Виктория Шваб - The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue

They turn in a slow circle on the roof.

He has not slept well in days, and it has made his legs heavy, his mind too slow, the minutes speeding up around him, and he wishes the music were louder, wishes the sky were lighter, wishes he had just a little more time.

No one is ever ready to die.

Even when they think they want to.

No one is ready.

He isn’t ready.

But it is time.

It is time.

Addie is saying something, but the watch has stopped moving, it hangs weightless on him now, and it is time, and he can feel himself slipping, can feel the edges of his mind going soft, the night heavy, and any moment the stranger will step out of the dark.

Addie is guiding his face to hers, she is saying something, and he doesn’t want to listen, he’s afraid it’s a good-bye, he just wants to hold on to this moment, to make it last, to will it still, turn the film into a freeze frame, let that be the end, not darkness, not nothing, just a permanent moment. A memory, trapped in amber, in glass, in time.

But she is still speaking.

“You promised you would listen,” she says, “you promised you would write it down.”

He doesn’t understand. The journals are on the shelf. He has written her story—every part.

“I did,” he says. “I did.”

But Addie is shaking her head.

“Henry,” she says. “I haven’t told you how it ends.”

New York City

September 1, 2014

(3 nights until the end)

Some decisions happen all at once.

And others build up over time.

A girl makes a deal with the darkness, after years of dreaming.

A girl falls in love with a boy in a moment, and resolves to set him free.

Addie doesn’t know exactly when she decided.

Perhaps she has known since the night Luc walked back into their lives.

Or perhaps she has known since the night he wrote her name.

Or perhaps she has known since he said those words:

I remember you.

She isn’t sure.

It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that, three nights before the end, Addie slips out of bed. Henry rolls over in his sleep, wakes enough to hear her padding down the hall, but not enough to hear her put on her shoes, or slip out into the dark.

It is almost two—that time between very late, and very early—and even Brooklyn has quieted to a murmur as she walks the two blocks to the Merchant bar. It is an hour until closing, the crowd thinned to a few determined drinkers.

Addie takes a stool at the bar, and orders a shot of tequila. She’s never been one for hard liquor, but she downs the drink in one, feels the warmth settle in her chest as she reaches into her pocket and finds the ring.

Her fingers curl around the wooden band.

She draws it out, balances the ring upright on the counter.

She spins it like a coin, but there are no heads or tails, no yes or no, no choice beyond the one she’s already made. She decides that when it settles, she will put it on. When it falls—but as it begins to wobble and tip, a hand comes down on top of it, pressing it flat against the bar.

The hand is smooth and strong, the fingers long, the details just as she once drew them. “Shouldn’t you be with your love?”

There is no humor in Luc’s eyes. They are flat, and dark.

“He’s sleeping,” she says, “and I cannot.” Luc’s hand has withdrawn, and Addie looks at the pale circle of the ring still on the counter.

“Adeline,” he says, stroking her hair. “It will hurt. And it will pass. All things do.”

“Except for us,” she murmurs. And then she adds, as if to herself, “I am glad it was only a year.”

Luc sinks onto the stool beside her. “And how was it, your human love? Was it everything you dreamed of?”

“No,” she says, and it is the truth.

It was messy. It was hard. It was wonderful, and strange, and frightening, and fragile—so fragile it hurt—and it was worth every single moment. She does not tell him any of that. Instead, she lets the “no” hang in the air between them, heavy with the weight of Luc’s assumption. His eyes, such a smug shade of green.

“But Henry doesn’t deserve to die to prove your point.”

The arrogance flickers, cut through with anger.

“A deal is a deal,” he says. “It cannot be broken.”

“And yet, you told me once that a deal could be bent, the terms rewritten. Did you mean it? Or was it just part of the ploy to get me to surrender?”

Luc’s expression darkens. “There was no ploy, Adeline. But if you think I’ll change the terms of his—”

Addie shakes her head. “I’m not talking about Henry’s deal,” she says. “I’m talking about mine.” She has practiced the words, but they still tumble awkwardly off her tongue. “I’m not asking for your mercy, and I know you have no charity. So I’m offering a trade. Let Henry go. Let him live. Let him remember me, and—”

“You would surrender your soul?” There is a shadow in his gaze when he says it, a hesitation in the words, less want than worry, and she knows then, she has him.

“No,” she says. “But only because you do not want it.” And before he can protest, she continues, “You want me .”

Luc says nothing, but his eyes brighten, his interest piqued.

“You were right,” she says. “I am not one of them. Not anymore. And I am tired of losing. Tired of mourning everything I ever try to love.” She reaches out to touch Luc’s cheek. “But I won’t lose you. And you won’t lose me. So yes.” She looks straight into his eyes. “Do this, and I will be yours, as long as you want me by your side.”

He seems to hold his breath, but she’s the one who cannot breathe. The world tips, falters, threatening to fall.

And then, at last, Luc smiles, his green eyes emerald with victory.

“I accept.”

She lets herself fold, bows her head against his chest in relief. And then his fingers come up beneath her chin, tipping her face to his, and he kisses her the way he did the night they met, swift, and deep, and hungry, and Addie feels his teeth skate across her bottom lip, the taste of copper blossom on her tongue.

And she knows that it is done.

New York City

September 4, 2014

“No,” says Henry, the word half-swallowed by the storm.

The rain falls hard and fast on the roof. On them.

The clock has stopped, the hand thrown up in surrender. But he is still there.

“You can’t do this,” he says, head spinning. “I won’t let you.”

Addie flashes him a pitying look, because of course, he cannot stop her.

No one has ever been able to.

Estele used to say she was stubborn as a stone.

But even stones wear away to nothing.

And she has not.

“You can’t do this,” he says again, and she says, “It is already done,” and Henry feels dizzy, feels sick, feels the ground sway beneath him.

“Why?” he pleads. “Why would you do it?”

“Think of it as a thank-you,” she says, “for seeing me. For showing me what it’s like to be seen. To be loved. Now you get a second chance. But you have to let them see you as you are. You have to find people who see you.”

It is wrong.

It is all wrong.

“You don’t love him.”

A sad smile crosses her face.

“I’ve had my share of love,” she says, and it is time, it must be time, because his vision is blurring, the edges going black.

“Listen to me.” Her voice is urgent now. “Life can feel very long sometimes, but in the end, it goes so fast.” Her eyes are glassy with tears, but she is smiling. “You better live a good life, Henry Strauss.”