Chapter Sixty-Eight Good-bye The room is bare, the floorboards cool beneath my feet. Wilson lies in a twin bed, a crisp white sheet pulled tight across his chest. His eyes are closed. A shadow dances over his body, making it difficult to get a firm grasp on his features. It’s like trying to recall someone from your past in detail, but all you can manage is a blurred image. Blackness stretches across his cheeks and nose and eyes—a mask I can’t see behind. But it’s his face. That much I recognize.
There’s a wooden chair beside the bed and a little light coming through a window. Dust coats the floor, leaving imprints of my feet as I cross the distance and sit. Wilson opens one eye and smiles, but I can tell he’s doing it for me alone. Sweat coats his forehead, and his frame is shrunken. He’s not the bull I imagined him as, but there’s strength in his steady gaze yet.
His other eye opens and he says, “It’s you.”
“It’s me.”
I take his hand. His fingers are thin and cold, but they wrap around my own and fill me with peace.
“I could stay with you, you know,” Wilson suggests. “I could go to Kansas, too. Just in case.”
I shake my head and squeeze his hand tighter. “I have to do this on my own.”
He turns his face away. “You don’t need me anymore.”
Tears prick my eyes. “I’ll always need you, Wilson,” I whisper. “But I need to face my memories and the things I’ve done. I need to let people in.” I clear my throat. “It’s time I talk about what happened after my father left.”
“Will you remember me?” he asks, turning back.
My heart aches at the hopefulness in his voice. “I could never forget you.” I laugh softly. “You know, there was a time when I couldn’t even think your name.”
Wilson pulls himself up in bed. A grin parts his mouth. “You were terrified of me.”
“I was terrified of remembering.”
“But then you started to let me in,” he says, his eyes dancing. “You finally realized I only wanted to help.”
“That’s right.”
“I still think you should have eaten the orange sherbet at that ice cream shop.”
“No, Cookies and Cream was the right choice.”
Wilson shivers like what I said is repulsive.
I pull the sheet higher over Wilson’s frame, fighting the emotion building in my chest. “I don’t want to leave.”
“Then don’t,” he whispers.
I cover my eyes, and a sob breaks in my throat. “You know I have to.”
Wilson sighs and leans back on his pillow, releasing my hand. “I know, Domino. It’s just…who will protect you now? Cain? Angie?”
“I don’t need anyone to protect me anymore.”
“So…Cain?”
I laugh through my tears. “Yeah, Cain.”
Wilson nods, satisfied.
I stand from the chair and stride toward the door, because if I don’t leave now, right now, then I’m afraid I never will. My hand is on the knob when Wilson’s voice reaches me.
“Hey, Domino?”
I stop.
“You think maybe I’ll go on to someone else now? Instead of just…ending?”
I turn partway, speaking over my shoulder. “I think anything is possible.” And then, because I’m losing my courage, I say one last thing to my friend. “Thank you, Wilson. For everything.”
I walk out the door, and sunlight warms my face. I stare into that reviving light for several moments before my eyes open again. When they do, and I find myself half asleep on the train, I know Wilson is gone for good.
But Cain is there, sleeping beside me. And Poppet is leaning against Angie, who is watching over us all. These people are my home now, and I will cherish them all my life.
And what a life it will be.
Acknowledgments
Violet Grenade is a strange little book, and I’m indebted to many people for bringing its oddity to life.
A giant thank-you to my editor, Heather Howland, for encouraging me to embrace my voice, and for asking if I could make scenes darker, and darker still. You absolutely got Domino, Cain, and Wilson, and this book is undeniably better because of you.
To the entire team at Entangled Teen—thank you! To Liz Pelletier, who first welcomed me to Entangled Publishing, and to my production editor, Christine Chhun, and copy editor, Nancy Cantor, for your little love notes. To Melissa Montovani, my publicist, for her lightning-quick responses, and to the entire marketing and foreign rights teams who get my books into the right places—thank you!
Thank you to Dr. Clark Steffens, a fantastic dentist who didn’t panic when I asked him what tooth would hurt the most if you, ya’ know, held someone down and extracted it. Thanks for lending your knowledge to an important scene.
A special thank you to friends Angee Webb and Melissa Gouge—I remember pitching this book to you girls over lunch—and to Kay Honeyman, who pushed me to keep that last chapter. Thank you to Lindsay Cummings for inspiring me with your creativity, talent, and relentless work ethic. Love to my mom and sister, who have strange, twisty brains like me. And hugs to my dad, brother, and grandma for always asking what I’m working on.
Always, always, thank you to my readers. If you loved this book, if it kept you up late at night and caused chills to rush down your arms, then you, too, have strange, twisty minds. I always imagined it’d take a special reader to truly love Violet Grenade. If you did, you’re my kind of people.
Finally, thank you to my daughter, Luci, who just called me into her room to read a book about pumpkins four times. Four times? Really? You’re definitely my kid. And to my husband, Ryan, who always tries to write his own part in the acknowledgments and prompts me by asking, “Who else is as important to your writing as me?”
Nobody, baby. Nobody. I love you.
To every last person holding this book—a big, cuddly thank you from me!
And from me.