Flutter (30 page)

He pulled back, looked in my eyes. “I don’t … I don’t know why.… Maybe, Emery, the reason you could always go back and forth so easily for so long, maybe it’s because you’re not just of this place.… Maybe you are … I don’t know … 
more
.”

“Or maybe, simply, these loops were meant to bring us together, Ash. I was sent here so you could save me.”

“Or you were sent to save me, Emery.”

I considered all these beautiful, intricate events and otherworldly coincidences that had played out to bring us together, to bring us here, to this now. Somehow they made sense, perfect sense.

“I love you, Ash,” I told him. “But let’s not talk like this. It all sounds so serious, so final.”

“And we’re just beginning,” he said.

“Let’s pack up our stuff,” I said.

“Let’s get out of here.”

I walked toward the ladder, the loft. I motioned for Gia to come with me, and we climbed up. Ash looked through
some cabinets on the east wall of the barn, collecting things for our trip.

“Where will you go?” Gia asked, helping me fold up the yellow comforter in the loft. I wanted to bring it with us.

“I don’t know,” I said, knowing the
where
did not matter. I grabbed the Dala horse from under my pillow and put it in my backpack. I looked around at the loft. We didn’t have much to bring with us, but that was okay.

“Emery,” Gia said, reaching her hand out and resting it on my arm.

“I’m okay,” I said, shaking my head, blinking the tears back.

A movement caught my eye through the slats of the barn wall. I took a few steps toward the wall and peered out. I could see the back door of the house from here, and I could see someone coming around the house, walking purposefully toward the barn. It was Ash’s father.

Something horrible and ferocious slunk up my spine then.

“Gia, call the police,” I said, stumbling backward, hurrying down the ladder. “Stay up here and don’t come down until they’re here.”

“What?”

“Call the police!” I hissed at her. “Call the police now!”

“Emery, I don’t—”

“Just do it!” I yelled at her.

“Ash!” I screamed as I jumped the last few rungs down
to the barn floor. “It’s him!” I felt the thrumming, the buzzing behind my eyes, and the edges of my vision began to fade black as I ran the first few steps toward Ash. I felt the loop about to overtake me. My body stiffened.

I smelled the ammonia. But I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists, closed my eyes against it. “No!” I screamed. “Ash!”

I bit it back, with every ounce of energy in me. I fought that swell, the buzzing. I pushed it back, pushed against it with my mind, with my body.

I opened my eyes, and I saw Ash. He stood in the middle of the barn, one hand reaching out to me, but he faced the barn door, at the ready, his muscles tense.

“Ash, it’s him!”

The barn door slid wide open, the winter sun pouring into the dark space, blinding me for a second, and then I saw a dark figure, his father in shadow. His gun came into full view first. He carried a shotgun, wavering in front of him. Then a few steps more into the barn, and I saw his body, his stance. He moved forward in a drunken shuffle.

“My God,” I whispered.

The pressure behind my eyes came back suddenly, ferociously. It was a deafening roar in the space behind my eyes. I held my muscles tensely, grinding my teeth, biting back the urge to just give in, let it swallow me. I couldn’t go! Not now! NO!

I took a few steps toward Ash then, and I watched Ash’s back. He had his arms out, as if he was protecting me. He
was an imposing figure, standing there, erect, threatening, but I wanted to reach out, touch him, grab him, tear him out of there.

“Go back, Em,” Ash said, never taking his eyes off his father.

My eyelids fluttered. I pushed my mind against it, but I was so tired, I was so spent.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” his father said, slurring his words. “I was expecting trouble, but not you, Asher.”

“Let’s just talk, Pop.”

“Seems like last time you were here, you tried to kill me.” I noticed a shiny red scar on the thick fold of his neck then. “Shouldn’t the cops have found you already?”

Ash held his body taut, his fists clenched. He grabbed something out of his back pocket. He took a step toward his father then, and threw something on the floor of the barn. The letter. It landed near Ash’s father’s feet.

Ash’s voice was low, scary. “You killed them, you son of a bitch. You and your drinking. You killed them over and over every day with the beatings and the drink. And then you really killed them. Behind the wheel, and you made me think it was my fault. For years!”

Ash’s father took a few steps forward then, a sloppy, drunken gait, kicking at the letter. The shotgun wavered menacingly. “Son,” he said, “ain’t no one gonna believe you.” There was such venom in his words, such force. It scared me. I had to do something, and do something now.

“We called the cops!” I screamed, running forward, forcing myself in front of Ash, placing myself directly in the space between the two men. “They’ll be here any minute.” I kept my eyes on Ash’s father. He swayed from one foot to the other, and I could tell that he was more drunk than I had given him credit for. I could smell the alcohol even from five feet away.

“I don’t know who you are, miss. But you shouldn’t have done that,” he said quietly, and then he reached out for me, slowly, lazily, keeping one hand on his gun.

Ash reacted like an animal. “Don’t you touch her!” he growled, pulling me behind him, shielding me with his body. “I’m not going to kill you, Pop. I’m not going to exact my revenge. I’m not going to become
you
.” Ash spoke through gritted teeth, keeping one arm wrapped around me behind him. “But don’t you make me defend her, because I will, Pop. I will.”

“Let’s leave, Ash.”

“I loved her … Dolly,” Ash’s father said. “But don’t make me go to jail.” He didn’t lower the gun, but something about his expression changed. His eyes softened.

That was when the siren blared in the distance. I didn’t know if it was that or the German shepherd running through the open barn door, or maybe the combination of the two. But what happened next was a blur, a nightmarish blur.

A loud crack—a deafeningly loud crack—erupted, and I flew backward, with Ash pushing me, throwing me, out of
the way. I stumbled over the floor of the barn, landing flat on my back. I lay there, the wind knocked out of me, gasping, flailing for air, the edges of my vision going black, fuzzy. I screamed Ash’s name, but I heard no sound. After what seemed like the longest of moments, I finally was able to scramble to my feet.

And I could see Ash’s father sitting on the ground. He was mouthing words, but I couldn’t hear them. I was deaf from the crack of the shotgun. But he was crying and pulling a limp, rag-doll Ash into his lap, the dog whimpering and hovering above them.

“No!” I screamed. “No! Ash!”

Two uniformed police officers rushed toward us then, guns out. “Help us!” I yelled, pointing at Ash’s father. I struggled to get to Ash. The officers took the gun from Ash’s father, and they pulled him away from Ash.

I moved slowly, so slowly. I had to get there!

“My son! I didn’t mean to—” I could hear Ash’s father bawling, my hearing coming back.

“Ash!” I screamed. I was on my hands and knees, pushing the dog away from him. Southpaw was licking his face, whimpering.

I saw blood, several thick scarlet drops of blood shining atop the dirty barn floor.

“No!” I pushed the dog away with all my might, and then I saw Ash’s face. “Ash!” I screamed. “No!”

I leaned over him, the light of the early-morning winter
sun shining directly upon him. He turned his head a fraction of an inch. And he looked in my eyes.

He smiled.

My heart broke.

I saw the blood soaking his chest, the ragged remains of his shirt where the shot had caught him.

“Ash!” I screamed, and laid my head on his chest, heaving, crying, sobbing. “Nooo!” I pleaded. “Don’t move!” I felt his face; it was cold. “Let me get a blanket—”

He grabbed my arm and pulled me back, practically on top of him.

“Emery, stop,” he whispered, pleading with his eyes.

So I just kneeled next to him, and I didn’t take my eyes from him. “No!” I whispered. “Please, no!”

I was semi-aware of a cop applying pressure to Ash’s chest, ripping his shirt from his body, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. “Get the ambulance! The paramedics!” he screamed to his partner.

But I didn’t take my eyes off Ash.

“Did you think this would happen? Did you—”

“Emery, please. No, no,” he wheezed.

“Let me get something for the blood, maybe, just—”

“Emery, stay,” he whispered.

I broke then. I gave in. I sobbed. I let him pull me to him, and I leaned in closely so I could hear him.

“It’s okay, Emery,” he said. He reached up one shaking hand to touch my lips.

I sobbed. “Ash! It wasn’t supposed to be this way. It wasn’t supposed to—”

“Yes … it was,” he said. “It always was.”

“I love you, Ash.” I sensed he was going. I knew it. I kissed his lips.

“Love seems like such a small word right now, for you, Emery,” he whispered. “You deserve big words.”

“Don’t go!” I pleaded, sobbing.

“It’s okay, Em. You”—he touched my cheek then—“you, Emery, know where I’m going.”

“Don’t leave!” I screamed.

But it was too late. He took one last shallow breath, and then he exhaled, and … stillness.

I heard the sirens wailing in the distance. I heard Gia’s sobs behind me. The policeman began to administer CPR, but I knew.

“Gia,” I whispered, not taking my eyes from Ash’s face. “Just in case, tell my dad I forgive him, okay?”

“Emery, what?”

“Just tell him! Tell him I forgive him. Promise me!”

“Okay, okay,” she sobbed. “I promise.”

“And you know I love you, Gia. Like a sister.”

I let it come then. I willed it to come.

I let it wash over me, the buzzing, the whooshing, and I didn’t fight it one bit, one iota. It came, pushing, swelling behind my eyes. And I let it.

It felt the same as always, but then I felt a searing pain in
my chest as I heard the whooshing, and I smelled the ammonia.

And there I was.

Ever since the beginning, all these things, these loops, the gods, the fates, his family … love had been leading me to Ash.

It was always that small and that grand of a plan.

Here I am
.

I’m standing in Dala Cabin. I look around me. The little wooden horses, their colors, are a bit more brilliant. In place of the logs, the fireplace has a small bunch of hydrangeas and wild lavender in an old-fashioned glass soda bottle. On the mantel, Dala sleeps curled up, a little ball of fluff. The windows are glistening clean, and I can see that it isn’t winter. It is summer outside, all green and growing and alive
.

I turn, and the door to the cabin opens. It is Ash
.

Of course it is
.

“Are you here?” he asks, smiling, looking whole and real and gorgeous, and even better than—no, just exactly like—real life
.

“I’m here,” I say
.

“I knew you would be. Is it for good? Are you—”

“I don’t
know,” I say. “I’m not seeing the halo or anything yet.”

As usual, when I’m here, these things don’t matter that much. The here and now, it matters. Ash matters. Ash and me together matters
.

We take a few steps toward each other, and his smile is brilliant. I open my arms, and we fall into each other. He smells like soap and hay. His body feels warm, feels real, feels like … home
.

“Your middle name is Destin,” he says, and hugs me tighter
.

“Yes. Who told you?” I ask
.

“Your grandfather. It’s French for ‘fate,’ ” he says. I nod. Like always, he seems to have a grasp on it all, everything under control
.

“I love you, Emery,” he says, and he kisses my lips softly
.

“I know,” I say. And that’s when I try it. I look down at my right hand, and just like that, without any problem, I snap my fingers
.

I want to send heartfelt gratitude to the following people:

Caryn Wiseman, for believing in my writing, for showing me how to make a good story into the best it can be, and for unwavering support. This is a gift so rare.

Suzy Capozzi and her team at Random House, for loving Emery and Ash as much as I do. For believing in this story, for giving me this chance, for your impeccable editorial advice, there really are no words.

Eva, Heather, and Mom, my first readers and cheerleaders, for your inspiration and understanding, your time and friendship.

Greg, for everything, always.

Gina Linko has a graduate degree in creative writing from DePaul University and lives outside Chicago with her husband and three children. She teaches college writing part-time, but her real passion is sitting down to an empty screen and asking herself, “What if …?”