by Linko, Gina
“I don’t know who you are, miss. But you shouldn’t have done that,” he said quietly, and then he reached out for me, slowly, lazily, keeping one hand on his gun.
Ash reacted like an animal. “Don’t you touch her!” he growled, pulling me behind him, shielding me with his body. “I’m not going to kill you, Pop. I’m not going to exact my revenge. I’m not going to become you.” Ash spoke through gritted teeth, keeping one arm wrapped around me behind him. “But don’t you make me defend her, because I will, Pop. I will.”
“Let’s leave, Ash.”
“I loved her … Dolly,” Ash’s father said. “But don’t make me go to jail.” He didn’t lower the gun, but something about his expression changed. His eyes softened.
That was when the siren blared in the distance. I didn’t know if it was that or the German shepherd running through the open barn door, or maybe the combination of the two. But what happened next was a blur, a nightmarish blur.
A loud crack—a deafeningly loud crack—erupted, and I flew backward, with Ash pushing me, throwing me, out of the way. I stumbled over the floor of the barn, landing flat on my back. I lay there, the wind knocked out of me, gasping, flailing for air, the edges of my vision going black, fuzzy. I screamed Ash’s name, but I heard no sound. After what seemed like the longest of moments, I finally was able to scramble to my feet.
And I could see Ash’s father sitting on the ground. He was mouthing words, but I couldn’t hear them. I was deaf from the crack of the shotgun. But he was crying and pulling a limp, rag-doll Ash into his lap, the dog whimpering and hovering above them.
“No!” I screamed. “No! Ash!”
Two uniformed police officers rushed toward us then, guns out. “Help us!” I yelled, pointing at Ash’s father. I struggled to get to Ash. The officers took the gun from Ash’s father, and they pulled him away from Ash.
I moved slowly, so slowly. I had to get there!
“My son! I didn’t mean to—” I could hear Ash’s father bawling, my hearing coming back.
“Ash!” I screamed. I was on my hands and knees, pushing the dog away from him. Southpaw was licking his face, whimpering.
I saw blood, several thick scarlet drops of blood shining atop the dirty barn floor.
“No!” I pushed the dog away with all my might, and then I saw Ash’s face. “Ash!” I screamed. “No!”
I leaned over him, the light of the early-morning winter sun shining directly upon him. He turned his head a fraction of an inch. And he looked in my eyes.
He smiled.
My heart broke.
I saw the blood soaking his chest, the ragged remains of his shirt where the shot had caught him.
“Ash!” I screamed, and laid my head on his chest, heaving, crying, sobbing. “Nooo!” I pleaded. “Don’t move!” I felt his face; it was cold. “Let me get a blanket—”
He grabbed my arm and pulled me back, practically on top of him.
“Emery, stop,” he whispered, pleading with his eyes.
So I just kneeled next to him, and I didn’t take my eyes from him. “No!” I whispered. “Please, no!”
I was semi-aware of a cop applying pressure to Ash’s chest, ripping his shirt from his body, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. “Get the ambulance! The paramedics!” he screamed to his partner.
But I didn’t take my eyes off Ash.
“Did you think this would happen? Did you—”
“Emery, please. No, no,” he wheezed.
“Let me get something for the blood, maybe, just—”
“Emery, stay,” he whispered.
I broke then. I gave in. I sobbed. I let him pull me to him, and I leaned in closely so I could hear him.
“It’s okay, Emery,” he said. He reached up one shaking hand to touch my lips.
I sobbed. “Ash! It wasn’t supposed to be this way. It wasn’t supposed to—”
“Yes … it was,” he said. “It always was.”
“I love you, Ash.” I sensed he was going. I knew it. I kissed his lips.
“Love seems like such a small word right now, for you, Emery,” he whispered. “You deserve big words.”
“Don’t go!” I pleaded, sobbing.
“It’s okay, Em. You”—he touched my cheek then—“you, Emery, know where I’m going.”
“Don’t leave!” I screamed.
But it was too late. He took one last shallow breath, and then he exhaled, and … stillness.
Thirty
I heard the sirens wailing in the distance. I heard Gia’s sobs behind me. The policeman began to administer CPR, but I knew.
“Gia,” I whispered, not taking my eyes from Ash’s face. “Just in case, tell my dad I forgive him, okay?”
“Emery, what?”
“Just tell him! Tell him I forgive him. Promise me!”
“Okay, okay,” she sobbed. “I promise.”
“And you know I love you, Gia. Like a sister.”
I let it come then. I willed it to come.
I let it wash over me, the buzzing, the whooshing, and I didn’t fight it one bit, one iota. It came, pushing, swelling behind my eyes. And I let it.
It felt the same as always, but then I felt a searing pain in my chest as I heard the whooshing, and I smelled the ammonia.
And there I was.
Ever since the beginning, all these things, these loops, the gods, the fates, his family … love had been leading me to Ash.
It was always that small and that grand of a plan.
Home
Here I am.
I’m standing in Dala Cabin. I look around me. The little wooden horses, their colors, are a bit more brilliant. In place of the logs, the fireplace has a small bunch of hydrangeas and wild lavender in an old-fashioned glass soda bottle. On the mantel, Dala sleeps curled up, a little ball of fluff. The windows are glistening clean, and I can see that it isn’t winter. It is summer outside, all green and growing and alive.
I turn, and the door to the cabin opens. It is Ash.
Of course it is.
“Are you here?” he asks, smiling, looking whole and real and gorgeous, and even better than—no, just exactly like—real life.
“I’m here,” I say.
“I knew you would be. Is it for good? Are you—”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not seeing the halo or anything yet.”
As usual, when I’m here, these things don’t matter that much. The here and now, it matters. Ash matters. Ash and me together matters.
We take a few steps toward each other, and his smile is brilliant. I open my arms, and we fall into each other. He smells like soap and hay. His body feels warm, feels real, feels like … home.
“Your middle name is Destin,” he says, and hugs me tighter.
“Yes. Who told you?” I ask.
“Your grandfather. It’s French for ‘fate,’ ” he says. I nod. Like always, he seems to have a grasp on it all, everything under control.
“I love you, Emery,” he says, and he kisses my lips softly.
“I know,” I say. And that’s when I try it. I look down at my right hand, and just like that, without any problem, I snap my fingers.
Acknowledgments
I want to send heartfelt gratitude to the following people:
Caryn Wiseman, for believing in my writing, for showing me how to make a good story into the best it can be, and for unwavering support. This is a gift so rare.
Suzy Capozzi and her team at Random House, for loving Emery and Ash as much as I do. For believing in this story, for giving me this chance, for your impeccable editorial advice, there really are no words.
Eva, Heather, and Mom, my first readers and cheerleaders, for your inspiration and understanding, your time and friendship.
Greg, for everything, always.
About the Author
Gina Linko has a graduate degree in creative writing from DePaul University and lives outside Chicago with her husband and three children. She teache
s college writing part-time, but her real passion is sitting down to an empty screen and asking herself, “What if …?”