Chapter ninety-eight

She's been wandering by the shoreline for a while now, just kicking her bare feet at the wavy line where the sea kisses the sand. I watch her wearily. She glances my way, I shoot her a quick smile, then pat my firm pocket, savouring this feeling of numbness.

The feeling you have before you know everything will either go really wrong or really right, no chance of anything in between. You don't know what the hell will come next, but all you can do is hope that the wind is blowing in the right direction; that you've been a good enough person in your life to have things to go right, even for just once.

Tasmin jogs back up the sand, and I let my eyes follow the shallow Tasmin-foot-sized shapes she makes on her way.

"Are you tired, Harry?" She reaches down too close and takes my wrist to read the time. "If we go back now we'd probably make it to dinner with the rest of them."

I don't mean to do it so quickly, but I take my wrist back. Tasmin continues smiling like I didn't. So I say the kindest thing I can say right now.

"Let's stay a little longer."

"Come down with me, Harry," She starts backing away, hands behind her back. "Come swim with me." She stops, stares, and all is frozen except for her dress and hair. "This'll be our last chance before…"

She can't finish the sentence and I'd be the worst, worst human being to try to finish it for her.

I stare and she stares back. In her eyes, I watch a replay of every moment of her. Tasmin in-line at the Check-In, Tasmin looking at me with bewilderment when Emily lost her dinosaur keyring, the first time in five years seeing Tasmin in a swimming suit, Tasmin staring off into the darkness of the sea as we leant against the cool railing on the twelfth deck, Tasmin nervously leading us through the cruise ship, and every night with her new change of clothes and brightness in her eyes making me feel as if I'd stay eighteen forever. Then it was the concern in her eyes when she looked at me and my scars that broke me, how hurt she'd look every time my anger and frustration would take over. How many times I glanced at her like I had her, and she had me, and somehow, I stupidly thought that everything would be fine in the end like it is for everyone else.

It's not that way. It's never been that way. At least not for me.

"Give me just a minute," I manage to say. I feel like I sound puffed out, but I can only get these words out. If I say anymore, a tidal wave of the things I need to scream and shout and cry will escape.

Tasmin smiles, turns, and traces her footsteps back down to the beach. When I'm done staring at her dress, at her hair, at her hands out at her sides to balance her, at Tasmin and all the beauty she is, I return to my thoughts.

There's no optimistic mindset one can use in this situation. For me, it's like being faced with my mother's death all over again. She's there, laying in her white bed with her wide sheets surrounded by white walls, in the back of my mind. Constant. And she knows and I know that she isn't leaving until I fulfill my mission.

The reason I'm here.

The reason I've stayed.

The reason I'm living and breathing right now.

The reason I'm no longer patting my pocket, but am reaching into my pocket.

So far away, it looks like Tasmin is dancing. She's probably humming a tune, too. I want to hear it. I want it to be the last thing I hear. And her eyes the last thing I see.

I shake my head.

Don't face me when I do it, Tasmin. In an ideal… no… this isn't ideal, but if it were ideal, I'd like to see your face. But I'd hate myself too much. I'd hate everyone. I'd hate this damn world too much if I had to see your eyes as I did it.

Turn away, Tasmin.

She keeps dancing and dancing. I'm afraid she'll stop. I hope she doesn't. She should keep dancing and not have me here with her. I should be far, far away from her.

Dance, Tasmin. Keep dancing.

The weight out of my pocket doubles the guilt in my heart. And I wonder if this is how Tasmin feels right now, or if she's already forgotten everything she's done to me, to my mum.

I grit my teeth. My fingers tighten on the cold, firm metal of the Beretta.

Tasmin's been here too long. She's done too much, and I can't remember what she did, when she did, or why she did.

As she twirls, I notice that her ring is glinting in the late-afternoon sun. It throws faint colours dashing across the sand. It's in my eyes, too.

Glint glint.

Glimmer glimmer.

I level the weapon, and it, too, catches the sunlight on the barrel. It's not as bright as Tasmin's ring, but it's closer. It stabs at my vision.

Glint glint.

Glimmer glimmer.

I think: After three more twirls, Tasmin, I'll be there with you. And I'll remind you what you did.

I think: Mum, I'm nearly there. It's been a minute.

I'm worried I might squeeze the gun into pieces. I loosen my grip, drop my shoulders. I think: The sun is so bright. My mum was so bright. The gun, too, and so is Tasmin's ring. And Tasmin.

Squeeze, Harry, squeeze the trigger.

Too bright. Too much. I squeeze my eyes shut. My head might implode before the bullet can.

I squeeze the trigger, but not before I turn it to face the ground.