She’s always slipped in through the window before. Seeing her just walk through the door, like any normal human being, makes her seem more real than she’s ever been.
I sit up so fast that Goblin shoots to the floor.
Mrrk, he says, giving me an insulted look before ducking under the bed.
Frankie takes a little step closer. She’s wearing dark jeans and a sweater that makes me want to rub my face on it. I’m wearing drawstring pants and an ancient hoodie with Camp Longfellow printed on it. But right now, I barely care. I’m not pretending to be the rock star anymore.
Mom pulls the door shut from the outside.
“Hey,” says Frankie.
“Hey,” I whisper back. “You all right?”
“Yeah. I’m all right. And you’re”—she nods at my hand—“sort of all right?”
“Yeah. Mostly.”
We look at each other for a second.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks. “Or do you not want to talk about it?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Frankie gives me the tiniest smile. “I don’t know, either. For me, it’s mostly a big blank spot.” Her face is a little thinner than I remember it. Her cheeks are hollow. It makes her eyes seem even larger. “I hate it. That I can’t remember. It makes it so much worse.” She hugs herself with both arms. “There are a zillion stories flying around, of course.”
“About you?”
“About both of us. People think it’s all connected. That there’s some crazy kidnapper in the woods who trapped me in a burning building or something. But whoever it was . . . they didn’t hurt me.” She glances at my bandaged hand again. “Are you going to be okay?”
I shrug with one shoulder. “They’re not sure. There’s a lot of nerve damage. They say time and therapy might help, but I might never regain full use of it.”
Frankie looks into my eyes. “And you’re okay with that?”
Nobody has asked me this.
Everybody assumes that of course I’m not okay with it. That I’m the guitar prodigy whose rocket ship to fame has just come crashing back to earth, and it’s so tragic and unfair. But it isn’t; not really. Because this was my choice. And all the parts of me that aren’t my hands want to remember what it was like just to be myself. Maybe, eventually, weeks or months or years from now, I’ll start learning to play backward, with my right hand forming chords. Maybe I’ll try writing songs again. Now it will be just me, not something occupying me, attacking me. I wonder what my own songs will sound like.
I take a breath. “Yeah. I’m okay with that.” I readjust the bandaged hand on top of the blankets. It itches. “Guitar took over everything in my life. But it’s not everything. You know? That’s not all I am.”
Frankie’s smile widens slightly, her mouth going from one perfect shape to another. “Yeah,” she says. “It isn’t.”
“So,” I say, after a beat, “what do you think happened?”
Frankie takes a minute to answer. “I think . . . there was something strange going on out there. Something big. I’m not sure if it was just one person, or—or what, but I think it caused a bunch of crazy things lately. And I think . . .” She pauses again. “I think it’s over now. I think everything feels different. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yeah.” My voice is a whisper again. I look down at the carpet between us. “Hey, Frankie? I’m really sorry. Really sorry.”
She doesn’t answer. I can’t bring myself to look her in the face.
“How I talked to you that night . . .” I force myself to go on. “I’m not even sure what I was trying to do. But it wasn’t right. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Frankie glides closer. She sits down on the bed beside me.
One thing I told her during that stupid fight was true. She doesn’t really know me. And now I realize that I never really knew her, either. I just liked the idea of her. Gorgeous, cool, confident. Loved by everybody. But I don’t know if this is the truth of her. I don’t know what’s inside.
I could change that. I could try, anyway.
It takes all the courage I’ve got, but I reach out and wrap both arms around her, the normal one and the big, clumsy, mangled one.
For a second she holds still, and I swear my heart is going to stop. But then she presses her face into the nook between my shoulder and the hollow of my neck.
She smells so good, it makes me dizzy.
“So, do you finally believe I don’t like you just because of the music?” she asks. Her breath brushes my neck.
I don’t answer. But I hold her tighter.
We stay there, holding on, for a long time.
Thea
I’ve emptied the root cellar.
Load after load of objects traveling back to the spots where they belong. Empty jars back to the kitchen cupboards. Ropes and buckets to the basement. Blankets to the laundry, then to the closet shelves, every bit of skin and hair rinsed clean.
I’ve scrubbed the X off the door. I’ve put the barrels and bags and other clutter back in the corners of the shed, and I’ve wiped everything clean, rubbing fingerprints and traces of anything else from door frames and stairs and walls and locks.
I’ve tied up other loose ends, too.
I went to the Crow’s Nest yesterday afternoon. The place was quiet. Only two tables occupied, and both of them out on the patio, in the warming May air.
Janos was wiping down the steamer when I walked in.
His face brightened. It’s nice to have someone’s face brighten when they see you.
“Hey,” he said. “Long time no see.”
“Yes,” I told him. “Crazy times.”
“Crazy times,” he repeated. He poured some fresh milk into one of the little metal pitchers. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
He ground some espresso into a filter cup and latched it into the machine. “Aliens.”
I smiled. “Aliens?”
“Yes. A small town. Isolated. Surrounded by woods. The perfect place for abductions. And people have been seeing strange things out there. Lights in the trees. Fast-moving objects.”
I couldn’t tell if Janos was joking. From the way he looked at me, he might not have been sure, either.
“But at least they brought one back. That girl.” Janos poured the espresso into a cup, followed by a rush of steamed milk.
“Maybe they’re good aliens,” I said.
“Like E.T.,” he agreed.
He pushed a cappuccino across the counter toward me.
“Thank you.” I reached into my pocket.
“No, no.” Janos shook his head. “You didn’t order that. So you don’t pay for it.”
I watched him for a second. He didn’t relent, staring at me with one eyebrow up and both palms flat on the counter.
“Fine,” I said at last. “Then thank you again.”
I waited until he turned away. Then I put all the cash I had with me into the tip jar.
I sat at one of the small tables near the edge of the stage. Up close, bare and quiet, it looked strangely small. Just a little carpeted platform. All its fire and magic and energy gone. Anders gone.
I could never get this close to the stage when Last Things played. I had to stay on the edges, so I could keep watch over everything. Now I wished I could have been here, this close to the music, just once. I could almost bring it to life in my head: Anders, tall and sharp, standing right above me. The sound of his voice in my ears, reaching me a fraction of an instant before it rang out to the rest of the room.
I left my empty cup on the table and stepped back outside.
Flowers were just beginning to pop up in the dirt-filled bathtub. There was sun in the pale blue sky. The grass was green and fresh, and the trees rustled with peaceful whispers.
Ike Lawrence strode across the parking lot, carrying a load of supplies from the back of his truck. He spotted me from a distance. Nodded.
I nodded back.
“Nice day,” he said.
I smiled. Because it was.
Then he stepped through the kitchen door, and it swung shut behind him.
I’m going to miss that place.
“All packed?” Aunt Mae calls as I come down the stairs from the bedroom, my backpack over my arm.
Aunt Mae has been helpful, as much as I’ll let her. But last week wore her out. I’d rather keep her on the couch, wrapped up in blankets, sipping her whiskey-tinted coffee.
I worry about how she’ll do without me.
But she’s lived without me before.
“All packed,” I tell her, moving down the hall and into the living room. “Just one more outdoor job to do.”
Aunt Mae holds out her arms. I go to her. She hugs me tight. She smells like talcum powder and whiskey and coffee and leaves.
“Bless you, sweet girl,” she says, close to my ear. “You come back. Anytime.”
“I will,” I promise. “Whenever you call me. I will.”
I step out the back door.
Anders’s photo is in my hand, the one that hung on my bedroom wall. A box of matches waits in my pocket.
I burn the picture in the firepit.
I can’t help but think of Anders himself burning. Anders holding his own hand in the fire, until all of the darkness was gone.
He’s safe.
Thank you, I think. I let the thought rise up with the smoke, toward the gray-white sky high above. Thank you. Thank you.
“Hey,” says a voice.
I turn.
And it’s him.
He’s standing at the edge of Aunt Mae’s backyard. Just a few steps away.
I stand up. Slowly. As slowly as I can.
I would like this moment to last.
“Hello,” I say.
Anders looks around. He’s wearing jeans and a light black jacket. His bandaged hand sticks out of one sleeve.
“I can’t talk to anyone,” he says. He’s speaking slowly. Deliberately. “I can’t tell anyone about what happened. Nobody else remembers anything. No one would believe it. I can’t really believe it myself.”
“I know.”
“Yeah. You know. You were there. You know it was real.” He looks at me. “It was, wasn’t it?”
I take a breath. “It was real.”
He nods for a few seconds, like he’s letting the words sink down and down. “There are demons in the world. They’re real. There is darkness. And then—there’s you.”
I watch him. One scrap of hair flutters across his forehead, sweeping back and forth above his eyes.
“You said angels don’t exist,” he says. “But I saw you.”
I don’t answer.
He’s seen me. Just like I’ve seen him. Like I’ve always been able to see him.
For a little while we both stand there, looking into each other.
“You told the truth,” he says. “You really were just trying to protect me.”
My heart moves. Lightens. “Yes.”
He steps closer. I hear his boots crunch. “You saved me.”
I shake my head at this, pointing at his hand. “You saved yourself.”
He’s quiet for a moment. So am I.
“Do they think you’ll be able to play again someday?” I ask.
“The doctors?” He shrugs. “Maybe. Probably not. I’m not sure if I want to.”
“You should,” I say, without hesitating. “You’re wonderful. Without anything from them.”
He takes another step. He’s looking at me in a strange way, like he’s spotted something he recognizes but can’t quite name down at the bottom of my eyes.
“I was wrong about you,” he says softly. “I’ve been wrong about a lot. But with you—I don’t know how I couldn’t see it.”
He’s so close, I can smell him. I can feel his voice on my skin.
This is not for you.
But I want him to go on.
“See what?” I ask.
“What you really are.”
He looks at me for another long moment.
Then, before I know what’s about to happen, he leans forward and kisses me.
I’m almost as tall as he is, so I don’t have to move, and he doesn’t have to stoop. He just leans in until his lips meet mine. His eyes are partly closed. His eyelashes are so close I could count them. His skin brushes my skin. His cheek. His chin. His lips are warm and soft, with the roughness of shaved stubble surrounding them, making them seem even softer.
No one has ever kissed me before.
Maybe my mother, when I was small.
No one since.
I’m not ready for the way it shifts everything inside me. The thunder of my heart.
He hasn’t put his hands on me. There’s something shy, or polite, about the way he stands, like he doesn’t feel like he should hold on. It’s only our lips that touch. One bright, warm, living spot, with everything around it dissolving into nothing.
My eyes slide shut. In darkness, I feel everything. Every twitch of motion, every strand of his hair brushing softly against the side of my face. The way he catches his breath, like he’s surprised by this, too. The warmth. The light.
And I know this isn’t about attraction, or even about love. Not really. It’s another thank-you, another apology, another question. It’s him wondering what else could be real.
But this time, it can’t be.
I pull back.
Anders’s eyes flick open. He blinks at me, startled. And an instant later, ashamed. “Oh. God. I’m sorry.”
“No,” I blurt. “Don’t be sorry. I—”
I want to tell him. I want to explain. I want to thank him for this moment of pretending that I am anything like him. But I am not. I am not meant for this.
Loving everyone means you can’t love just one.
“I’m not supposed to,” I finally say. “I’m not supposed to get too close to the ones I’m protecting. Or anyone else. It would get too . . . complicated.”
“Oh,” he says again. He takes a step backward. “I didn’t even—I didn’t know I was going to do that.”
I smile. “So it was a surprise to both of us.”
He smiles back. Grateful that I broke the tension. “Yeah.”
We’re quiet for a minute.
“Well,” he says. “I should go. I just wanted to thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He turns. His steps crackle in the leaves. “See you around.”
“See you.”
I watch him walk away. Around the house, back down the drive. I hear his car start. The sound of the engine drones and fades away into the woods.
I make one last check of the circle of stones, ringing Aunt Mae’s house with protection. The circle is unbroken. Moss grows around the white rocks, soft and green. Here and there are tiny, starry flowers.
I slide my arms through the straps of the backpack. My father is down the river, a few days’ ride away. I’ll find him, or I’ll find the next one who needs me. There’s more to do. Always.
I climb onto the old blue bike.
And I’m gone.
Acknowledgments
Last Things and I owe huge thanks to:
Universal Music Center of Red Wing, Minnesota, including founder Mike Arturi, instructor Mark Woerpel, and all the guitar students who let me lurk around their lessons and ask a thousand questions.
Phil Hansen, librarian/guitarist/metalhead/all-around awesome person, for giving this book an early and careful read.
My critique group: Anne Greenwood Brown, Lauren Peck, Connie Kingrey Anderson, Li Boyd, and Heather Anastasiu, for just the right mix of encouragement and evisceration.
My brother Dan, for being my go-to source for answers to odd medical questions.
The amazing Danielle Chiotti and the rest of the team at Upstart Crow Literary, for supporting this book from the very start.
My editor, Martha Mihalick, and everyone at Greenwillow, especi
ally Lois Adams, Anne Dunn, Virginia Duncan, Bess Braswell, Audrey Diestelkamp, Gina Rizzo, and Haley George. This book and I are so unbelievably lucky to have you on our side.
Leo Nickolls and Paul Zakris, for this gorgeous cover.
A whole lot of bands: Opeth, In Flames, Trivium, DragonForce (Anders plays an Ibanez because of Herman Li), Chelsea Wolfe, Killswitch Engage, Mastodon, Type O Negative, Tool, Alaya, and Source. In my daydreams, Last Things sounds like a mixture of all of you.
My family, for the endless support and for all the babysitting.
And to Ryan—who, like this book, is all of my favorite things in one place.
About the Author
JACQUELINE WEST is the author of the award-winning and New York Times–bestselling middle grade series The Books of Elsewhere, as well as the middle grade fantasy The Collectors, and the teen novel Dreamers Often Lie. Her poetry has garnered honors, including two Pushcart nominations and a Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Prize. An occasional actress and sometime musician, she lives in Red Wing, Minnesota, with her husband, son, and dog.
www.jacquelinewest.com
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
LAST THINGS. Copyright © 2019 by Jacqueline West. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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