“What?” I ask.

“I’m happy for you,” he says.

“Thank you.”

“I hope she’s there.”

“She will be.”

He nods but he doesn’t say anything and I know he doesn’t believe me, but I don’t care because I know it’s true. Lily will be there.

“When we went outside,” he says, “if it had worked out the way you wanted it to … you would have never seen the message. Or her. So I guess it’s good it didn’t work out.” I look away. “And your father’s there. You’ll see him.”

“He’s dead,” I say.

“How can you know that?”

“He’s dead to me. If he’s alive, we’re not taking him with us.”

“It’s his car, isn’t it?”

“I don’t care.”

“I’m happy for you,” he says again.

But I think he means it less and less each time he says it.

Cary comes back and then Harrison comes back and tells us Trace has agreed to go but he wants us to pay our respects to Grace before we do and then I realize every time I envision us leaving through the library, she’s there. She’s with us, she’s alive. I erase her from the mental image but that feels so wrong so I let her stay, but I try to make her look like a ghost instead.

Which is worse.

I spend the evening on my mat staring at the skylights, watching it get darker and darker. I’m starting to feel everything Trace did to me and I’m afraid it will slow us down but I think if you want something bad enough it can be greater than pain, it can push you past it.

I hope.

“Sloane.”

Rhys whispers my name. At first, I’m not sure I’ll answer him, even though I’m awake but then I think what if he dies? I’m trying not to consider all the things that could go wrong, but what if he dies and this will be the last moment I share with him. I owe him more. I roll onto my side to face him. He’s staring at me. I wonder how long he’s been staring at me.

“We should be asleep,” I say.

“Are you scared?”

I shake my head. It’s a lie and it isn’t. I’m not scared right now. I’m not scared in the way that he must be. He looks so vulnerable when I say no, so upset, like he’s the last scared person in the world and he doesn’t want to be alone with that.

“I’m jealous of you,” he whispers. “It kills me to look at you.”

“Come here,” I tell him. But there’s not enough room on my mat for him to just be close to me. He moves his next to mine and then we’re lying together. I bring my hand to his hair, which is soft. He smells like smoke. He curls into me, puts his arms around me. It makes me wince. He loosens his grip immediately.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”