“Becca, it’s too dangerous to be out here,” he says, his voice laced with pity.

A gush of wind almost knocks me off my feet, but he holds me steady, saving me.

He’s always saving me.

Always taking care of me.

“I love you,” I sign.

“I love you, too, Becs. But we need to get inside.”

“Just dance with me,” I sign, pouting up at him. “One dance.”

He shakes his head.

I swing my camera behind my back, the strap spinning around my neck, and wrap my arms around his waist. Settling my hand on his chest, I let the wind control our movements. We sway together, awkward in our soaked embrace. But it’s perfect. Because it’s him and it’s me, and we’re dancing in the rain, doing what Grams would be doing. Until he grasps my shoulders and gently pushes me away. “I’m going to get sick, Becs. I can’t afford to get sick right now.”

I shove his chest. “So leave!” I sign and point to his door. “Go!” I turn my back on him and face the flowers lining the fence. Then I lift my camera, switching it on as I do. I bring the viewfinder to my eye and press down on the shutter. The shutter never sounds. I pull away and check the battery icon, but nothing shows on the screen. I switch it off and on again, my bandaged thumb slipping against the switch. I try again. And again. Nothing works.

Josh is standing beside me now, his gaze switching from the camera to me. “Why won’t it work?” I sign.

He sighs.

“I wanted to take some photographs for Grams,” I tell him. “Summer storms are her favorite. Like this dress is your favorite.” I point to my dress. “Do you like it?”

“I love your dress, babe. I already told you that.”

“You did?” I sign.

His lips form a line as he nods once. Slow. Careful.

I frown and look down at my camera again. “Why won’t my camera work?” I sign.

Josh steps to me, his arms going around my shoulders. He brings my face into his bare chest while thunder cracks and lighting turns the world bright. “In all ways. For always,” he murmurs, but I don’t think he’s talking to me.

* * *

He helps me into his apartment, into his bathroom, and into the shower. He watches me, but not the same way he did in Portland. His eyes don’t wander my body. They don’t wander at all. They stare at my eyes, and they question. They question who I am, who he is, and who we are together, and whether it’s possible that his declaration to love me unconditionally is actually possible. I know that’s what he’s thinking, because I think it, too.

The shower acts like a cold one, the sprays of water blanketing me with the realization of what I’d done and the way I’d acted. Maybe I’m my own brand of crazy. And maybe after watching me Josh realized that. And as I step out of the shower and into his waiting hands—hands holding a towel he uses to dry me—I decide to give him the only truth, the only secret I’ve kept to myself. Not just because he deserves to know, but because after everything I’ve caused him to experience, he deserves an out.

I tap his shoulder and wait for him to look at me. “I can’t have your children, Josh,” I sign.

He freezes, his towel-covered hands on my leg. “What?”

I grab my phone off the counter. “Physically, I probably can. I just don’t want to.” I keep my features even, not willing to reveal any sign of the heartache it causes to tell him this. I don’t want him to know it hurts. I just want him to know.

Josh stands to full height, his breath leaving him. “Why not?”

I choose my words carefully, wanting to give him the truth, and not cloud the facts with my emotions. “I did this study in sociology in high school. Nature vs. Nurture. My research paper was on what would make a mother an abusive alcoholic. If it was how she was raised or what she was around. She had a perfect adult life, really. A decent job, decent social life. But she used to always tell me about her dad’s drinking. How he hit her mother in front of her. She told me that right afterward, they’d have sex in front of her to show her that that’s what love was. You fight and you love. I’m not saying it’s an excuse for what she did to me. I’m just saying I don’t want it to be an excuse for what I might possibly do to my children.”

“Becca.” He shakes his head, his eyes disbelieving. “You can’t live your life like that.”

I ignore his statement and add, “It doesn’t hurt to think about anymore. It used to. Then I met Tommy and saw how you were with him and I thought, at some point, if I didn’t physically have a child, then I didn’t have to worry about treating them the way my mother had, or the way her parents had treated her. But if I had my own…” I trail off, shrinking beneath his penetrating gaze. “We could still be a nice little family. You, me, and Tommy. But that’s all we’d ever be. Just the three of us. And if that’s not enough for you, I would understand, Josh. I wouldn’t stop you from walking away like I once did. You earned that right. And I’d let you go. Because it’s not fair that you should have to love me broken, especially when I can never make you whole.”

—Joshua—

Becca’s crazy.

And I know it’s wrong for me to say that, but if she thinks that her completely unselfish decision to not want to bear any children is going to make me leave her then yeah, she’s fucking crazy.

I’d never leave her.

Sure, I’ve thought about what our children would look like; bright emerald eyes behind a sea of raven dark bangs. She’d be a girl, of course, because why the hell wouldn’t I want two versions of Becca in my life? And, yes, I appreciate her telling me how she truly felt. But did it change the way I feel about her? Not one bit.

“Will you come to bed with me?” I ask. “And stay in bed with me? I’ve spent too many nights away from you, woken up too many times and not had you there. Just stay and be with me, Becs. That’s all I want. Now and forever.”

37

Journal

My dad arrived at the same time Tommy came home.

The same time Sadie decided to pack her bags and leave the house.

If she’d been around this entire time, I didn’t notice her.

I don’t notice a lot of things.

I live in my own world, trapped in my own head.

Days pass.

Dad makes me eat.

Makes me shower.

Makes me sleep.

There are no summer storms.

And the storm that came took away her roses.

Now they’re dead.

Just like her.

And I don’t even have a camera to capture it.

To capture beauty in the face of death.

I should have captured her beauty.

I should’ve—

~ ~

—Joshua—

“She’s just not responding at all,” Martin says, his words as rushed as our footsteps.

I practically crash through the front door, past the living room and into the kitchen where Martin said Becca had been for the past two hours.

I’d spent the past few days with Tommy, who’d taken the news better than I thought, and meeting with my mom to organize the funeral tomorrow and all the other things I needed to do as Chazarae’s power of attorney. Mom mentioned she was surprised at how well I’d taken Chaz’s death. I was purposely keeping too busy to feel anything. At least that’s what I told her. I’ll never tell her the truth. I’ll never tell anyone. Besides, how do you tell someone that you truly believe a person who had so much to offer alive was better off dead? She was no longer that person we all wanted to believe she was. By the end, she’d lost the fight to fake it, and now—she no longer had to.