Hanna

Two years later

“You’re pouting.” Michael sets a bowl of stew in front of me. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” I grunt, poking my spoon into the dish.

“It’s a good game you brought.” He tries to cheer me up. It doesn’t work.

I glance at the rifle in the hallway, leaned against the wall. Hunting. Who would’ve thought? I don’t like it much, but it seems useful. It gives me something to do. John says it’s not very helpful for my PTSD. I know it’s not and I did have a panic attack when I shot my first bird. I do mostly shoot birds. I guess holding a massive rifle in my hands also makes me feel strong, so often I just walk through the woods, holding it the entire time and not killing a damn thing.

To pluck and skin my birds, however, I leave to Lyn, since both Michael and I became squeamish with blood and guts. Well, he more than I, since I can take the mutilated bodies of the birds I hunt. Hunting makes me feel useful and helps to distract myself from the truth, the truth that I’m third-wheeling in this house.

“I’m nineteen. It’s been over two years,” I mumble.

“Sure been a while,” he says, giving me a suspicious look as if he knows I’m gonna get into a tangent.

Michael’s treating me like his little sister— caring, helpful— a man I never knew was in him. But it makes sense because with Lyn’s help, he integrated into this life. After spending half a year in the house, waiting for things to blow over, Michael’s found a job in the nearby logging facility and now mostly keeps all his psyche problems to himself and Lyn. I’m glad because Lyn heals him in ways I never could. He’s calm, and his rage fits have reduced to one or two per month, and he only tried to kill himself only twice last year, which in my book, is a good score. I mention my dreams and goals to him sometimes, just to test it —the convertible, the trip I want to take, the happiness I want to experience. I get pleasantly surprised when each time he’s more accepting, treating it like a normal thing, which it is. More than that, Lyn’s been getting better too. She stopped getting urges to cut, and while she still smokes, it’s way less. Most of the time she’s preoccupied with her job and animals, or books, or Michael.

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Maybe, finally… finally, I’ll gather myself together and leave. The thought still terrifies me, but I think I could take on whatever awaits me out in the world. I still have panic attacks from time to time but they’re manageable. Perhaps, I could really do it. I could see my brother. God, it’s been forever.

“You think I should leave?” I ask him.

Michael leans on the counter. “I don’t know, Freckles. You tell me.”

I sigh, irked, and push my bowl aside. I plant my palms on the table. “I’m third-wheeling.”

He lifts a brow. “Third-wheeling?”

“You and Lyn are all lovey-dovey, all I do is hunt and clean! You don’t need me to help with your shit anymore. I don’t need you to help me. I’m a piece of an already full puzzle here.” I stand, glad I finally voiced my concerns out loud.

“Oh, so that’s how you feel.” He rubs the back of his neck. “You’re not—”

“Don’t tell me I’m not third-wheeling.”

“But­—”

“Don’t.”

He drops his shoulders. “Come with me.”

I sniff and follow him through the back doors into the garage. He shoulders the door open and flicks on the light. I stop in my tracks. “Are you kidding?”

He exhales as he looks at the car parked next to Lyn’s sedan. A convertible. “Took me a while to rebuild it.”

Tears pile up in the rims of my eyes.

“Why do you think I braided Lyn’s hair so much?” He chuckles. “But, eh, it was good exercise. Had a dream, took a step after step, and now it’s here,” he shakes his head as if he’s in disbelief that he actually did it. “Granted, it’s no Mustang, but you can still feel the wind in your hair.”

“Jesus.” I run my hand over a smooth dark blue surface of a hood, then pivot to fully take in the man in front of me. “Look at you. A-a…”

“Go on, say it. A murderer.” He bows his head slightly, a shadow of shame and regret crossing his eyes. Then he looks at me. “Third-wheeling my ass, Freckles.” He juts his chin to the side, indicating the house. “All this is thanks to you. I owe you my life, Freckles, remember? And we may not talk much, but I owe everything, and I mean everything to you. Lyn knows my promise; she knows I won’t leave you until you decide to leave first.”

Tears running down my cheeks I observe him, feeling last strands of our Stockholm attachment breaking. This is what I needed to hear him say all along. I needed him to say it, to tie the remaining loose ends.

At last, everything feels complete.

I wipe my nose. “Do you have the keys?”

He picks them from the nearby shelve and tosses them to me. I snatch them into my palm, eager to taste, smell, feel my freedom in every cell of my body.

My job here is done.