Saying Goodbye

Dante

I stand on the porch of my safe house upstate, fidgeting with my watch.

When Eleni told me she mentioned Christos to Mama, I nearly stopped breathing. I expected demands for answers about why I killed her son. I didn’t expect tearful requests for his last words, college stories, and to leave from the airstrip upstate when she returned to Greece a few days later.

I can just see the two of them through the trees, standing in front of the half-hidden grave. Eleni holds Mama, and both of them shake. For the first time in a week, I can actually forget about Camila. I stand on the edge of a towering, personal grief, knowing I was the one who caused it. Still, I’m never really sure if I regret shooting Christos. I miss the devil-may-care freshman, the once-in-a-generation running back, the bastard who made me laugh and carved a line through parties with me. I fucking hate the memory of the taste of his blood, the gunpowder that stained my hands for what felt like weeks after. But the