Page 91 of Such Sharp Teeth

Knock, knock, knocking inside her chest, among fluttering lungs, arteries, a tangle of veins. And blood. Her blood. Warm, warm blood.

Her neck. Her throat.

She wears a silver chain. From it hangs a Tiffany locket. Inside there’s a picture of Scarlett and a picture of me.

The picture of Scarlett is from when we were little. She wears a black turtleneck. She’s missing her front teeth.

The picture of me is from my college graduation. I wear a cap and gown and a funny face.

She says these are her favorite photos of us. But I wonder if it’s not a coincidence that I’m older in my picture. That I’m not a child.

I blink. In the fleeting dark, I see myself. I see my goofy face in that graduation picture.

“I don’t hate you,” I say. “I love you. And I forgive you.”

She rolls up her window.

“You don’t need to say anything. But you should know that I forgive you.”

I’m not sure if it’s true. It feels true. It also feels transient. Like I want to add the caveat that I reserve the right to change my mind.

“Thanks, baby,” she says. Her reaction is mild, like I just offered her a mint.

But I guess the forgiveness isn’t for her. It’s for me. Because it’s either that or taking her head off with my teeth. There’s no more in-between.

“You have to get over,” she says. “It’s the next exit.”

—

“Put that away,” Scarlett says.

I’m vaping on the front steps and she’s in the doorway, wearing a long black robe. Honestly, it doesn’t look so different from her Halloween costume.

“It’s away,” I tell her.

She steps out and slowly lowers herself to sit next to me. I present the chocolate-covered gummy bears I got for her on the drive home from the airport.

“Thank you,” she says. “My favorite.”

“I don’t know how you eat those.”

“You’re missing out.”

This is the most she’s spoken to me since the hospital. I rest my head on her shoulder as she opens the bag and pops one of the bears into her mouth.

“You still love me?” I ask her.

“Yes, but much less than I used to.”

“Hey, I got you candy. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“You told me I ruined your life.”

“No, I didn’t,” I say, lifting my head. “I never said that.”

“You said you came here and now your life is over.” She doesn’t seem upset. She’s being very matter-of-fact.

“I’m sorry. I was angry,” I say. “I’m working on it. My anger.”