Page 66 of Chasing Kit

He shook his head. “You think you’re gonna hurt me. I can see it every time you touch me. But you won’t. I promise.”

“That’s a dangerous vow,” I whispered, even though I really wanted to believe it.

He shrugged. “It’s the only kind worth making.”

I closed my eyes and let his words settle into the spaces nothing else ever reached. “I won’t be easy.”

“I don’t want easy.” His eyes glittered with determined tears, and my entire body went warm. “I just want you.”

It sounded stupidly simple, but it didn’t feel foolish. I believed him because I needed him, too.

“Even if I have nightmares? Even if I fuck up?”

Kit had to know there was no easy fix to me. I would stay damaged goods until the day I died.

“Especially then.” Kit sat up straighter, pursing his lips in determination. Love twinkled behind those brown gemstones he called eyes. “You can wake me up any time. Every time. I’ll be right there beside you to scare away your monsters.”

“Deal,” I said.

He pulled the blanket from the back of the couch and tucked it around us both. His hands were cold, so I took them in mine, rubbing slow circles into his palms.

We watched the sunlight weave across the ceiling, the new day bringing heat and blue skies and a new future. For a long time, nothing happened. No crises. No screaming. No threats. Just breathing and warmth and the miracle of not having to move.

I fell asleep before noon, and Kit wrapped around me like a question mark. For the second sleep in a row, there were no nightmares. Eric’s face didn’t show up in my dreams and he didn’t scream at me to save him. He stayed in my thoughts, but he didn’t haunt me. He smiled, almost as though he was happy I was finally at peace.

When I woke up, Kit was still there.

And I knew I’d never leave him behind. I’d pursue him across the world to get him back if I had to. Chasing Kit was exhilarating.

EPILOGUE

WAR

The Following June

We’d driven for hours through the flat nothing of Indiana, where the only shade was the thin line of woods guarding the cornfields from the wind. Even with the AC cranked, summer heat rippled off the highway, but Kit didn’t complain. He pressed his hand to the window, watching the world blur by, fingers splayed as if he could touch every billboard and wildflower in passing.

The closer we got to my mother’s house, the heavier my chest grew. It wasn’t fear because fear was a clean, cold feeling. This was different. I’d trained myself to expect violence from the world, not softness. But Kit’s presence made me acutely aware of every possible way the day could go wrong, and every way it could go right.

The GPS guided us off the main road, down a gravel lane flanked by raggedy sugar maples and a faded mailbox with Snoopy the dog on top as decoration. The house itself was a ranch, plain and beige, tucked behind an overgrown lawn that still managed to look cared for. Dozens of daisies spotted the grass in reckless constellations. Some had crept right up to the porch steps, crowding the welcome mat.

“She’s a gardener,” Kit said, grinning. “You never told me you came from flower people.”

I glanced at the yard, then at him. “Mom says they’re weeds, but she never pulls them.”

Kit shrugged. “Nature always wins.”

I left my backpack full of meager possessions in the trunk. I was light on things worth carrying these days. Kit, less so. His duffel looked heavy, but he hauled it over his shoulder with the comfort of someone who’d had years to practice. I took the bag off him, though, because I wasn’t letting him haul it by himself. I was a lot stronger.

We’d barely mounted the first step when the front door swung open and my mother’s voice cut across the sunlight. “Warrick!”

She stepped outside and grabbed me, arms wrapping around my back so tight I couldn’t breathe. Her hair was streaked white and frizzy at the edges, but her grip was the same as it’d been when I was eight and came home bloodied from some playground brawl. I’d forgotten how small she was—five foot four, maybe, and mostly bones under a faded gingham blouse—but she made up for it with the kind of energy only Midwestern mothers possessed.

I hugged her back hard, and when she finally let go, she patted my cheeks, as if checking I was real. Her eyes, blue as old jeans, shone with tears she’d never let fall.

“You’re so thin,” she said, a line she’d rehearsed for years. It was also a lie because I was far from skinny, but Mom wouldn’t be herself if she didn’t feed visitors. “Are you eating, honey?”

Kit’s laugh was soft. I shot him a look, and he bit his lip.