“I told you. No one believes. They will tell you I’m not real. They want to take me away from you.”
“Are you real?”
The Boy, always a fidgeting presence, goes painfully still. His breathing stops, and I force myself to stare at the leaves drifting down, to not glance at him. I can’t look at him.
“You know what happened, Gwen. You know the truth about me.”
I shake my head. “Grayson says the accident could have caused a break—that I could be seeing you because I can’t handle the trauma of being on the Second Star with my parents dead.”
He scoffs, an impatient noise. “You know better. You just want to take the easy way out.”
That infuriates me, and I do look at him. Damn him to hell. “Easy? Easy? What the hell do you think is easy about this? I’m in a mental institute. My best friends are a brother who thinks I’m insane and a doctor who won’t tell me I’m not. I see things no one else does, and you—every time I think I’m getting better, you show up and I can’t decide what I believe.” I’m hysterical, my voice a shouting whisper. He stares at me, cat eyes startled. “My parents are dead! What the hell do you think is easy about any of this?”
I jerk to my feet. I am rarely the one to leave first, but this time I am. And he doesn’t try to stop me.
I slam my books down on my desk, muttering darkly as I do. On her side of the room, Orchid stirs and sits up, blinking sleepily.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I snipe. I don’t need to look to know her eyebrows shoot up, and her expression cools. I should go and apologize, but I’m too furious and too shaken.
Why, why why? Why now? Why me—what about me drew the Boy, over and over?
“What do you do, when you know someone is bad for you and you can’t avoid seeing them?”
She cocks her head, black hair falling in a silky sheet over one shoulder. “Who?”
I wave the question off. She rolls her eyes. “I ignore them.”
That is an option, isn’t it? I’ve ignored the Boy, drifting in and out of my life, for two years. I’ve faked sanity until I began to believe it was real.
And Peter, whatever else he is, is real. Other people—even Micah—saw him. Spoke to him. That lends a credence to him that makes me breathe a little easier, the tight feeling in my chest easing.
“Was class that bad?”
“I don’t remember,” I say. I curl on my bed, and Orchid comes to sit cross legged at the end of it, leaning back against the wall.
I am craving solitude, but being with Orchid is almost like being alone—she is quiet, flipping through channels on the TV while I lie still.
I can ignore him. Peter is Greek, clearly in a fraternity. He won’t linger long around a girl who isn’t interested. It’s not much of a plan, but it’s more than I had even five minutes ago.
So I clutch it like a lifeline and let the babble of the TV sooth me.
Chapter 4
For the next month, it works.
I find a rhythm that I can embrace. I attend classes faithfully. I row three times a week with Micah and begin running the other two days. I study and call Grayson and sit in on weekly conference calls to the Board. I even find a strange friendship with Orchid, who is not exactly warm, but is comforting with her militant refusal to be impressed or even fazed by anything I do.
Even when I slip and let my crazy show, she remains blankly unaffected.
And twice a week, I sit through Lit 101 and tolerate Peter at my side with his watching eyes and amused smile.
Because the theory that he would get bored and move on to easier conquests? Completely not the case.
I fidget in my seat now, waiting for class to start. Mondays are the worst, because even as class winds down, I know I’ll see him again in just forty eight hours.
What’s odd to me is that I never see him with his frat brothers. I know he’s pledged—he wears the letters of AGZ—but I don’t see him interact with them. Sometimes I wonder if he simply stole the letters. They wander the campus in packs—unmistakable with their scruffy hair and sharp eyes.
He’s late. Dr. Vosslor is already at the front of the class, arranging his papers and text while a student talks to him, holding a sheaf of papers like it’s the Holy Grail.
Maybe he won’t come.
I begin to relax in my seat when a familiar body lands in the chair next to me. I swallow my sigh, and for the first time in a month, I flick a look at him.
He’s staring at me, his green cat eyes intent. I jerk back, and a smile tickles the edges of his lips. I want to say something—anything—to wipe that smile off his face, but I can’t. Ignoring him has been working.
Except he’s still sitting next to me. He’s still watching me during class.
“Will you ignore me forever?” he asks, the first time he’s spoken to me since our first class, and I shudder. His voice is like a breath of wind, brushing across my senses.
I bite down on the response bubbling on the tip of my tongue, and he sighs, a frustrated noise that is almost lost in the noise of Dr. Vosslor calling class to order.
He leans into my personal space, close enough I can feel the heat of his skin, the silky brush of his hair as his lips linger near my ear.
“I’m very patient, Gwendolyn. I won’t go away just because you decide that ignoring me is the easy way out.”
I flinch, and he pulls away, settling in his seat. I barely listen through the lecture, barely hear the discussion of the assigned reading. I’m acutely aware of Peter when he answers questions—but it doesn’t make sense. Nothing does anymore.
How does he know my name? And why do his words echo the Boy’s?
It could be coincidence, a memory shaped by this ordinary young man who reminds me, painfully, of someone who is extraordinary.
The class erupts into noise, and I blink, staring around. Class is over. Peter shifts next to me, and I bolt, grabbing my bag and books and darting out before he can actually speak.
It was working. So now that it isn’t…what am I going to do?
Orchid is sitting at her desk when I burst in, which isn’t why I stop short. That is stretched across my bed like some kind of male model for bad decisions.
James peers at me through barely slitted eyes, and I hit his foot with my bag. “Get off my bed, James.”
He smiles slowly. Behind me, Orchid makes a low noise, and James laughs, rolling to his feet. I eye the bed, debating washing the sheets. Or burning them.
It’s not that I dislike him. I don’t. It’s that he is too charming. Too enigmatic and mysterious and unpredictable.
He reminds me of the Boy, except I’m painfully aware that he isn’t him. My Boy didn’t drip sex appeal, and his mischievous smile wasn’t laced with danger.
“What’s wrong?” Orchid asks.
“Nothing.”
Her eyebrow arches lazily. “You look like someone just kicked your dog and stole your lunch money. And you ran here. So let’s try again.”
I frown. “There’s a guy in Lit. He won’t leave me alone—it’s annoying.”
“What do you mean?” James asks, and despite the way he studies his nails, there is something intent about the question.
“He watches me in class. He always sits next to me, and today, he asked how long I was going to ignore him.”
“Has he hurt you?”
I shake my head sharply. Grayson made sure I was taught to protect myself, and that’s not the vibe Peter gave off. “It’s not that kind of thing, James. I’m not scared of him.”
“But you want him to back off.”
I nod.
“Fine. I’ll go to class with you on Wednesday.”
Orchid frowns, twisting to stare at us. “Why you?”
“Because I’m a man. If this guy thinks she’s with someone, maybe he’ll back off.”
I flush. For some reason, the idea of Peter thinking I’m with James is disturbing. I squeeze past him and go to the cabinets, rattling
around as I search for my favorite mug. Behind me, both of them are quiet, and I wonder what kind of looks they’re exchanging. How worried about me they are today.
Orchid doesn’t bother worrying often. But I know she does, on occasion.
“Let’s go out,” she says abruptly.
I hesitate, looking at her, and she smirks. “James has been trying to drag me to a club downtown. We should go. It could be fun.”
A club is the last place I want to go, but I also don’t want to sit here, dwelling on my own thoughts and wondering what the hell to do about Peter. So I nod and reach for my phone. I thumb a quick message to my brother. Micah won't care that I'm not at dinner—he might even be relieved—but I can't just vanish without telling him. He would worry.
I put the phone down and look at Orchid. She's staring at James, who is busy rifling through my closet. I lean over to her and murmur, "Are we sure he's straight?"
Orchid's lips twitch, almost a smile. From the closet, James says, "I heard that, Gwen." He rummages for a few minutes longer and finally emerges with a dress I bought online. One that I've never had the guts or occasion to wear.
"If you’re going to go out with me, ladies," he says, "you'll have to lose the yoga pants and t-shirts."
I lick my lips and start to form a protest, but something stops me. Maybe it was Peter, echoing the Boy's words, or maybe it's the flicker of curiosity in James’ eyes as he holds the dress out like a challenge. But whatever it is, I take a step forward and pull the dress from him. "What about Orchid?"
His smile grows, a tiny bit more predatory and dangerous, as he looks at my roommate. "Don't worry. I'll take care of both of you."
The words lick along my nerves and spark a tingle of something I haven’t felt in years. Excitement.
An hour later, I tug at my skirt. The electric blue corset is laced tight enough that I’m not sure breathing is possible, much less drinking, and the tiny ruffled skirt of blue and black seems much shorter now that it did in my room. James took one look and tossed the fishnet stockings aside. My hair hangs around my face in messy waves, and I can feel people watching as we enter the club. “I really think I should have worn leggings,” I mutter.
James hooks an arm around my neck, pulling me into him. “You’re perfect. Now. Go with Orchid. I’ll get us a round of drinks.”
The club is dark, with flashing lights that illuminate the crowded dance floor. Music pounds, a steady beat as I teeter after Orchid in the dark club.
There are flashes of people, faces. I can see them talking, but there’s a disconnect, their words lost to the pound of the music. It’s eerie, and a hush of solitude falls over me, even here, in the large crowd, in the constant noise.
Someone collides with my back, and the feeling shatters, falling away as I stumble, tripping over my heels. Orchid gives an angry sounding shout as I fall.
An arm, hard as steel, jerks me upright, and I swallow my shriek. Lights spin around me, and I land hard against a solid chest.
The scent of wild things and the ocean fills my senses. The chest rumbles and then he touches my arms, pulling back to stare at me.
Why on earth did it have to be Peter? I swallow hard and pull back. Peter’s hand drops, wrapping around my waist and holding me close to him. “Get that asshole out of here,” he says sharply, and three of the guys surrounding him jerk into motion. I have a single heartbeat to wonder what the hell is happening, and then he’s taking me by the hand and pulling me through the crowd.
I yelp, stumbling in my heels, and Peter makes a disgruntled noise, stopping abruptly. There is a moment to wonder what he will do before I feel the world tilt as he scoops me into his arms.
I go still in my shock. Distantly, I can hear James and Orchid yelling, but Peter's frat brothers hold them away from us as he carries me through the club and into a dark, blessedly quiet room.
He sets me carefully on the sky blue bench seat. Vaguely, I wonder what has spilled on this seat. I shudder and tug at my skirt. I just flashed the whole bar a view of my panties.
Good thing I wore the cute black lace.
"What are you doing here?" Peter asks, his voice tight and low.
I jerk. He sounds almost angry, and it pisses me off. "I'm out with friends. Not that it's any of your fucking business."
He scoffs, "Accrocher isn't a friend, he's a douchebag. You shouldn't hang out with him."
I splutter and jerk to my feet. "I don't know you. I've made it clear I don't want to know you. Who the hell do you think you are, to tell me who I should or shouldn't be friends with?"
He steps into me, green eyes glittering. "But I want to know you."
I shake my head. "No. It's a bad idea."
"Tell me why. If you can tell me why we can't be friends—why you ignore me and run from me, why you would rather be with that asshole—I'll leave you alone. I won't bother you again. But it needs to be something real, Gwen. Not a bullshit reason."
It occurs to me that he has no right to demand an explanation. I don't owe Peter anything. Except that he's staring at me, with the face the Boy could have had.
Even knowing he was a delusion, I can't throw away the feeling that I owe him something.
"Fine. After class on Wednesday," I say. His eyes brighten, and he nods. I move to step past him, to return to the dance floor.
His arms come around my waist, snagging me to him when I try to step past. I come up against his chest and struggle to keep myself from doing anything stupid. Like melting against him. His arms are like steel bands around me, holding me secure to him.
I haven't felt this safe in years, but it's not real. "I won't stop, you know," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.
I shiver, and he smiles, a mischievous grin that begs me to join him in the fun. "You promised."
Something shutters in his gaze. "People break promises all the time, Gwen."
The door behind us bangs open, and Peter releases me immediately. Orchid stalks to my side. She's wearing a brilliant orange top and a skirt almost smaller than mine. With her ink black hair and pale skin, she's an exotic, gorgeous, and spitting mad.
Peter's eyes go wide at the sight of her.
“Who the hell are you?” she spits, “and why the fuck are you dragging my roommate around like a caveman?”
Behind her, James coughs, covering a laugh. She shoots him a fierce glare, and the man goes quiet—either intelligence or self-preservation.
"Gwendolyn is free to go when she wishes," Peter says stiffly. His gaze flicks between us.
"Is this the guy?" Orchid demands. "The one from Lit?"
I flush, hating that he knows I've mentioned him to my roommate.
Her scowl, if anything, becomes more severe. "Leave her the hell alone."
"I will, if that is what the lady wishes."
That draws Orchid up sharply. I know why--it's so strangely worded. Who the hell talks like that?
"Let's go, Gwen," Orchid says, and I follow her. I can't stay in this too small room any longer. I glance back at Peter before James nudges me out the door. My heart twists.
He looks like a memory, hurt and lonely as I turn away from him.
We don't stay long after that. Rather, I don't. I call a cab and catch a ride back to campus. Orchid and James stayed. She was furious, spitting curses and chasing away every random guy that approached me. It was exhausting to watch, and I could feel Peter's gaze on me as I tried to dance. It didn't make for a relaxing evening, and the crowd was making me anxious, so I didn't even bother to pretend to enjoy it. I made my apologies and cut out.
Why did I agree to meet with him? It's a bad idea. Already, I'm trying to figure out how to get out of the meeting. How I can gracefully decline. Except, if it gets him to back off—even temporarily—isn't it worth the discomfort of one meeting?
In the quiet of my room, I strip out of the corset dress and slip into one of the undershirts I stole from Micah. Then I curl in my bed and listen to the rain that is just beginnin
g to fall and drift into sleep.
I’m at Aunt Jane's home, a huge mausoleum of a thing. It's been a year, today, since they plucked me off the boat in the middle of the ocean, and it's the first time I've been out of that hellhole of an institute—Brecken Ridge is more aptly called Broken Rich by the patients, and I hate it. No one listens there. They medicate—they are damn good at that. But they don't listen, and in the fog of medicine, it's hard to tell what is real. If the Boy is real or just a product of my broken mind. I cling to what I know. The boat is real, my parents are dead. I am alone, all that Micah has.
It feels wrong to miss the island. But I do. And I'm so tired of the pills and the pitying looks and Aunt Jane's sharp voice telling me everything I believe is a lie. I shudder. I don't believe her. I can't believe her.
But it's been three months since I’ve seen him. Since they changed my medicine and the whole world became a fog. I can barely remember anything from those months, but I remember that he was not in them.
Is being drugged out of your mind better than being insane? During times like this, I find myself wishing I had died too, on that godforsaken boat in the middle of nowhere.
I eye the bottle of pills. Aunt Jane doesn't realize I haven't been taking them—I quit the morning I got here and realized she didn't check.
"Pixie girl?"
His voice is softly cautious. I twist to look. The Boy never changes—he is the eternal child, always the same. Always a smiling, mischievous presence in the back of my world.
Except today, his face is creased with worry. It's an odd expression for him, something that registers dimly.
"What are you doing, pixie girl?"
I lean into him. He's warm against me, a stark contrast to the cool tiles I'm crouched on.
"I missed you," I murmur.
He sighs, a brush of the wind. The Boy, in my mind, will always be associated with the elements: his voice like the rains on the water, his sigh a gentle breeze threatening something heavier. His anger is like tidal waves and lightning and flash fires—destructive and mindless.
But this, now, is the gentle warmth of spring, the fresh promise of a new world.
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