Chapter 77: Ronan

"I want to talk about Becca."

"Nope. You're not allowed. I'm cutting you off."

"That's not fair. I only brought her up once today!"

"Yes, and once was already enough. We already went over everything that happened last night. I'm not interested in hearing it again."

Finn tries to scowl at me, but his eyes are still so red and puffy from last night that it looks more like a grimace. "You're not a very supportive roommate, you know," he says, as if this is some sort of grand revelation, and not the same words he's said to me at least a dozen times before.

"If you wanted a supportive roommate you should have filed a complaint on the first day of camp and gotten yourself switched into a different cabin," I say reasonably, folding over the sleeves of my polo to form a tidy square.

Finn throws an empty shampoo bottle at my head. I duck.

"Mind the shirts, moron."

"Fuck your shirts."

I shoot him a glare. My entire wardrobe is lying on the floor around me, all my shirts and pants folded up into neat little stacks, except for the few starchy ones that decided to be difficult. It always takes me forever to pack. I like my belongings to be in mint condition before I place them in my duffel bag— it's a habit I picked up on the road with Sabrina. Makes unpacking easier. (Now that I think about it, this might be the first time I've packed to return somewhere— usually, I only pack to leave a place behind.) "Don't you dare mess up my piles," I warn him. "I've been working on this for two hours."

"I know. You're neurotic."

"Well, at least I'm not a slob," I say, gesturing to his messier side of the room. "It looks like a bomb went off in here."

"It's a work in progress."

"Really? 'Cause it looks like all work and no progress."

Finn retaliates by hurling a loose bar of soap at my head. I swat it away.

"Mind the shirts!"

"You have enough polos already," he points out. "I'm sure you could sacrifice a few."

"These polo shirts cost more than your plane ticket, Fish."

"You're never going to stop calling me that, are you?"

I consider this for a moment. Then, I conclude, "Nope. Never."

Finn falls silent, chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip. It isn't until I've folded three more shirts that he pipes up again, asking, "Am I allowed to talk about Becca now?"

"Jesus Christ. You've got a problem."

"I have a lot of problems. That's why I want to talk about Becca."

"Reliving her rejection isn't going to make you feel better. It's only going to make you feel worse."

"That's not what happened. She didn't reject me," he protests. "It was a mutual break-up. We both decided that it was better if we just stayed friends."

I pause my folding to give him a look.

He sighs. "Okay, fine. Becca rejected me."

"Don't take it too hard. I'm sure she's rejected plenty of guys in her days. You're probably the sixth heart she's broken this year alone."

"Wow. You really know how to make a guy feel special."

"I'm just being honest."

Finn scowls at me from atop his cross-legged perch on the bare cot. His bags, strewn wildly around him, are already bulging with his belongings (probably because he didn't bother folding his clothes— he just stuffed his shit back into the suitcase from whence it came with reckless abandon), but even surrounded by so much stuff he looks more alone than I've ever seen him. He tugs at the loose plastic of the mattress, scattering electric-blue threads across the floor. "Of all the times you could have been honest, you choose now?"

"The truth will set you free, Fish," I say, a bit wearily. "Becca and you were never meant to last. Let me put it this way: You're Stevie Nicks. She's Lindsay Buckingham. Opposites don't attract. They collide, and explode on impact."

"Maybe. Maybe not. I wouldn't know." He groans loudly."You're probably right— it was obvious that we were doomed. But I thought... I don't know, I thought that we could work things out. I guess I don't have much experience in the whole dating people thing."

He sounds, if possible, even more miserable. It's enough to make me feel vaguely sympathetic for him. I thought I could avoid all the melodrama by pretending like it never happened, but now it's been a day and Finn is still doing the Charlie Brown walk, grey rain clouds dogging his every step. He must be truly desperate if he's confiding in me (out of all the other campers) about his break-up. And desperate people don't usually let things go.

I really don't want to be the supportive friend, but it's not like Finn is giving me a choice. So, I summon up all my mental energy and force myself to turn around and face him. "Look, Fish—"

He immediately cuts me off. "If you're going to tell me how pathetic I am, don't bother. I'm already well aware of the fact."

"I wasn't going to say anything like that."

"You were probably thinking it."

"There's only one physic in this camp, Finn, and you just broke up with her. I swear that I wasn't going to say that you look pathetic. I wasn't even thinking it. Although I might be now— I'm just kidding, watch the shirts!"

Finn clutches a crumpled tube of toothpaste in one hand, primed to fire at one of my neatly stacked piles of polo shirts.

"Please," I amend.

Slowly, he lowers his arm. "No scathing remark on how sad and lonely my life is? That's a first. I was expecting some sort of witty insult or sarcastic comeback. Not the Mr. Rogers heart-to-heart talk. I have to admit, I almost feel disappointed."

"I already told you, Finn, break-ups are rough. I know what you're going through, and I would never do anything to make it worse. Trust me on this."

He gives a weak laugh. "Thanks, but I doubt you could make things worse than they already are. I'm a lost cause."

"No, you're not. I meant what I said in the Med Cabin last night. I'm not one to make friends easily, so I'm pretty good at judging when things are real or not. My conclusion is this: real friends don't tear each other down. I know that I've been a jerk to you in the past, but I'm not going to make fun of you or insult you anymore. I swear."

"I'd like a friend," Finn remarks, his voice atypically somber. "Especially now."

"Well, you've got one. Just don't make a big deal out of it, okay? I've got a reputation to uphold around here."

"Actually, I think I'm going to make a banner. 'Ronan Lockwood Is My Friend'. And I'm going to hang it up in front of my house so everyone drives past knows that we're BFF's—"

I pick up the shampoo bottle he threw at me early and chuck it at his head. It glances off his ear, but instead of cursing at me, he just starts laughing.

It's hard to believe there was ever a time when we hated each other's guts.

"Wait a minute," he says, stuffing the bottle back into the gaping maw of his bugling duffel bag. "Earlier, you said that you knew what a break-up felt like. But how? Who did you break up with?"

"I've never broken up with anybody. I don't date."

"But then how do you know what it feels like?"

"It's not rocket science. You don't exactly have to be a relationship connoisseur to understand breaking up— you just have to understand basic human emotions."

"Okay. But why don't you date?"

I shrug, trying to downplay the tenseness in my shoulders. "I move around a lot. It's hard to start something when you know you're going to leave in a year and never see that person again. Everything feels a lot less permanent."

"Summer camp only lasts three months."

"Yes, and?"

"Well, there was that one night when you left dinner early and came back with a—"

"Finn!" I cry in betrayal. "I thought we agreed not to talk about that!"

"You might have. I didn't."

I slam a shirt into my duffel bag so violently that the floor creaks in protests. Thinking about James makes me angry. Probably because when I'm thinking about James, I'm really thinking about Jesse.

James. I mustered up the courage to say goodbye to him this afternoon, and I almost wish I'd chickened out. His eyes were as cold as glaciers when he looked at me, and there was nothing about his expression that hinted at forgiveness.

I'm sorry, I wanted to say. But what I really said was, I bought you a cab.

He replied, I don't want your hush money. But I could tell what he really wanted to say was, go fuck yourself.

I knew there was nothing I could do to make things better, so I did everything I could to not make them worse. You can tell whoever you want about us, I said. Just please don't hitch-hike home.

Why are you pretending like you care about me?

I'm not pretending, I said. Then I pressed the phone number for the cabbie in his hands and turned away. Bye, James. I hope your next summer is better than this one.

He didn't say goodbye back. But he also didn't get rid of the paper. So maybe we didn't end on the worst of terms.

"Ronan?" Finn asks. "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing," I say brusquely. "It wasn't a relationship. It wasn't anything."

"It must have been something. Otherwise you wouldn't be murdering that shirt right now."

"I'm not—" I snatch my hands away from the duffel bag and fold them tightly across my chest. "I thought we were talking about your failed relationships, not mine."

"I'm tired of talking about Becca."

"Then why did you bring her up in the first place?"

"Why did you say that you don't date when you had a secret girlfriend at camp?"

"I did not have a secret girlfriend!"

"Then what were you doing that night? And if you say 'your mom', I will break your nose again."

"OKAY!" I exclaim. "Jesus! You're like some kind of trained attack dog! I was with someone that night, okay? You were right all along. I was with someone. And I am never telling you who."

Finn looks oddly pleased. "I knew it."

"Stop smiling. It's not funny. That night ended disastrously and I never want to think about it again."

Like magic, the grin fades from his face. "I know the feeling. My last night here was a shitshow too. I never thought Becca would have ended things so quickly. It all happened so fast... I guess I just thought things would always work out between us. And they didn't."

A pair of pants fold mechanically beneath my hands. "First life lesson. Things never work out the way you expect them to."

"The worst thing was, Becca wasn't even sorry about it. She said that she didn't want to hurt me, but she didn't apologize. I don't get it. I could have died, and she won't even apologize? And then she was all like 'oh, I never meant to hurt you', but all she ever does is hurt me and everybody else." Finn rips a chunk of fibers out of his mattress and glares at them. He continues angrily, "She's just like my dad." And then he crushes the fibers with his fist.

"Your daddy issues and my mommy issues could get together and have little issue children," I remark.

He chuckles weakly. "Very funny. I'm never going out with a girl again."

"Don't say that," I tell him. "You're making it sound like there are other girls who want to date you."

Finn hurls one of his pillows at me. I fling it back and nail him in the face.

I exhale in relief as Finn throws the pillow back; because this is normal, this is familiar. There's a thoughtless rhythm to it. I'm not always a big proponent of normal, but after everything that's happened to us, a normal day is like a breath of fresh air.

"I surrender," I say, after Finn gets a good whack at my shoulder and almost knocks over my pile of folded clothes in the process. "I surrender! Please don't wreck my stuff!"

Finn clucks his tongue at me. "Coward." He takes his pillow and throws it on the bed, then flings himself on the bed and lays down on top of it. "You're just afraid to lose to the pillow-fight machine."

"Or maybe I'm just trying to spare you from an inevitable defeat."

"This is your inevitable defeat we're talking about, right?"

"You need to get your ears checked."

Finn taps his temple knowingly, like he's some sort of military strategist and I've fallen directly into his trap. "Sounds like something a loser would say."

This is the part of Lightlake that I'll miss. The jokes. The nicknames. I still can't believe that it's my last day here. Even if the Director made us stick it out to the end of the summer, the last day still wouldn't feel like the last day. It never does.

"In your dreams, Fish."

The craziest thing about leaving Lightlake is that part of me actually wants to stay. Mind you, this part of me is small, maybe even on the molecular level— but it does exist, and I can feel it, hear it in the sound of the wind roaring through the mountaintops. It's a siren song, and it whines at me, do you really want to lose this place? And I'm tempted to reply, no, I don't. Because maybe Alaska really is paradise, when you think about it.

Of course, that part of me is easily overpowered by the rest of me that wants to leave and never look back. There's too much waiting for me back in New York. I can't just skip out on my friends. At least, not on the friends I have left. And there's always the Alice issue to look forward to, because issues like that don't go away— they just fester into deeper wounds. The only way to confront them is at full-speed. You run, and you don't look back.

Still, like I said, there are sides to Lightlake that I'll miss. And not just the superficial parts, like calling Finn an asshole, or getting pillows chucked at my head. I'm talking more serious things, like the secrets. And the adventure. And the noise of the wolves howling at night, their mournful calls both terrifying and exhilarating at the same time, reminding you that danger is never that far away; especially not in Alaska. I'll even miss the kraken, too, despite how much I used to hate it. I never liked fantasy stories. Or magic. But the kraken did end up taking a bullet for Finn, so I guess that it can't be all bad— even for an over-sized squid named Kenny.

The wild is so close here. Practically knocking at your doorstep. You don't get that in New York. Not even close. I think that's the part I'll miss the most.

That, and something else.

Abruptly, I tell Finn, "Give me your arm."

"My arm? Why?"

"So I can cut it off and use it in one of my demonic sacrifices," I deadpan. "I want to give you my phone number, you moron. Hold out arm so I can write it down."

He clambers off his cot and crosses the room . "You could just tell me it, you know."

"What, so you can forget it five seconds later? You have the memory of a goldfish. Give me your arm."

"That's actually a myth. Goldfish can remember things for months."

"Thank you, Aqua-man, for your ever-educational lessons. Are you gonna give me your arm or not?"

Finn raises an eyebrow, but then he pulls up his shirtsleeve and gives me his arm anyways. I pull a pen out of my bag, yank the cap off with my teeth, and scrawl my number across his freckled skin.

"There. Now, if you find another kraken in a lake, you can give me a call."

"I thought you didn't approve of mythical creatures from the depths."

"I don't. But it's not like I've got anything better to do."

"No more Cadillacs to crash?"

"Grand theft auto is so last year. I've already stolen a car. And a boat. Maybe I should start stealing airplanes now...."

"Please don't say stuff like that. I can never tell when you're being serious."

Grinning devilishly, I fold my last pair of jeans and zip up the duffel bag. Done. I'm done. It's a minuscule moment, an automatic choice that I make without even realizing it, but after the bag is closed and I see that all of my belongings have been packed away, suddenly everything feels really final. Because this is definitely the end. Not a bad end, or a good end. Just the end.

Finn looks down at my bag. His sleeve is still rolled up, revealing my handwriting scrawled across his arm, big, blocky black numbers. He has a sort of funny look on his face. Not the same hangdog, I-can't-believe-Becca-broke-up-with-me look from earlier, but a strange one that I can't decipher. "You're done packing?" he asks.

"Despite all your best efforts, yes. I'm done."

"And you're leaving now?"

"My taxi is coming to pick me up at twelve. So in a few minutes, yeah."

The funny look still hasn't gone away. A beat passes.

"Are you going back to New York?"

I notice that Finn's gaze is lingering on my heaviest duffel bag, the one with my money in it. I feel my throat start to constrict on its own accord, and a little bit of that old fear rises up in me, until I quickly push it away. I'm sick of worrying about my mother. And I'm sick of thinking about how much I used to worry about her. She doesn't deserve my worry. She doesn't deserve anything from me.

"That's the plan," I say, after a long pause.

I don't know if it's a good or a bad thing that I didn't have the use the money. I used to think about using it, late at night when I couldn't fall asleep. But if I never went back to New York then I'd never see Jesse or Margot or any of my other friends again either, and I don't think I could bear that. Even after that horrible phone call with Jesse, I can't even imagine running away without saying goodbye to him first.

Sabrina is the sacrifice that I'm willing to make for my friends. Because that's who you have to make sacrifices for. Your friends. Sometimes your family, but always your friends.

Finn's frowning again, but this frown is more concerned than annoyed. "If your mom tries anything, you come to Indiana, okay?" He pulls his sleeve back down and folds his arm across his chest; like he's ready to beat up my mother right here, right now. It's a touching gesture, and it reminds me a little of Jesse before our fight. "Drive straight past Indianapolis all the way to Beauville. Got it?"

"Thanks, but Sabrina won't try anything. I've got too much dirt on her."

"Simon?

I nod.

"She could just send you away again. Isn't that why she sent you here in the first place? Because you threatened to talk about Simon?"

"Things were different back then."

"Why?"

"I let her push me around," I say. "And I'm not going to let her use me like that ever again."

"Promise?"

"Yeah."

"Good," Finn says. He unfolds his arms and extends a hand. "Give her hell from me, Ronan."

His words are an echo from the past, but I don't let myself flinch. I stick my own hand out, and we shake; once, twice. "You don't even need to ask."

Finn releases my hand, and I walk back over to the cot to grab my duffel. I sling one bag over each shoulder and carry the third in my right hand. Now that I think about it, the monogrammed initials are a bit much. Maybe when I get home I'll buy myself a new set of bags that don't come with couture labels.

As I open the cabin door for the last time, I turn around and use my free hand to give Finn a single-fingered salute. "See you next summer, Fish," I say, not really thinking about the words, but just letting them fall out. It's likely that I'll never Finn again, but for some unshakable reason, I get the feeling that I will. I can't imagine why I wouldn't.

In a world full of psychics and krakens, there are far more impossible things.

The End

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