear thought: I never want to let go of him. I never want to be without him again. When he left me on that stage—

  My grip on him gets even tighter. My cast is probably hurting him, scratching against his neck, but I don’t care.

  We stay like that for a long time, and then we’re rocking back and forth with the relief of it, and then we’re finally loosening our grip on each other. The heat of it gets uncomfortable, but I still don’t let go until I remember that Astrid’s here.

  We draw apart at last, but Leo doesn’t go far. He presses his forehead to mine, and I breathe him in.

  “Thank fuck,” Leo says softly. “I was so worried you wouldn’t remember.”

  But I do. Because of him, I have a whole handful of sea-glass-beautiful moments from the empty city. Speeding downtown to get to SpandexFest. Leo strumming his guitar on the dock. Lying next to him under a painted sky. Pressing napkins to his stomach and struggling to keep my eyes off his happy trail.

  I flush hot with embarrassment. Out of all the memories of our days together, did my brain really have to snag on that one?

  Leo raises an eyebrow at the color rising on my cheeks. He chuckles. “Mmm. You really do remember.”

/>   From somewhere outside our little bubble, Astrid cheers. “Ooh, girl! As soon as we are alone, you are telling me this whole steamy story.”

  I turn even redder, dropping my head to Leo’s chest to hide my face.

  He flinches. I know him well enough to know it’s not him flinching from me. It’s a … pain flinch?

  Oh no. He was driving—he must have been hurt too. My lungs constrict as my eyes rove over him, checking for injuries.

  “I’m okay,” he says, like he can read my mind. “Just some bruising on my ribs and a bump on the head. Knocked me out for eighteen hours, though.”

  We have a whole conversation with our eyes. I have so many questions for him. Where were we? When were we? He shakes his head and gives a little shrug. He doesn’t have the answers, and we can’t talk about this in front of Astrid anyway. She must think we met the night of the wreck and spent like an hour together. We’ll have to get our stories straight later, about how we know so much about each other, how it feels like we’ve been to the end of the world and back again together.

  Leo finds my hand, weaving his fingers through mine. Everywhere he touches, I light up with heat. That reminds me: We haven’t even kissed yet. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it.

  “Crap,” I blurt suddenly. “I have to go for a CT scan.”

  Something flashes over Leo’s face—he’s reining something in, and whatever it was is replaced with worry. I’m worried too.

  “That’s okay,” he says. “I should probably get back to my room anyway.”

  I grab his hand. Don’t leave me, I want to plead.

  He must understand, because he squeezes my hand, says, “Hey, my room’s right down the hall, okay?”

  I swallow.

  He leans in, mouth close to my ear, and it feels like he presses the tiniest of kisses to my hair.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs, and the vibrations of his voice skitter down my spine even as the words soothe me.

  Of course, that’s the moment my nurse chooses to bustle in with a wheelchair, chirpily asking if I’m all ready to go down to diagnostic imaging.

  Leo’s lips are still hovering near my temple, and he mumbles crankily against my skin, “You know, all these interruptions are making that empty city look pretty attractive.”

  The nurse helps me into the wheelchair, even though I don’t really need it to walk. It must just be procedure. Leo stands and moves away from the bed, and it’s almost physically painful when the distance between us grows. I want him with me. All the time.

  “Can I tag along?” Leo asks suddenly.

  “Sorry, sweetie, only family.” She adjusts the pancake pillow supporting my cast. “Hannah, your parents should be finishing up with that paperwork soon, so your mom will be with us for the scan, okay?”

  Sure enough, my parents appear in the doorway a few seconds later. I watch, dumbfounded, as their eyes light up when they see Leo.

  He crosses the room to say hi, and I look at Astrid with wide, disbelieving eyes, like What sorcery is this? She just laughs.

  “Okay, Mom, Hannah, everyone ready?” the nurse asks, pointing my wheelchair toward the door.

  I want to say no. My eyes stay glued on Leo. I want him to come with me and hold my hand the whole time.

  I’m so afraid he’ll disappear.

  “Come back later?” I say, sounding small and silly. It’s only a fraction of what I want to say. That if I had to choose between having all this with no Leo and having just him in an empty city, I know what I’d choose. I can’t say that, of course—my parents are here. He understands me, though, all the words behind my words.

  He levels his gaze.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Hannah.”

  I end up falling asleep right after the CT scan. I wake to find the Houston sun slanting orange through the windows, pouring over my sheets like fire.

  I feel weirdly refreshed.

  Leo’s right down the hall, I think, smiling. I’m high on the knowledge that we’re both here. We’re with our families again, and Houston’s back to normal. We weren’t dead after all. We never were.

  The way he hugged me, and smiled at me, and told me he’d come back later to check on me … it’s just everything.

  Not long after I wake up, a nurse comes in to take my IV out. My mom helps me shower, holding my cast outside the shower curtain.

  Back in my room, I can’t seem to wipe away the smile tucked in the corner of my mouth. I get to see Leo again. Today, and tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that.

  My mom starts combing through my wet hair, and I tumble into a daydream about writing, about being loose and free and creative. This morning, I could only see a blank page where my life was supposed to be, just the tattered remains of a ballet career, and now it’s all hope and plans and possibility. I’m not the cardboard-cutout ballerina I was when I found Leo in the music store.

  My dad is in the corner, tapping on his work phone. Astrid had to go home to get some homework done for school tomorrow, but before she left, she kissed my temple and told me how much she loved my face. She keeps texting me, trying to pry out juicy details about my Saturday night with Leo, and nearly every one has me dissolving into giggles.

  I won’t even need to be in the hospital for much longer. They’re keeping me here to make sure I don’t have a latent brain bleed, but I feel fine. The nurses are still buzzing about it, how they had two coma recoveries in a row after years of passing patients to long-term care homes to sleep their lives away.

  “Hey, I have some good news,” my mom says, deftly braiding my hair. “I called Madame Menard while you were napping.”

  A little jolt of alarm skitters through me. Madame Menard is the head of my ballet academy.

  “She was happy to hear that you’re awake and doing so well.”

  “Oh. Okay. Good,” I say woodenly. Where is this going? I suddenly feel like something very, very bad is about to happen.

  “So, I asked her what our options were,” Mom continues, excitement building in her voice. “About the audition on Saturday. You’ve been working so hard for it, Hannah. So … she’s going to pull some strings and see if we can send performance tapes and recommendation letters in as your audition material, instead of being there in person! Isn’t that fantastic?”

  “Wait … so, like, there’s a chance I could still join the corps de ballet?” I ask cautiously.

  “If they’re impressed with your videos, which of course they will be.”

  “But my arm …” I trail off. A video might be fine for the audition, but what about when I show up to a rehearsal and can’t move my freakin’ arm? It’s hardly the way to start a career.

  Mom’s voice takes on a reassuring hum. “You’re really doing so well, Hannah. All the doctors keep saying so. Your arm should heal just fine.”

  There’s so much bright hope on her face, but my stomach is sinking, sinking, sinking.

  “The doctor said to rest for a couple of weeks, but after that you can start doing lower-body work, and we’ll get you back up and running before you know it. It’s a good thing it wasn’t your leg.”

  My eyes start to sting.

  This feels wrong.

  If she’d said all this yesterday when I woke up, when I was freaking out about my future as a dancer, I would have been grateful. I would have been so happy to hear it. Soothed, reassured.

  But I don’t feel that way anymore.

  Now it feels like all my possibilities are being yanked away.

  I stare down at my hospital blanket, tugging on the threads until there’s a hole. I think about the way I feel when I write, when the words are filtering through my fingers like sand. I think about painting skies and writing songs with Leo and inventing whole daydreams for us. I think about the way I felt when I came up with a backstory for Lonely Girl in the museum—JoyPuke.

  I never felt like that with dance.

  I realize I don’t want to retrain. I don’t wan
t to do weeks and weeks of rehab to get back to where I was. I don’t want to show up on the first day as a member of a huge ballet company with a neon-green cast on my arm.

  I don’t want to dance anymore.

  I said that in the empty Houston too, albeit for slightly different reasons. There, it was because dance wasn’t working. It wasn’t helping me forget Leo. It wasn’t helping me forget that I was alone.

  Here in the real world, I don’t have to lean on dancing as a crutch or a coping mechanism.

  But it’s still the choice I made when I thought it was the end, when I was floating in my moonlit backyard as the darkness closed in on me. It’s bone-deep.

  I can be whatever I want to be now. And I don’t want to be Ballet Chick anymore.

  I don’t want to be a dancer.

  Mom smooths my hair back away from my face. “Hannah? Are you all right? You’ve gone so pale. You know I’m going to be beside you every step of the way, right? We can do this, okay? I know—let’s think about what videos we can use.”

  I open my mouth—almost entertaining the idea of answering her question, of tonelessly listing my best performances.

  I could go on pretending ballet is something I want to do. I could keep pretending that I’m still the Hannah I was before the accident.

  But I’m not.

  And it’s time I started taking steps toward becoming the Hannah I caught glimpses of in the empty city.

  My mom looks at me, her elegant neck craning, her eyes sparkling. I have to tell her now. The longer I wait, the worse it will get. She’ll send a video off to the Academy, and there will be no turning back. I can just see myself trying to please everyone, going with the flow, hoping that the passion will come eventually.

  Too bad the very idea of saying those words to her is giving me severe stomach cramps. I’m starting to sweat, and everything in my body is thudding with nervousness.

  Waiting won’t make it easier. I have to tell her.

  I have no idea how she’ll react. This is our life. This is everything we’ve been working for. She might totally flip out. My whole body feels wound tight and hypersensitive.

  “Hannah? Are you all right, sweetie?” Mom lays her hand over my forehead like she’s checking my temperature. “Should I get a doctor?” she says, suddenly alert.