Page 246 of Darling Venom
Just when I thought he’d dropped the subject, he spoke. “The night he died, Kel left me a voicemail.”
It took a beat for his words to sink in, but when they did, I found myself slipping off Uranus. My arms found purchase around the orb.
Tate offered a hand, which I took just to touch him.
“What…” I dusted myself off and cleared the shakiness out of my voice, only half succeeding. “What did he say?”
I didn’t dare sit.
I didn’t dare move.
“I don’t know.”
Translation: I’ve never listened to it.
It took a special kind of willpower to have in your possession the parting words from someone you loved and wanted, more than anything, to see again and not listen to them.
I had lasted about a second before I tore open Kellan’s letter, forcing myself to wait until I reached the roof to read it.
It’s not willpower, I realized. It’s fear.
I almost offered to listen to the voicemail for him, but I was afraid he’d say yes. Instead, I made my way to the jungle gym, climbed the steps, and sat by the op
ening for the sliding pole, legs dangling over the ledge.
“I don’t know what’s in the voicemail, Tate, but I do know what is in Darling Venom.” I kicked at the pole, the bottom of my Chucks scuffing it. “A roadmap. There isn’t a map key or labels or even borders, but the highways, landmarks, and roads are there. If you read between the lines, you’ll see the message.”
“Which is?”
“That we couldn’t have stopped it. I think, if Kellan knew what his suicide would do to the people he loved, he wouldn’t have done it.”
If I sounded certain, it was because I was.
Some things you just knew.
With your gut. With your head. With your heart.
I looped an arm around the railing, resting my head on the cool metal. “I think he genuinely thought Darling Venom would be enough for us to absolve ourselves of guilt. He didn’t bank on Leah not giving me the letter or the sheer level of self-loathing you possess.”
Tate didn’t correct my assertions.
What could he say? I don’t hate myself?
Yeah, and pigs fly, the Earth is flat, and JFK is the Illuminati’s headquarters.
Our gazes collided. My heart galloped with every step he took toward me.
I didn’t expect him to answer, so I asked the question that plagued my mind every day. “Are you doing okay, Tate?”
He paused mid-step. “I’m fine.”
“It’s a universally known fact that ‘I’m fine’ is the only phrase in the English language with indefinite meanings. I’m not okay. I’m okay. I’m sad. I’m happy. I can’t do this anymore. I’ll be okay. I’m lost.” I paused, emphasizing, “Please, help me.”
“Maybe it just means I’m fine.”
“Does it?”
“No.”
