I drop my head forward between my knees and clamp my hands over the back of my neck and breathe, breathe, in, out, slower, slower.
Say something.
“I know,” I manage. And those two words cost more than I have to give.
Remi leans closer, dips their head so their lips brush my shoulder as they whisper once more.
“Ask me to stay, Dizzy.”
I close my eyes again and give in for just a moment, picturing all the things they want. Things I want. We’ve been so close so many times. My heart clenches, panic speeding its beating back to double time. Just say it. I know this is wrong. I know I’m wrong. I do want this. I should tell them. I should say it. Please, Remi, just stay with me, stay in the city we met in so we can start the next part of our lives still together, so I can figure myself out and when I do . . . if I’m ever okay, then we can . . .
When I finally manage to speak again, it’s barely a whisper.
“I can’t.”
Rather than shrinking in defeat, Remi sits up straighter, staring straight across the hallway. They nod, once, firm.
“Well, that sucks. But I understand.”
I bite my lip and force slow breaths through my nose. Panic shifts to anger and back again, faster than I can keep up, a swirl of awfulness, speeding cars on a collision course.
“I understand,” Remi says again. “But I can still be mad about it. I don’t have to like it. I don’t have to think it’s fair or right for you to lash out at us for not doing something you refuse to admit to wanting. We’re not mind readers, Diz. If you want something, you have to say so. And we can’t hang in limbo until you decide you’re ready to actually have an emotion.”
Oh, fuck you entirely. My hands ball into fists unconsciously.
Great. Just great. What am I supposed to do, give them permission to hate me? To be mad forever? What exactly are they expecting? I don’t want this mess. I don’t want any of this.
What I do is push to my feet and stare hard at the ground, my mouth twisted in something between a frown and a scowl. Anger is winning, as always.
“Cool. Well. Have fun being mad, I guess.”
I turn and continue down the length of the train, listening for them to call me back, for a half-hearted “Dizzy . . .” to give us another shot, to take us back to our uneasy equilibrium.
They say nothing.
I walk on, my heart heavy from the awful freedom of finally knowing.
It’s over. Once and for all.
Seventeen
BY THE TIME WE’RE WITHIN half an hour of Jattapore, I’ve walked the length of the train three times, bought a sandwich, napped in someone’s empty seat, and generally done everything I can to avoid going back to the compartment. The train company’s weather alert system pings me with ever more concerned notifications the closer we get. Yes, I get it, Jattapore has high tides or something. We don’t have tides in the mountains, so that means nothing to me, go away.
When I feel the train start to decelerate for its final approach to Jattapore, though, there’s nothing for it. I have to go back. We made this MMC mess together, and we’re gonna fix it together.
A new message from Davon pops up as I thread my way through the crowded market car, resisting the urge to stop and buy all the therapeutic junk food I can carry. There have been a dozen more messages since the ones I ignored at the archives last night, but I’ve been too busy and head-explodey from the night’s revelations to say more than “I’m fine. Don’t wanna talk right now.” Guess I owe him a slightly longer response.
(private) Davon: Doing okay today?
Are you still at Ania’s? You could come stay with me if you want.
I snort. He had the chance to gain custody of me when he turned eighteen and I was still fourteen. He said no. To be fair, he wasn’t really in a good enough financial situation to take care of us both, and I said at the time that I didn’t want it either, that I was fine on my own. Who believes a fourteen-year-old when they say stuff like that, though? Obviously he should have known that was code for “Yes, please, adopt me, I’m a mess.”
(private) You: I’m fine. Going to Jattapore for a few days. Will let you know when I’m back.
Talk to you later.
(private) Davon: Okay. Please be careful. Come back in one piece so we can watch the season finale of The Rare Ones together.
And by that I mean come back soon because otherwise I might watch it without you.
(private) You: Don’t you DARE.
(private) Davon: Then hurryyyyyyyyy
I go invisible and blink away the chat before I can get drawn into a deep discussion of our season finale theories. Dangerous topic. No time for that now. I make the final approach to our compartment on lead feet, as if it’s full of MMC guards waiting to kill me instead of my pissed-off friends. I’m heading into hostile territory. My angry half truce with Remi notwithstanding, I know Jaesin and Ania would only accept one outcome: shit sorted, emotions had, kisses exchanged, everything shiny. But that’s the one thing I just can’t give them.
When I enter the car with our compartment, though, the whole hallway rings with muffled laughter and shouted conversation. My chest gives a little pulse of warmth at the noise, the familiar soundtrack of the Cliffs. Home. An unconscious smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, and I quicken my pace, pulling the door open to let some of that goodness wash over me.
I’m met with silence.
My smile dies away as everyone avoids my eyes, the ghost of their mirth still fading from their expressions. Something in my chest withers and curls in on itself as I slide into my seat, eyes locked on the floor.
“Hey,” Remi says, voice flat, not looking at me.
“Hey,” I answer. A small effort. I appreciate it. “I guess we, uh . . . need to talk about what to do when we arrive.”
I hate how weak and pathetic I sound. My cheeks burn as I stare holes in the floor, the prospect of eye contact too much to process.
“Yeah,” Jaesin says, cool and neutral. “Remi, you were looking up information on the university?”
They hum an affirmative. “They’re not in session right now, so the only people on campus are professors and grad students. More than likely the name on the envelope is one of them. If it’s a real name, of course. I tried looking for a directory online, but no luck.”
Ania turns to me, the first one to actually look me in the eye. “Diz, you think you can find that info?”
I shrug, my gaze sliding away from the creases on Remi’s cheek from napping against the window. “Given enough time, yeah, but I might need to be on the school’s network to do it, depending on their security. Maybe we should start by going to the university’s post office. We might be able to just ask someone if they recognize the name. It could be it’s the professor himself, using an alias.”
“It’s different handwriting, though,” Remi points out. “There’s at least one other person involved in this letter exchange, if only for that.”
I shrug. “It’s still the only lead we have. How far is the university from the train station?”
Remi shares a map with us all, and at first I can’t even tell what I’m looking at. Jattapore looks completely different from both Kyrkarta and the much older version of itself on the wall in the archive. The ocean crashes in on the western side of the city, and portions of the coastline are highlighted in red with a do-not-travel warning. Apparently all those weather warnings I’ve been ignoring were trying to tell me about the hurricane currently dumping rain on the city, on its way up the coastline. The hurricanes have been increasing in strength and frequency for years, and Jattapore is finally giving way in the face of the constant battering. Just like Kyrkarta and its earthquakes.