Augustus’ Point of View
Augustus attended the classes he had that day with fair spirits, but left them feeling as though his brain had been wrung like a rag and then made to sprint a half-mile track. So many projects he had due in these last couple weeks of the semester and he’d barely made a dent in any of them. Of course, he only had himself to blame, but this understanding was about as comforting as having a thorn lodged in your foot. He sighed, running a hand roughly through his hair and then slipping his hands into his pockets to shield them from the chilly air.
Autumn was rapidly giving way, a fact he suspected Gemma would be pleased to see. She had always enjoyed the cold. How many mornings of the first snowfall would Gemma excitedly wake Augustus up and drag him out into the front yard? During how many frigid evenings would Gemma insist on sitting out back by the pond, enthusiastically chatting as the icy night air nipped at their faces? And when would he get the chance to see her so carefree again? He frowned, decidedly unsure, but also finding his mind returning not for the first time to the conversation they’d had over breakfast: “He lets you get close and then he walks away. That’s what he does.”
Why would she say that? Since when did doing something once become indicative of some sort of troubling pattern? And then there were Isaac’s words, sincere and steadying: “Why would I do that when I never wanted to leave you in the first place?”
Gus’ heart clenched, which brought about another disconcerting statement his sister had made: “And to be frank I’m not certain that you ever completely recovered from that.”
He kicked a small pebble out of his path, finding the words as irksome as they’d been when he’d first heard them. Never completely recovered?