Father Kennedy stood at the pulpit, his voice somehow hollow in the packed space. “Deep, unspeakable suffering might well be called a baptism,” he intoned, “a regeneration, for it brings us to a new state of being.” Looking up at him, Zelda’s fingers curled into fists. She wanted to kick the bastard, to scream at the absurdity of his claims. Did he even believe the nonsense he was spewing? His congregants certainly didn’t; most of them appeared to be half-asleep, the ones who weren’t fanning away the fall heat with their programs.

Sitting in church didn’t make people good, any more than sitting in garages made them cars. August’s idiotic excuse for a priest had droned about the Sermon on the Mount earlier, a favorite in the all-time Jesus hit parade as it offended no one. But no one was merciful here, or meek; Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, he should’ve read instead, hypocrites! For ye are like unto whitened sepulchers, which indeed appear beautiful outwardly, but are within full of dead men’s bones. This church, with its intricate carvings, was the tomb—and she was just another skeleton. Jesus wouldn’t have recognized a single person here as a true follower, regardless of their bowing and scraping. Not that any of them cared. They just wanted to abase themselves in front of something, anything, so they could feel less lost.

“We venerate the soldier who, even knowing his cause is lost, charges headlong into enemy fire.” Father Kennedy’s voice echoed with the semblance of conviction, his words falling like the dead leaves outside. “We do not say of him, this man rejects the lordship of our savior, Jesus Christ! Rather, we recognize that his faith is great. He knows that his Lord awaits him….”

Zelda’s jaw tightened, her nails digging into her palms. Constance had rushed too fast to meet Jesus, needed His vaunted mercy too much; whatever Charlotte chose to believe, and whatever this nitwit was gassing on about, the church taught that Constance was in Hell. She looked down at her hands, bile rising in her throat. Father Kennedy had moved on to explaining that, for some, the battle they fought was in their own minds; she’d been fighting a battle against vomiting all morning, mostly a losing one, and now her migraine was back.

She touched Charlotte’s shoulder. “I need some air,” she mouthed.

Charlotte frowned, her worry evident. “Are you alright?”

Managing a tight smile, Zelda nodded. “I will be.”

She slid from the pew, stumbling down the side aisle as quickly as she could. The heavy scent of incense and the oppressive warmth inside the church were making her lightheaded, and she welcomed the cool touch of the door handle as she pushed it open. The air outside was crisp and clean, fall in New England reasserting itself against the stultified atmosphere inside. It was almost October, somehow, the brilliant sun just masking an undercurrent of chill. On the breeze, she tasted leaf mold and woodsmoke, evoking memories of simpler times.

Sitting down, she looked around the garden. The last time she’d been here, she’d come with August; there was no gardener now, tending blooms, but she still wished the world were different. Massaging her temples, she leaned back and sighed, hoping this farce of a funeral would end soon.

A foot crunched in the leaves.

She looked up, her eyes widening as Alex stepped into view. He stilled for a moment, hesitating, before approaching her. His suit was neat, freshly pressed, and he’d gotten a haircut. The sight of him stirred a mix of emotions—relief, guilt, and a pang of something she couldn’t quite name.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed, her voice low.

He looked at her, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that made her stomach churn. “The same thing you are,” he replied, his tone a blend of sorrow and frustration. “Saying goodbye.”

A wave of nausea hit her again, and she forced herself to ride it out, although she wanted to lie down right here on this bench and to heck with who saw. “There’s a warrant out for your arrest,” she warned him, fighting to keep the tremor from her voice. He’d been implicated in an arson somewhere south of Boston; she didn’t know the details, and couldn’t bring herself to believe that he’d do such a thing, regardless, but the Gestapo was convinced of his guilt; he’d put himself in grave danger, by coming here. “You should go, before it’s too late.”

His scornful snort caught her off guard. “I’m surprised you care.”

“I can’t believe you’re starting this again,” she shot back, anger masking her pain at the accusation. “And at her funeral?”

Instead of responding, Alex shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the church. Ironically, under other circumstances, she would’ve found him handsome. He looked better since the siege, privation chiseling a man from the softness of the boy he’d been. His gaze held a new penetrating quality, too. Once, it’d been a source of comfort, a reminder that she wasn’t alone. She remembered huddling together in the basement during the invasion, Alex holding her close as the bombs fell around them. His strength had been her anchor, his calm voice soothing her fears. Now, when she tried to recapture that feeling, she just felt stifled.

He wanted her to go back to who she’d been before—and she wanted that, too, which she couldn’t make him grasp. But becoming that scared little girl again was as impossible for her as returning to the laughing, open-faced nursing student he’d been was for him. She’d tried to pretend, but it was like holding her finger down on the second hand of a clock. Time didn’t stop simply because she no longer heard it ticking; life had moved on, for them both.

“I let her down,” he murmured, after a long minute.

Zelda’s heart ached, at the regret in his voice. “We all did.”

He spoke without facing her. “Do you love him?”

She sighed, feeling suddenly defeated. This fairytale was supposed to be one of shared glory, two rebels fighting side by side against the forces of darkness. Instead, she’d thrown herself into the arms of the man who’d shattered Alex’s life. The thought should’ve filled her with disgust, mirroring the contempt in her supposed best friend’s voice, but she was too emotionally drained to feel anything. Shielding her face with her hand, she squinted up at him, her fatigue palpable. “What does it matter, how I feel?”

His posture went rigid with anger and betrayal. “Because it does!”

“Alex,” she began, “I didn’t plan—

“Plan?” His mouth dropped open, incredulity mingling with bitterness and hurt. Radiating tension, he began to pace back and forth through the fallen leaves; watching him was like watching a tiger in a cage, and she felt a thrill of fear. “I didn’t always repulse you,” he growled, his voice thick with emotion. “Whether you choose to remember that or not.”

“What happened was a mistake,” she insisted, her voice quavering.

He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes blazing with hurt. “Not to me.”

“I was upset about Oma Jeanette, and I was drunk,” she stated bluntly, fighting to keep her composure.

His voice rose, taking on a shrill note. “So that’s what you do when something goes wrong?” he demanded. “Jump on the nearest man, regardless of his feelings or yours?”

She rolled her eyes, self-recrimination transforming to disgust. “Oh,” she taunted, “grab a bucket for my tears.” Alex hadn’t exactly been saving himself for marriage, so his preaching struck her as highly disingenuous. “You have no right to my body, or my mind, and….” Letting the rest of her sentence dissolve into nothing, she bit her lip. Didn’t he understand that she’d be the person he wanted her to be, feel what he wanted her to feel, if she could?

He flinched at her words, but his resolve didn’t waver. “Zelda, I’m not trying to change you. I love you just the way you are.” His eyes searched hers, pleading for understanding. “Yes, we fight—because I see you as my equal, because I care. I don’t want to control you, I want to be your partner, to support you like you deserve and you….” Running a hand through his hair, he made a frustrated noise. “You can be so self-destructive! But I hate seeing you suffer, even when it’s your own fault and I can’t stand the thought of you with him. He’s dangerous, and I’m scared for you.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Her anger flared again, fueled by a cocktail of exhaustion and frustration. “You don’t know me, Alex, and you never did! You projected someone onto me who didn’t exist—someone submissive and sweet and grateful.” Another bolt of pain shot through her head, making her wince. “You’ve convinced yourself that she’s in there somewhere and all you need to do is coax her out.”

He took a step closer, desperation evident in his voice. “I know I’ve made mistakes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care. I just want you to be safe.”

Mouth firmed into a flat line, she glared back at him. He made her feel like a petulant child, and she hated it. “Safe?” she echoed. “By treating me like some sort of possession? You think you’re protecting me, but you’re just suffocating me. And August….” Averting her gaze, she watched a leaf twirl down. “August doesn’t put pressure on me to be this saccharine Madonna figure.”

Alex’s face twisted with annoyance. “And you think that means he respects you? He’s using you, Zelda! He’s manipulating you into believing that he’s the only one who understands you, that everyone else is some controlling asshole!”

Her shoulders sagged, her anger vanishing as quickly as it’d come. “I’m tired of being who everyone wants me to be,” she confessed. “And failing. Of never measuring up. With him, I don’t have to pretend.”

Sitting down next to her on the bench, Alex took his time before responding. “I get it,” he said finally. “I do. I just don’t want to lose you and…. I’ve heard the rumors, about him. All of Cambridge has. I can’t stand the thought of him twisting you into one of his little playthings.”

She hesitated, her resolve wavering for a moment. “You’ve already lost me, Alex. The person you think you love doesn’t exist. I need to be free to make my own choices, even if they are mistakes.”

“I’m surprised the Sturmbannführer lets you out alone,” Alex replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Or has he already gone back to his whores?”

She dropped her head into her hands. “It’s not a choice between him or you, Alex.”

“Even if it isn’t, Zelda, you have to listen.” His tone softened, but the urgency remained.

She didn’t, she wanted to argue. Instead, she turned an acorn over in her hand and thought about how much had changed. “Is convincing me that I’m an idiot really worth getting arrested over?”

“Maybe,” Alex admitted, with a trace of humor. “Voight can’t do anything else to me, except kill me.”

The absurdity of their exchange was making her head spin. “That’s a pretty big exception,” she shot back.

He took a deep breath. “But you don’t see it, do you? You think you’re free with him, but you’re not. He tells you to come, you come. He tells you to go, you go. He tells you to ignore everything that matters and work for the goddamn Gestapo, and you do it. He controls you, like some kind of marionette.” Leaning forward, his eyes bored into hers. “That’s not love, that’s abuse.”

Her posture stiffened, a shield against his words. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, her eyes narrowing in defiance. “Meanwhile, you’re lecturing me purely from the goodness of your heart.” The words came out sharper than she’d intended, a reflex to cover her own growing unease.

Alex’s laugh was mirthless. “I thought I was too old for you, and that was the problem. When Marta first suggested it, you and him, I told her she’d lost her mind. Do you know that? Then I saw you, together, in the park. I saw how you looked at him and, worse, how he looked at you.”

Her heart pounded in her chest. “I looked at him like someone who needed a ride,” she whispered. “You scared me, Alex.”

Regret flickered in his eyes. “I shouldn’t have done what I did, but at least my feelings are real.”

She tried to swallow down the lump in her throat and failed. “I know.”

“Voight’s aren’t,” Alex stressed. “He’s using you.”

Her grip on herself tightened, her mind racing. “So no one but you could possibly want me, is that it?”

“Not someone twice your age.” Alex’s snort was thick with derision. “Even if he does care about you, which he doesn’t, what happens when you’re not a teenager anymore and he can’t boss you around as easily? Have you thought about that? Why isn’t he with a woman his own age?”

“You’re trying to boss me around!” she shouted, the last of her self-control evaporating. “Stop accusing him of everything under the sun and look in the mirror, for once.” Alex pretended to be such a hero, but they lived in a world where the so-called good guys killed children. The whole of Earth was corrupt, filled with fakers and hypocrites; Alex’s holier-than-thou attitude only proved she couldn’t trust him. August, with all his flaws, was at least genuine. He didn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t—and that authenticity was a lifeline, no matter how twisted.

“Clearly,” Alex forged on, unable to contain his bitterness, “women Voight’s own age aren’t interested.”

She stared at him. “And what am I supposed to do with this information?”

“You’re so mature,” he grumbled, his voice dripping with disgust. “You figure it out.”

“I’m too mature for this nonsense,” she replied, feeling defeated. “Constance is dead, a woman who worshipped you is dead, and you’re trying to re-litigate our breakup.” Alex’s inability to see the irony of his actions struck her almost like a physical blow. He was chasing her, unable to connect this to how Constance must’ve felt—hopelessly yearning for someone who couldn’t reciprocate. It was maddening and, in that moment, she pitied him as much as she resented him.

He froze. His eyes met hers, filled with a desperation that caught her off guard. “Come with me,” he pleaded.

She blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“We can try again, somewhere else. I’m going—

“Don’t tell me,” she cut in.

He took her hand, his grip warm and reassuring. “Life doesn’t have to be like this.”

Except it did, and they both knew it. She’d made her bed and now she had to lie there, and that was the painful truth. If she did go with him, she’d be selfish; she’d never be the person he needed. He deserved someone who loved him the way he wanted to be loved. She’d only be putting him in danger to escape a life she didn’t understand. And even if she did flee, how long could she possibly run? She had no money, no friends, nothing outside of this toxic prison she’d created for herself.

And what would Charlotte do without her?

“Listen,” she begged. “Even if I’d never met August, it wouldn’t have mattered. You and I are wrong for each other, Alex, in every way that two people can be wrong for each other. And the reason you can’t tell me is because I will tell him.” Her eyes held his, willing him to understand. “Because I want to, Alex. Because he’s…who I’ve chosen.”

Alex stared, maybe seeing her for the first time. “When did you become a Nazi?”

“I’m not a Nazi.” Her voice was quiet, but full of conviction.

He scoffed. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“If I were,” she said, “you’d be in the back of a car right now.” She wanted to revel in his look of shock, but she was too tired. “Tell me one thing. Did you know, about Charlotte? Beforehand?”

His gaze hardened. “Go to Hell.”

“I can’t,” she chided quietly. “I’m already here.”

They held that tableau for a long time, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words and shattered dreams. Zelda’s heart ached with the finality of it all. She wanted to reach out, to bridge the chasm between them, but she knew it was impossible. All he saw when he looked at her was a shallow, feckless child. He’d never understand that she was trying to do the right thing, that she always had been. Protecting her family had to come first, however little of it was left.

He stood. “Goodbye, Zelda.” His voice was a whisper, full of pain and regret.

“Goodbye, Alex.” She felt her own words like a knife, cutting the last thread of their connection.

Turning, he walked toward the road. She watched him grow smaller and smaller, her vision blurring with unshed tears. Every step he took felt like a nail being driven into her heart, but she forced herself not to call after him. As he vanished, the balmy morning seemed to grow colder, more unforgiving. She realized, then, just how isolated she truly was—and had been all along.

A long time after that, she got up to go back in.

August was standing under the colonnade.