The Edge of Us

by Veronica Larsen

  Grant looks past me and straightens.

  David Van Buren steps up beside me with his wife at his side, holding onto his arm. Elizabeth's face is puffy and weighed down by a thick layer of makeup.

  "Mila," David says with a thread of surprise as he observes my face. "Wow. Thank you for coming."

  He holds out a hand as though I am an old business acquaintance and not someone he'd once welcomed into his family as his future daughter-in-law.

  It's disconcerting, staring into a pair of eyes identical to Cole's and seeing layers of calculation behind them. I was never able to read David Van Buren, never really gauged what kind of man he really was.

  "I'm sorry for your loss," I say, as we shake hands.

  He nods and glances down at his wife. Elizabeth stares at me for a moment. Her face goes eerily blank, her eyes unfocused.

  "Sweetheart, you remember Mila. Mila Zelenko," David offers, but when his soft nudge doesn't yield recognition, he whispers something in her ear.

  She's slow to react, but her brows gradually lift in understanding.

  "Mila, yes. Of course, I remember," she says, rubbing at the base of her neck.

  "Elizabeth, I'm so sorry for your loss."

  My mouth goes dry because I hate those damn words. I hated them when people said them to me after my mother died, and I hate them even more now. It feels like standing over someone who's bleeding to death and telling them you hope they feel better in the morning. There are no other words. I know this. But still, I hate the ones tradition has left at my disposal.

  "Thank you," she mumbles, and her cheeks tremble as though she's attempting a smile. "Forgive me for not recognizing you, my head is…I'm just so…"

  "It's fine," I say.

  "It's been a long time," David says. "I wasn't aware you and Camille kept in touch after…everything."

  I'm spared a response as a hand rests on the small of my back. I nearly sag in relief as Cole's face appears at my side. I wrap my arms around his middle for a quick but tender embrace. He lifts a hand to my side, but his posture remains stiff.

  "Cole, I was just catching up with Mila. I hadn't realized…" He trails off, eyeing how close Cole stands beside me. "Are you here for Cole?"

  "I'm here because Camille was my friend," I say, tempering back the streak of defensiveness coming over me. "But yes, of course, I am also here for Cole—"

  "Oh," Elizabeth cuts in, glassy eyes rounding. "Are you two back together?"

  Cole and I answer at the same time.

  "Yes," I say.

  "We're not."

  Cole's answer hits me like a brick.

  Grant's brows lift in surprise before he rushes to hide his expression behind his drink again. David looks unfazed, Elizabeth lost. My lips remain parted from the word I spoke without hesitation as I catch a glimpse of Cole swallowing hard.

  I turn to stone as quiet falls over the five of us. Hadn't I been the one who didn't answer him when he asked me for a second chance? Hadn't we agreed I'd take time to think about it? And now I've blurted out an answer in front of Grant and his parents without even discussing it with him first. I'm sure he didn't want to assume, but the unwavering way he answered doesn't sit right with me.

  "Excuse us," David says, putting an arm around his wife again. "Good seeing you, Mila. Thank you again for coming."

  I nod and attempt a small smile as Cole's parents walk off to greet new visitors, a large group entering and upping the volume of the hushed murmurs.

  "Excuse me, too," Grant says, shifting his footing. He points his glass toward the food table across the room. "I've got to go…stand somewhere else." He clasps Cole's shoulder as he passes by, giving him a heavy pat. "Let me know if you need anything."

  Cole nods, but remains unsmiling. For the first time tonight, we turn to face each other. His hair is combed back and his face is pale. The slow churn of pain and guilt in his eyes makes my stomach hurt.

  "Hey," I say. "Have you eaten today? Are you okay?"

  I hate those words, too. It was a question I was asked over and over after I lost my mother. Regardless of the truth, there's only one way people can answer it.

  "I'm okay, Mila. Really. I'm okay."

  "Cole. Talk to me," I say, setting a hand on his chest and searching his eyes.

  It's hard, him being so distant, even though he's standing right in front of me. I'm trying to remind myself it's not about me. He's hurting, and as much as I wish he'd let me in right now, he has to do it in his own way.

  "We'll talk later," he says. "I promise."

  He leans in and presses his lips to my forehead. The move almost soothes my worries, but his posture is still stiff. And when he straightens, his thoughts remain jagged behind his gaze. A nagging sensation grows in the pit of my stomach.

  No, stop. It's not about me. It's not about us.

  He drags a hand across his lips and I spy dried paint on the beds of his nails. Dark colors, different from the ones he used the last time we were together. I take his hand in mine before he can lower it to his side.

  "You've been painting?"

  "Yeah. Went into the studio last night for a few hours."

  "Oh," I say, trying to hide my sinking disappointment.

  I've reached out to him over the past two days, even though I accepted he'd be too busy with family for us to speak much. But knowing he chose to be alone at the studio painting last night, rather than be around me hurts pretty damn badly. Am I being selfish?

  He's grieving and I know that, but all I'm trying to do is be here for him. Why won't he let me?

  FORTY-FOUR

  COLE

  I PLACE MY HANDS on either side of the podium and lift my eyes to the endless rows of somber faces and black fabric. There's static in the air, the sensation of standing outside just before a storm hits and knowing you're too small to stop it.

  An eerie calmness settles over me. There's little I'm afraid of these days.

  Everyone's eyes are on me, their faces indistinguishable because I don't have the energy to focus on a single one. Except for her. I'm numb until our gazes lock. Mila might as well be the only person in the room.

  Hers is the only face I see. She sits to the right of the center aisle, several rows from the front. She's stunning in a long-sleeved black dress, her hands folded on her lap and sadness hanging off her shoulders.

  The sight of her tears my insides up.

  I've barely had the courage to look at her for the past few days. I keep having a vision of her standing up here, wedding ring on her finger, aching all over and wondering how the hell she didn't see it coming. Even with all the signs, we never truly believe the people around us can just cease to exist.

  She would stand here, preparing to deliver a eulogy about me, and she would be thinking what I'm thinking now. That I wish I could go back in time and change the things I've done, but most of all, do the things I didn't do.

  I've replayed my last encounter with Camille again and again. Each time, I alter the memory frame by frame. This time, I refuse to leave. This time, I demand she get help. This time, she survives.

  I adjust the microphone and the sound echoes throughout the church. I'm reminded of the night I finally laid eyes on Mila again. She'd stood on a stage, unprepared for me to come crashing back into her life.

  "Good afternoon," I say, my voice hollow. "My sister would be so humbled to know you all came out to honor her memory. It's comforting to look out at this crowd and witness how many people Camille touched in her short life. If you could stand where I stand now, it would…it would take your breath away." I nod and glance down at the podium, a knot forming in my throat. "As you all know, Camille had a unique way about her, a set of traits that were marvelously at odds but came together to make her unforgettable. She was honest but knew to lie when her little brother needed to be bailed out. She was loyal, sometimes to a fault, but would not hesitate to call you out on your bullshit—" A low rumble of stifled chuckles rolls through. "She was mild-ma
nnered but strong-tempered. She hated attention but lit up every room. Growing up, she was competitive and smart. She rebelled without ever getting caught—something I still don't know how to do—and came to my rescue without me ever having to ask. To be honest, I never stopped to think about how important she was to me until I realized she was gone. She leaves us all with an important reminder, to cherish each day, to look around and pay attention, because life is fragile and…and…" I drag in a breath, trying and failing to think of the words. "She left a gaping hole in me, which I will fill by planting something to grow in it. In her memory. In her honor. Because she left us much too soon, and I know all she wanted was to leave her mark on the people she loved."

  Silence falls over the church and for a moment, no one seems to breathe, let alone move. Slowly, sounds of rustling fabric lift from the crowd, disjointed sniffling and quiet weeping. My father sets a hand on my shoulder and I turn from the podium and walk down with him and my mother, back to our seats. My gaze connects with Mila's again, her eyes glassy as she drags her knuckles over her cheeks.

  She'd been doing so well before I came back. She'd found success and was content with her life. She was on the brink of starting something new, something safe. Then I came in with my selfish heart, wanting her for myself again and telling myself whatever lies I could muster to convince myself I was better. Yes, I have felt strong for the past three years, but I've felt strong before and faltered. How many times have I tried to stay sober? How many times have I relapsed? The day of our wedding, I didn't think anything could come between us. Yet I failed her then, and it's only a matter of time until I fail her again.

  I made a mistake coming back and now shame floods me, saturating my bones.

  My addiction will follow me to the grave. Whether you succumb to it or spend your life fighting it, addiction follows everyone to the very end. No amount of time, no amount of well-meaning intent can prevent the devil from seducing you in a moment of weakness.

  FORTY-FIVE

  MILA

  THE AIR SMELLS OF newly turned earth and fresh flowers. And I hate both. I don't move, standing with my arms crossed, staring at the spot where Camille's casket was lowered into the ground. Grant is beside me. Moments ago, he'd squeezed my hand, his head bowed, as though he'd heard me think, This is it, Camille. This is goodbye.

  My heart is lodged in my throat. It doesn't seem real that Camille could be in that wooden box. Cole stands on the other side of the grave with his parents. I watch him like I'm watching a dream, wondering what changed when I wasn't looking. Because something is different.

  There's a hum of murmurs around me, several people I don't even know pat my back as they pass. The crowd begins to disperse amidst sniffling and stifled sobs. People head back down the hill to the long, paved driveway winding through the cemetery.

  I want to be in Cole's arms. I want it so badly my skin aches. When he finishes speaking to a few people, he walks over to me. His hands are in his pockets and he glances at the ground often. When he reaches me, he takes my hand and leads me back behind a mausoleum. We pass a headstone with stone angels perched on top, their little arms outstretched.

  Cole appears exhausted and sad, his shoulders sagging as I touch the side of his face. He looks down, blinking a few times.

  "Hey," I say.

  I rise up on my tiptoes to plant a kiss on his lips. It's a sweet, tender kiss, and it scares me because I realize how much I need him. Because my heart hurts, too, and the only person I want to hurt with is him.

  He lets out a tired breath, running a hand through his hair.

  "We'll be heading out soon," he says. "I'll see you later, okay? We'll talk."

  I nod then swallow back the burn rising up my face and collecting in my eyes. I don't want to cry, not here. Not in front of his family.

  "Come stay with me?" I ask, unable to control the plea in my tone.

  I want to be there for him, but also, I realize I need him just as much. I need him because it's real now. Camille is gone and everything is going to shit.

  I inch closer and set a hand on his chest, and I'm surprised to find his heart pulsing quickly through his suit jacket. He automatically grips my waist, but he's holding me with a hesitancy he didn't have just a few days ago.

  I can feel him pulling away, breaking away at the tethers. I'm standing right in front of him and yet he seems a million miles away.

  "I can't stay with you," he says.

  "Grant travels a lot. You shouldn't be alone. If you want, we can stay at your stu—"

  "Mila, I can't be with you."

  My hand drops to my sides. I tilt my head, brows furrowing, mouth opening and closing. Now my heart's picked up speed as well, and I think I'm going to be sick.

  "Seriously?"

  "I made a mistake coming back, Mila. I can't risk dragging you into my mess."

  He's grieving, he doesn't mean it. He's not making any sense.

  "What mess? Cole, don't do this. What are you saying?"

  "I'm an addict, Mila," he snaps.

  I blink, my voice lowering. "I know that."

  "Don't you get what that means? Even if I don't touch a drug ever again, I'm always going to be an addict, until the day I die."

  "I know, Cole, and I don't care. I'm here, aren't I?"

  He takes a step back.

  "You should care. I could ruin your life."

  My throat is burning now, too. I shut my eyes and suck in a shaky breath. But when I open them again, the deliberation in his eyes makes it even harder to breathe.

  "Stop. Stop saying these things."

  "It's the truth, Mila. I'm no good for you. I don't deserve you and I never did."

  He turns and walks back around the mausoleum, toward his sister's grave.

  "Cole," I call out, hurrying after him.

  My heels sink into the grass and my pride bubbles to the surface. I stop in front of him and stare up into his eyes. I'm trying, but he's making it damn hard to be collected. I feel untethered. Ready to slip away as I fight against the warning threatening to burst from my lips. A warning that has no place being expressed on a day like today. I don't think I can stand to spend another minute with this awful nagging in the pit of my stomach, seeing him with a foot already out of the door.

  Just say the damn words, Cole.

  Don't say you can't be with me, say you don't want to be with me.

  Be a man and say it, and I swear you'll never see me again.

  He reads it all in my eyes because he goes still, fierce pain flashing through his expression.

  His jaw clicks, his lips part.

  "I think we…" He trails off, eyes darting past me and narrowing. "What the hell?"

  I turn and my stomach does a somersault, crashing against my heart. Andrew heads toward us, serious faced in a black suit and blue tie.

  No.

  No, no, no.

  I rush over to Andrew, grabbing his arm and spinning him around to face me.

  "Andrew, what is wrong with you? You can't be here right now, starting trouble. Cole just put his sister in the ground."

  He tilts his head before realization dawns on his face.

  "I know," he says, "I'm here to pay respects."

  My hand flies to my chest.

  "Fuck," I whisper.

  "I'm not here for you, Mila." Andrew shakes his head, a small smile tugging his lips. "God, you're so damn conceited."

  I cover my face and let out an automatic half-laugh, despite my mood.

  "Give us a minute, okay?" he asks.

  I nod, and he passes me to reach Cole, who looks on edge right up to when Andrew says something then extends his hand. Cole relaxes, muttering what sounds like, thanks. Andrew claps a hand on Cole's back then the two walk off a little farther away to speak privately.

  They leave me alone, with the dirt from Camille's grave scattered on the ground and Cole's words still wrapped around my throat.

  FORTY-SIX

  COLE

  IT'
S SURREAL HOW MUCH someone can change yet still have the same face you remember from childhood. I can't remember the last time I saw Andrew Pearson approach me without hostility in his eyes. My reaction to him is to brace for impact, but he comes to a slow stop in front of me and looks down at the ground. He extends a hand for me to shake and the words he speaks are of condolences and regret.

  I think of what I said during the eulogy about Camille's life rippling out to touch so many others. I'd forgotten Andrew was one of them. He wasn't close to Camille, but he was around to witness her bailing me out of trouble more than a few times. She bailed him out, too.

  And the one time I had to take the fall for her turned out to be all Andrew's fault. Everything that happened between him and me started and ended with my sister. He knows this. Him coming all this way today speaks volumes to how he feels about it.

  "I appreciate you dropping by," I say. "Camille liked you."

  "Did she?"

  "Yeah, she thought you were a good influence."

  He shakes his head. "Then I guess she never figured out you getting expelled was all my fault."

  "I shouldn't have kept drugs in my locker, even just for a few hours, it was stupid."

  "You stole them from her so she wouldn't take them. You were trying to be a good brother."

  "If I'd been a good brother, I would've told someone who could help her."

  He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. But I can see in his eyes what he almost said. If Camille had been a good sister, she wouldn't have let you take the fall.

  I didn't give her a choice.

  She was a senior, already accepted into college. If the school knew the drugs were hers, she'd have been the one expelled. I had less to lose. My grades were terrible. The teachers already hated me, anyway. No one expected much from me and when they had the opportunity to believe the worst, they did it without question.

  Camille tried to tell my parents the drugs were hers, but they didn't believe her. Why would they? She wasn't the troubled kid. I was. It was always me.

  Andrew and I stand in front of each other, neither able to think of what else to say.