The Healing (The Things We Can't Change Book 3) (36 page)

He’s shouting my name and I’m ignoring him, just as I’m ignoring all the rocks and hard pavement against my bare feet, the hair that’s blowing into my eyes. Just a little bit farther… the box is shining in the dim yellow light from a streetlamp, and I’m almost there, the can of paint cradled in my arm like a football. Just a few pavement squares away…

I’ve hit the grass alongside the street, running diagonally to go the shortest distance when I feel fingers grasp the back of my skirt and latch on. I gasp out a curse, my motion arrested as I’m yanked back mid-run. The back of my head collides with something hard, Zeke’s chin, I think, and we both stumble and fall to the ground, the spray paint exploding from my hands and going airborne.

I’m totally stunned for a moment, lying in a heap in the damp grass. My head is whirling, aching behind my left ear, hurting so badly it feels like it could be bleeding. I reach up and pat it, finding only the beginnings of a lump as I blink rapidly, trying to catch my bearings.

“Fuck,” Zeke breathes from somewhere behind me. I realize I’m lying overtop one of his legs and he’s flat on his back, his senses momentarily boggled just as mine are. “
Fuck
, your head is hard!”

“Surprised?” I wheeze, realizing that the wind was knocked out of me when I fell onto my back as well.

I pull myself into a sitting position, the world going double for a moment, and then focusing. Zeke sits up too, one hand working at his jaw. I rub my head once more, and then see the can of spray paint just a few feet away, laying dented on the sidewalk. Without further thought, I dive for it, knowing that I have to get rid of it. A big hand grabs my leg, once again mid-motion as I’m scrabbling to army-crawl the last few feet. I cling to the grass but it just tears up and I cuss and spit at Zeke as he gives a final yank on my leg and tries to bypass me on all fours.

He’s fighting dirty and leaving me no choice, so I lift a leg and kick him in the hip as he tries to pass, since I know my arms aren’t strong enough to push him over. It throws him momentarily off-balance and he spits a nasty name at me which I ignore, using his moment of distraction to deliver a half-hearted smack to the side of his jaw, the side which had just come into contact with my head. Even the purposefully gentle contact causes him to cry out in pain and roll over onto his back, and I forge onward, grabbing the can of spray paint and rising to my knees.

The metal of the postal box is warm as I close my fingers around it, yanking the handle so sharply that it clangs against the bottom and rebounds, closing again with a metallic snapping noise. I open it again and stuff the paint inside, moving frantically in my haste and slamming it in several times only to have it bang against the sides of the small entrance, at the wrong angle to go in. Hands reach over mine, dark brown ones that grab my wrists, trying to reach past to grab the paint can.

Zeke’s chest is pressed against my back and I can feel it rising and falling rapidly, his harsh, ragged breathing loud in my ear. I jab an elbow in his chest and he grunts but doesn’t back off, and finally,
finally
I feel the plastic cap of the can fall off and tumble down into the postal box, and my arm finally fits all the way inside. I drop the can inside with a shout of triumph and pull it quickly back out, not even caring as it scrapes the harsh metal sides, leaving a long, burning scrape on the underside of my arm.

“I win!” I cry, suddenly realizing that I’m breathing just as hard as Zeke, gasping for air as though I’ve finished a marathon, not fought over a stupid aerosol can like two five year olds tussling over a Matchbox truck. It had to have been ugly, but I don’t care because now he has no choice but to talk to me.

“It’s not a freaking competition,” Zeke snaps, pushing me roughly aside and opening the door of the postal box. “That was the only can I had. I need it back. I need it
back
!”

I fall to all fours from his push, but don’t really mind because I need to catch my breath and still the pounding from the head collision and come down from the adrenaline rush the chase gave me. I finally sit back on my bottom and watch in bemusement as Zeke actually sticks his arm down through the slot, clearly waving it back and forth as he tries to reach the can.

“You know, stealing mail is a federal offense,” I say dryly, some of my humor restored, along with my breath. I wipe the sheen of sweat from my forehead and revel a little bit in what a dirty fighter I’m becoming.

“Oh yeah?” Zeke asks snidely, still trying and failing to retrieve the paint. “So is throwing a combustible can into a federal mailbox, genius. You realize when they empty this they’ll probably think it’s a bomb or something?”

I shrug, because it isn’t a bomb and is harmless, and honestly, it’s the least of my worries at the moment. “It was the closest thing I could think of to throw it in. You could have dug it out of a trashcan.”

“Dammit,” Zeke mutters as he tries to put his arm in deeper, though he’s already sunk to the elbow. “
Fuck!
Fuck you, Evie! Dammit!” He finally pulls his arm out and sits back on the grass on his butt, chest heaving and hands trembling again.

“Are you ready to talk now?” I ask calmly.

He glares at me, face so filled with venom that I have momentary misgivings about what I’ve done, though I force them away and try to pull up some self-confidence.

“No,” he snaps. “I’m going to get it out. And then I’m going to paint. I’m going to go paint your car. The Challenger. And you’re going to watch, and you’re not going to be able to stop me. I’ll sucker punch you in the chin and see how you like it.”

He stands up and sticks his arm back into the mailbox, glaring at me the whole time as though he’s trying to prove a point. I sigh, shake my head, and stand up, dusting the dew and grass off of my skirt.

“I’m going back to sit on the porch where it’s drier,” I say to him, pretending not to notice the evil eye he’s giving me. “Come over when you’re ready to talk.”

I turn on my heel and march away with as much dignity as I can in my bare feet, which are now also dirty, and there’s a grass streak on my shin and my knee is scraped and bleeding, though not badly. I get to the front stoop of Zeke’s building and sit on the steps, bracing my arms on my legs and resting my head on top of them.

I don’t know how long I sit there, but it’s long enough that my eyelids get heavy and I fall into a half-doze, the quiet street lulling me into sleep, only disturbed by the occasional car
whooshing
by, few and far between. I’m out in the open, but I know that mad as he is, Zeke would never let anything happen to me, so I still feel safe.

Eventually the sound of a shoe scraping against concrete jolts me awake, and I sit up quickly as Zeke collapses on the step next to me. He’s still breathing hard, his eyes are still wide and he looks wild, but defeated. Vulnerable.
Scared.

“Fuckin’ A,” he says, and pats at his pockets, then gives a heavy sigh. “I need a cigarette. Fuck, I need a cigarette.”

I shake my head a little, trying to shake off the last traces of sleep still clinging to me. “You don’t need a cigarette. You never needed them, you just wanted an image and something to do with your hands. And stop saying fuck. I’m tired of it.”

“I can say it if I want to,” Zeke fires back, and we stare at each other for a long moment, and he’s the first to look away. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I’m just… annoyed. And pissed. You fu—you punched me in the jaw.”

“I tapped you,” I say self-righteously. “Barely. And admit it, the adrenaline of the chase and fight distracted you and you feel a little better. Go on. Admit it.”

Zeke snorts, leaning his elbows back against the top step so he’s semi-reclined. He’s silent for so long that I want to push him to say something, but some small part of me is whispering that I should stay quiet, that the time to push is done and I have to let him talk in his own time.

“Sometimes I don’t think I’ll ever feel better,” he says in a low, broken whisper. There’s another long pause, and finally he continues, just as softly, “It’s been almost four months, Evie. Four
months
, and every time I see her in my dreams, every time I see it happen and wake up, I feel it all over again. It hurts just as bad as when it first happened.”

I swallow hard, because I know what he means, and yet I don’t. I know loss, but not the pain of experiencing it over and over, every single night in my dreams. I grieved for my father, and for my mother. I cried my eyes out, accepted, and began, ever so slowly, to move forward, mainly because I had so many other problems to focus on. And yet for Zeke, it seems all his problems are rooted in this one thing, and maybe one other.

“Why did you stop drawing?” It’s an abrupt question, probably not at all what he was expecting me to say, because he looks over at me sharply, eyebrows drawn together.

“What?”

“Why did you stop drawing?” I repeat. “And I mean years ago, the very first time.”

Zeke expels a long breath and says warningly, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Which probably means that you should,” I say, and settle myself more comfortably on the step.

More silence, and I have to still my body limb by limb, force myself not to put my hands on Zeke and shake the truth out of him. It’s agonizing, waiting, but I’m rewarded for my patience.

“My mom got cancer when I was in eighth grade,” he finally says. “Not an instantly terminal kind, but bad enough that my dad went into a lot of debt to get her treatment and to make us worry. A year later, she was recovered. And then she left. Just up and left, no note, no trace of her. Just… gone.”

My mouth forms a soft ‘oh’ of sympathy and understanding, though I make no sound, waiting for Zeke to explain further.

“She was a great mom, barring that of course.” He snorts. “She always pushed us. She worked extra hours to get Cindy new dance shoes, to get me good art supplies. She always told us that we were capable of doing anything, being anything that we wanted. She really was supportive of my art, would sit still for hours if I asked to draw her. She always pushed me, paid for extra classes so I would be able to start high school a few classes ahead. And then she just left, without a word. And to not draw… I don’t know. I think it started out as a way to spite her. She wanted me to pursue it so badly, and to not do it, it was a way to get back at her for leaving. So I stopped and just didn’t let myself do it.”

“And then you broke your promise and drew Cindy, and after she died, you decided not to draw for her sake,” I summarize, and get a brief nod from him. I consider this for a moment. “Didn’t Cindy
want
you to draw and stuff?”

“Yeah.”

“So…” I tread carefully, because I know I’ll get a sharp response no matter what I say. “Doesn’t it seem a little dishonorable to her memory to do exactly what she
wouldn’t
want you to do?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Zeke sighs, rubbing his eyes with his hands. “I think part of the problem is that I’ve been denying it for so long that it feels bad, like
sinful
, to let myself draw.”

I smile a little, because that, at least, I have an answer for. “Something someone wise said to me once was, just because something doesn’t
feel
good to you, doesn’t mean it isn’t a good thing for you.”

Zeke snorts. “Yeah, because we should all listen to me.”

“Maybe so,” I say fairly. “You’ve given some good advice, Zeke. Look at me; you’ve changed me from the mess that I was into something much better. Maybe you should try listening to yourself once in a while.”

“If I listened to myself,” he begins sarcastically, “I’d be spray painting every day, all day, trying to get all of this out of me. The little voice in my head isn’t exactly rational, you know.”

“There are usually two voices inside our heads. The angel, and the devil. Maybe you should try listening to the one you’re ignoring most of the time.” I consider Zeke for a moment, and then ask the question that has just occurred to me. “Why did you need to spray paint? I got you art supplies, you mentioned that you’re drawing sometimes, even though you don’t want to. Why did you have to go to that extreme this time, opposed to other times?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just clenches his fists on his knees and stares at the ground between his feet. Now it feels right to push him, to force out an answer since he clearly doesn’t want to tell me.

“Zeke?” I prod. “What was different?”

“The dream,” he finally mutters. “The dream was different. It’s only happened this way once before. I… I could move this time, and I still didn’t save Cindy. I… chose someone else over her. I let her die.”

“Chose someone else over her?” I repeat, curious. “What do you mean?”

Zeke waves a hand, brushing off the question, but his fingers are trembling and as the sky becomes tinged with pink, I can see sweat standing out on his forehead. He’s clearly uncomfortable and I know he’s purposefully dodging the details, but I force myself not to push so hard that he closes up.

“There are just sometimes other people there, and sometimes I can actually move, but when I go to get Cindy out of the way, I always save one of the other people that are there, not her. And she dies. Again. And…” Something that sounds suspiciously like a sob is quickly and quietly swallowed by Zeke, and I force myself not to look over at him, knowing he would hate it. I watch from the corner of my eyes as he blinks a few times, wondering yet again if he ever broke down and cried because Cindy was gone.