145
B I G WA T E R
Daniel moves close enough that he can put his arm around
my shoulders and pull me toward him. This time I don’t push
him away. I can’t. The trees behind us groan. Water piles up
against the shore. I press my cheek to Daniel’s chest and give
in to wave upon wave of tears so violent and unstoppable that
my body shudders and heaves. All the time, Daniel never
stops holding me. He must be exhausted himself, but he keeps
rubbing my arm, patting my hair, and for the first time since
Jonathan died, I don’t run away. I allow myself to be comforted.
When I finally stop crying, I turn my back to Daniel and
wipe my eyes and nose with my sleeve. I don’t want to show
him my deranged crying face, blotchy and red.
“It’s okay,” he says, gently turning me around by my shoul-
ders. He lifts my chin like he did that first time he touched
me, and I have to look at him. “Christina, listen to me. Stop
beating yourself up. You’re not your brother. And you’re not
awful or cruel. You were just trying to deal with losing him.
Even running away doesn’t seem strange to me. You lost
part of yourself. No one else can understand how that feels.
And anyway, we can’t always do what other people want us to
do. Sometimes we have to choose our own way, even if it’s not
the easy one. Especially if it’s not.”
His face is serious. I search it for cracks, a flicker of doubt,
reproach. But there is nothing. He doesn’t let go of my chin.
Finally, he drops his hand to the rock and picks up a
pebble, holding it in his palm as if weighing it. I watch him,
letting his words soak in, trying to believe him.
“How did a shop boy get to be so smart?” I tease.
Daniel holds up his hands, palms in the air, and shrugs.
We both smile.
