by Melissa Marr
I yank my hand away from Nate.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry.” Nate folds his hands together, pointedly not touching me now, and asks, “Is it the hand sanitizer? It burns in cuts. I know that. I just wasn’t thinking.”
“No.”
After a few quiet moments pass, Nate asks, “You’re shaking.”
“I’m okay,” I lie.
It’s not like I have any other options that make sense. How do I say “either I’m hallucinating or I somehow saw your death”? I can’t. I’m not overly superstitious, but I’ve always sort of thought that it might not be a bad idea to go along with the ones that are easy to manage. I don’t step on dead folks’ graves; I don’t walk under ladders. I toss a pinch of salt over my shoulder to avoid bad luck; I only pick up pennies on the sidewalk if they’re faceup. I’m not very fond of Friday the thirteenth, or really any thirteens, and I know that someday when I get married I will be wearing something blue, something borrowed, something old, and something new. For now, I stay clear of catching any bouquets at weddings, but I do stand in the group of girls and women. I may not be ready, but I don’t want to risk being an old maid either.
My mind is still running over my tiny harmless superstitions when Nate asks, “Do you need a nurse?”
“No.” I sniffle, and he hands me the box of tissues. I dab at the tears on my face, wincing a little as I get too near one of the unstitched cuts.
“Okaaay. . . . Tell me what’s going on here because you were shivering and staring blankly, and right now, you look like you’ve been out on the slopes too long.” He pulls off his sweatshirt and puts it on my lap like a blanket.
I smile at him and reach out to touch his hand, but he pulls back before I do.
“Eva, you need to tell the doctors if—”
“It’s okay,” I interrupt. “They know.”
I repeat the lie again because I don’t know what else to say. I’m not okay. I’m hallucinating, scarred, and in a wheelchair. I’m really, really not okay.
We sit quietly for a moment until Nate says, “Do you want to turn on the news?”
“If you want.”
Nate rolls his eyes. “I bet you still watch it for hours.”
“Whatever.” I can’t argue though. It’s true. I don’t know why I like the news so much, but I follow bunches of news feeds online, and since I’ve been in here, I’ve watched everything from CNN to the Weather Channel to the local news on WRAL—even though it was mostly about the Raleigh–Durham area.
Nate reaches over and pushes some buttons on the remote, and the words fill the room. I’m not really watching it—Nate distracts me by simply breathing—but then I hear: “. . . and over in Jessup, seventeen-year-old Michelle ‘Micki’ Adams was killed in a car crash in the Jackson Road area. The accident happened early this morning when the Adams’ car overturned after going over an embankment. Indications here at the site”—the camera pans around the area, where skid marks are visible, and small bits of debris from the accident glitter in the sun—“are that Adams attempted to stop her descent after what appears to be a collision with an unknown car, but was unable to do so. She was rushed to Mercy Hospital in Durham, but was pronounced dead on arrival at 4:41 a.m., a spokesman for the hospital said. Police officials say that an investigation is ongoing, but are not commenting further at this time.”
“No!” My hand tightens on his. Tears race down my cheeks. We’ve known Micki since we were in elementary school.
“Adams is the second Jessup teenager who has been rushed to Mercy Hospital in recent weeks. Eva Elizabeth Tilling, daughter of winery heiress Elizabeth Tilling née Cooper, was—” The broadcast cuts off abruptly as Nate clicks the remote again, stopping the horrible words.
We sit quietly for a moment. Micki is dead.
“I can’t believe she’s gone.” Nate looks up and meets my eyes before he continues, “When we were in sixth grade . . . we were at a school dance, and afterwards, both of our parents were late. We were the only two left, and the chaperone went outside. I kissed her. Micki was my first real kiss.”
“I know,” I say just as quietly. “Everyone knew.”
“Oh.”
“Micki was so excited. Nathaniel freaking Bouchet kissed her.” I do smile at the memory now. Thinking about that Micki—the one who was alive—is better. We weren’t friends, but we talked. She was obsessed with her reputation, and it made her almost deferential to me. I didn’t like it.
I’m not sure if Nate has noticed how much Micki has changed since then, and even though she still probably thought Nate was gorgeous, she wouldn’t have kissed him now. I don’t mention any of that. There’s no reason to speak ill of the dead. All I say now is “She was the envy of half the class when you kissed her.”
He frowns. “Why?”
“You were cute, Nate. Girls noticed. Micki had managed something that the others hadn’t yet.”
“I just can’t believe she’s gone.”
“She’s not gone. She’s dead.”
Nate nods.
Quietly, I ask, “Do you think it was an accident?”
“Maybe.”
“She could’ve lost control or fallen asleep, but”—I falter, and my voice has an edge to it now—“I don’t think it was an accident.”
“So you think it’s related to your accident like they said?”
That’s the question. If they’re right, someone really did try to kill me. They did kill Micki. This kind of thing doesn’t happen in Jessup. There are crimes, but mostly mailbox baseball or drunk driving or fights. No one gets murdered. There are shootings and other real crimes in Raleigh and in Durham. There are drugs, murders, and muggings. Jessup is different though. Jessup is safe; it’s like the town the ’50s forgot.
Quietly, I say, “I don’t know for sure. Newscasters always try to tie things together to make a story more sensational.”
The room seems too quiet now, but I’m not sure what to say or do. Someone we know died. Someone might have tried to kill me. Those aren’t thoughts that make conversation flow.
“Do you need to leave?” I ask after several silent minutes.
“Do you want me to?”
“No.” I pause, swallow, and stare down at my hands before saying, “I want you to hold me. It’s probably stupid, and I know I’m safe, but I’m scared.”
He stands and bends toward me, but then stops. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I think he means my cuts and bruises, but it sounds like he means more than that. Either way, I catch his hand and pull him closer. He kneels beside me on the bed, and I rest my head against his chest as he hugs me carefully.
“Let me tell Nora that I’ll be here, tell her about Micki, and then I’ll stay for a while. Aaron will understand if I’m away for a couple hours.”
Reluctantly, I release him.
He stands and leaves as soon as I whisper, “Okay.”
While he’s gone, my nurse comes in and helps me get out of bed and onto crutches. It’s a very slow process, but it lets me have a few moments of mobility for things like going to the bathroom. I still ache in a lot of places, but I need to be able to do this in order to be released from the hospital. I’ll have a wheelchair, but for a quick trip to the bathroom this is better.
I use the bathroom and brush my teeth. I’m back in the bed, and he hasn’t returned yet—and it feels weird to be waiting in my bed for Nate. I tell myself that since the head of the hospital bed is raised, it’s sort of like sitting on a recliner. Regardless of how it’s shaped right now, it’s still a bed, and Nate is still a boy.
He walks into the room, but he stops beside the edge of the bed. It doesn’t make it any less awkward. I pat the space beside me, and he sits so his feet dangle over the edge. He’s in a half-turned position, like he’s trying not to be all the way in the bed.
“Put your feet up too.”
He is silent, but he does as I suggest.
“If you don
’t want to hold me, it’s okay. It’s probably weird. I just . . .” I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s fine.” He moves closer.
I try to reach out to him rather than let him touch me first. The hallucinations seem to come when people touch my bare skin. I can’t handle another episode, not tonight. I’m not fast enough to touch him first though, and his fingertips brush my shoulder. I brace myself, but nothing happens.
When I flinch, he tenses, arm not quite around my shoulders. “What?”
I look at him and see the wariness in his eyes. Rather than lie or admit my hallucinations, I reach up and grab his hand. After I pull his arm more firmly around me, I settle against him and feel safer immediately.
I feel guilty for it. Micki’s dead. I shouldn’t be thinking about how much safer I feel in Nate’s arms.
After a few minutes, I glance at him and find him looking at me curiously. I reach up to touch his face. I watch him tense as I cup his face with my hand, my fingers curling under his jawline. It’s sheer foolishness on my part, but I let my thumb stroke across his cheek.
He swallows, and I feel his throat muscles move under my fingertips. “What are you doing?”
“Touching skin that isn’t covered with scars.”
Although he doesn’t pull away, he doesn’t move toward me either.
After a few moments, I lower my hand. “Sorry.”
“I’m fine with it,” he says, but he still shifts a little farther away. “Baucom might not be though.”
“No,” I admit. “Robert wouldn’t like it.”
“Right.” Nate moves so there is a gap between us.
I hate this. I don’t want to talk about Robert or deaths or scars. I want to be normal for a minute. I want to be okay. I move closer to the boy who was my best friend for years, the boy I’ve missed, and whisper, “Don’t move.”
“Robert—”
“I’ll warn you before I tell Robert I’m sleeping with the Jessup man-slut.”
“You’re what? Eva, that’s not—”
“Hush.” Offering him my most innocent look, I say, “I’m going to sleep. You’re here. Ergo, sleeping with the man-slut.”
“Jesus, Eva. You can’t say things like that.”
I put my hand over his mouth. “Shh. Sleeping now. I’ll let you know if you live up to your reputation, although so far, I’m not seeing what all the fuss was about.” I close my eyes. There’s a lot wrong right now, far more than ever in my life, but I feel safer and happier because Nate’s with me.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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DAY 9: “THE SLEEPOVER”
Eva
“MISS TILLING?” MY NIGHT nurse, Linda, is standing beside the bed.
I’m used to the nurses waking me in the night for vitals, so finding a nurse beside me isn’t odd. What is odd is the body I’m curled against. Nate is still here, one arm wrapped around me holding me to his side. Worse yet, my hand is splayed out on his chest under his shirt. He hadn’t put his hoodie back on, and his T-shirt rode up at some point, and I can see his bare stomach. If Linda wasn’t watching me so studiously, I might take a minute to appreciate the sight, but she is watching.
I remove my hand from where it rests against his skin and hold it up to motion the nurse to wait. Then, carefully so I don’t wake him yet, I move my leg off Nate too. I’d rather he not know how I sprawled on top of him in our sleep.
He makes a grumbling noise when I remove my hand and my leg from his body, but he doesn’t wake.
Silently, I extend my arm to her so she can check my blood pressure and pulse. Her lips purse, and I realize that she’s about to go on my very short list of nurses I don’t like. So far, almost every nurse here at Mercy has been amazing. Maybe it’s because they work in pediatrics; it takes a bit of extra awesomeness to work with sick kids.
After she finishes the rest of her check, she says, “Nate can’t stay here.”
It startles me a little that she knows his name, but he did say that his brother had been here a few times. It sucks that any kid has been sick often enough that the nurses know his family members. It also improves my opinion of Linda that she takes the time to learn that information.
“Boyfriends aren’t—”
“Friends,” I interrupt, a little too loudly. “He’s my friend.”
Nate rolls me back into his arms and trails his hand up my spine before he opens his eyes and blinks at me. He clears his throat before asking, “What time is it?”
Linda takes her gloves off and drops them into the wastebasket. “Almost midnight.”
“Shit, Aaron—”
“Is fine.” She softens a little more. “He’s asleep. Andy played checkers with him and read a little. He knows you’re here if he needs you. He’s fine.”
“Andy’s his nurse tonight?” Nate asks.
He’s still holding me, and it feels a lot less comfortable now that we’re both awake and talking to my nurse. She’s watching us with blatant curiosity, and it makes me decide to pull away from Nate. We might not be in Jessup right now, but nurses are as likely to gossip as anyone else—or, worse yet, tell my parents. The last thing Nate needs is a “talking to” from my father.
“A friend of ours died today,” I say, drawing both of their gazes to me. “Nate and I were just sad and . . . we fell asleep. She was in an accident, and now . . .”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry.” She reaches out to touch me, and I flinch away before she can.
“Gloves!” I blurt. “The doctor said gloves so no one risks getting sick or . . . I mean, I’m not sick, but what if one of my cuts bled or . . . what if you had a cold you didn’t know about . . . or something.”
Neither Nate nor Linda point out that I’m babbling. Linda nods and repeats, “I’m sorry.” I’m not sure if she’s apologizing for reaching out without gloves or for what I said about Micki’s death.
For a moment, no one speaks, but then Linda gently says, “Nate still can’t stay in here.” She looks at him and adds, “Stop by the desk so I know you’ve left Miss Tilling’s room. Boyfriend or not, you can’t sleep in her bed.”
And then she turns and leaves the room. She doesn’t latch the door behind her or even close it the whole way. I wonder if he feels as awkward as I do.
“I guess your reputation made it all the way to Durham,” I tease to hide my discomfort.
“Or they know that you’re the daughter of Elizabeth Cooper-Tilling,” he says in a less-joking tone. “I can’t imagine Reverend Tilling or your father would approve of me sleeping with you . . . even if it was only sleep.”
I cringe at the thought of my parents knowing that Nate slept here. “I’m sorry. If they find out, I can explain it.”
Even though they’re pretty hands-off on the parenting, I’m expected to follow the rules—those implied and those stated. I don’t always. I’ve been to more than a few of the same parties Nate attends, and I slept with Robert with no intention of marrying him. I’ve always been careful not to get a reputation though, and I’ve never dated anyone who didn’t go to church. I don’t draw attention to myself, not academically or socially. Taking up with Nathaniel Bouchet would raise a lot of brows and lower a lot of voices.
He’s said nothing, so I take a deep breath. “Still friends?”
He frowns before he pulls me closer. “Even if I was sure they would know I slept here, I’d still have stayed.” His lips graze my temple, and he whispers, “You’re worth the trouble, Eva.”
I can’t speak.
He stays holding me for a moment longer, and then he releases me and stands. As he moves away from me, I’m once more grateful for the darkened room. Hopefully, it hides the way I’m watching him. If we’re going to manage to be friends, I can’t let his words mean more than they should.
He rubs his hair, as if to smooth it down, and straightens
his rumpled shirt. He doesn’t meet my gaze as he does this, and I have a half-present hope that he’s noticed me as more than a friend. Just as quickly as the thought forms, I dismiss it: I can’t imagine anyone is ever going to find me attractive once they look at the scars and red lines that divide my face like an oddly drawn map.
“See you tomorrow?” he asks.
“I should be going home.” I force my voice to sound as casual as I can make it. I don’t want to assume he’ll visit there.
“And . . . ?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay.” He gives me a little half wave and heads to the door.
Once he’s gone, I sigh. I’m pretty sure that if not for the hospital part of the evening, Robert would consider tonight cheating. I could point out the truth: nothing happened, and I’m not Nate’s type anyhow—especially now that I have a slashed-up face. It wouldn’t matter. I was draped over the guy every boy at school thinks is a threat; that would be reason enough for Robert to break up with me.
I need to talk to him and soon, not just about Nate, but also about why he isn’t visiting and where he was the night of the accident.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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DAY 10: “THE PARENTS”
Eva
WHEN MY PARENTS WALK into my hospital room the next day, I’m a jumble of emotions. Micki is dead; Nate held me when I slept; I’m getting out of the hospital; my parents are seeing my scars. There’s too much feeling wrapped up tightly inside me right now. My head throbs; my eyes fill with tears.
My father stands at the doorway, staring at me. His face is unreadable.
“Hi, Dad.” I look away before my tears fall. “Hi, Mom.”
My mother comes over, starts to lean closer, but then stops and kisses the air above my head. Quietly, she whispers, “I was so scared. I wish we could’ve been here sooner.”
