Idon’t see Benson when I enter the library—not entirely unheard of, he does occasionally have to do actual work. But despite my homework, the real reason I came here was to see him, to talk to him, and my nerves are

 

so frazzled that when I don’t immediately catch sight of him, my stillrecovering brain finds it impossible to formulate a plan B. “Oh, Tavia dear.” Marie’s soft voice scares me so badly I spin with an audible gasp. I have got to simmer down. “Benson’s back in the file room. Would you like me to get him for you?”

 

Marie is the head librarian and technically Benson’s boss. She’s about as strict as a bowl of whipped cream, and Benson adores her. Which means that she adores him back—and who wouldn’t?—but also that she often hovers when we’re working and pays me extra attention because I’m Benson’s special friend.

 

And she always pronounces my name wrong. We’ve had the conversation—Tave, it rhymes with cave, not mauve—but it never sticks.

 

“Y-yes please,” I answer, hoping she didn’t notice the stutter. She just smiles and heads toward the back of the library at a maddeningly slow pace, her silver, wavy hair bouncing as she walks.

 

I suppose it’s not a particularly complimentary testament to my social life that my only friend is a library intern, but considering I’m attending high school online and don’t have a classmate within a hundred miles, I can hardly be choosy. After missing four months of school for physical and neurological recovery, online was pretty much my only option if I didn’t want to be a “super senior.”

 

Besides, Reese and Jay thought it would be better for me to get a whole new start out here, a thousand miles away from my old life. At first I assumed they just didn’t want to move, and I didn’t blame them. But in the end I think they were right. I like being someplace new—where I’m not immediately labeled the poor girl who lost both her parents. Broken and orphaned. Something tells me there’s no going back to normal after either of those, much less both.

 

Plus class work gives me an excuse to get out of the house almost every day to come here and see Benson. Not that I need an excuse, but I don’t want Reese and Jay to think I’m trying to get away from them.

 

And I’m not . . . exactly. It’s just weird to be in the house with Reese all day long every single day. I’m eighteen; I should be out doing high school stuff. Football games, school plays, hanging out at McDonald’s eating my weight in french fries. The kind of stuff I used to occasionally let my friends drag me out for, back in Michigan. The kind of stuff I’d decided to do more of my senior year at my new art school. Maybe even with a guy—a nice, artsy guy.

 

And then my plans crashed along with the plane.

 

Things like that don’t interest me anymore. I’d accepted that I would have a secluded senior year when an English assignment sent me to the library for the first time a couple months ago and Benson Ryder was the one who introduced himself to me.

 

Then taught me how to use microfiche. Friendship at first sight. Literally.

 

I slip into a chair at our usual table and knead the muscles on my right leg—they’re always a little tender after the half-mile walk here— before glancing around the sparsely populated library. It generally isn’t too busy between nine and four, unless one of the local elementary schools is having a field trip. It gets busier in the afternoon, when school’s out, but one of the advantages of online school is that I can go to the library anytime I want.

 

Plus Benson is more likely to be free to “study” with me when fewer people are there to ask for his help—or overhear the conversation we’re about to have.

 

As I reach into my backpack to pull out my textbooks, I’m dismayed to see my hands are shaking. Am I nervous to tell Benson? That doesn’t seem quite right. Maybe I’m just still so messed up from everything that’s happened.

 

And I’m not sure exactly how to tell Benson about the blond guy from yesterday.

 

And last night.

 

This morning, technically.

 

I don’t even know his name, but he feels special somehow. My secret. Not the kind of secret that makes you feel guilty and empty inside; he’s a cappuccino secret—something sweet and frothy that warms me from the middle out.

 

Still, I need to tell Benson. I should tell someone in case . . . in case this guy really is dangerous. Though even the thought makes me prickle in defense.

 

As though I know him.

 

Benson will understand, won’t he? Benson knows everything about me. Everything. It’s been a slow process—you don’t just walk up to someone and say, “Hi! I’m the orphaned sole survivor of one of the biggest plane crashes in history and I’ve been hiding from the media for six months and oh, by the way, did I mention I’m recovering from a traumatic brain injury?”

 

But slowly—and without me consciously intending it to—it all sort of spilled out. About a month ago, when I finally confided that the “car crash” was actually a plane crash, I expected Benson to be mad. That fact I’d outright lied about. More than once.

 

He just laughed and stretched his arms out to the side and asked, “Seriously, is there anything else I should know about you? Long-lost twin? Secret baby? Toenail fetish?”

 

I love how he makes me laugh at myself.

 

But his smile was a little strained until I assured him that, no, there was nothing more and he now knew all my deep, dark secrets. And it was an incredible relief to tell him. To stop lying.

 

To one person, anyway.

 

I think that’s the day I realized I was falling for him.

 

Not that it’ll ever happen. Probably. He’s so focused on school and I . . . I’m kinda broken. Not just my injuries. I’ve changed. In ways I can hardly put my finger on, but I can’t deny it. Concentration is harder than it used to be. Everything is harder, really. My brain injury was considered moderate and my recovery pronounced by the doctors to be “miraculous,” but simply living is a tiny bit less natural, a shade less instinctive. A little less . . . everything. I’ve mostly come to terms with it. But I don’t know that I’m ready for a real relationship with anyone yet. Or even soon. My life is a tangle of uncertainty.

 

Besides, he has this girl. Dana. I haven’t met her—I don’t want to meet her—but apparently she’s gorgeous and funny and smart and amazing and . . . well, an angel come to earth, according to Benson. They aren’t dating. Yet, as Benson says. But he talks about her all the time.

 

When I can’t get him to change the subject.

 

He won’t even see me; not compared to that. And I’m not willing to lose his friendship just because I can’t have it both ways.

 

Pushing away my self-pity, I look down and realize I’ve been subconsciously doodling. Just scribbles. Rubbing my pencil back and forth, essentially. But . . .

 

But . . .

 

I turn the paper sideways and swallow hard as a jolt of adrenaline tingles down my arms. The dark smudges definitely look like someone’s shadow.

 

A guy’s shadow. A guy who’s tall and slim and has a hint of a ponytail.

 

I let the pencil slip from my fingers and clench my fists, trying to get control of my breathing, my panic coming from a completely different source now.

 

I haven’t drawn a thing since the day my plane went down. Not that I haven’t tried. But art is the symbol of my ruined dreams.

 

And the reason my parents are dead.

 

I know technically it’s irrational, but if I hadn’t insisted on going to tour the fancy art school that offered me a scholarship, we never would have boarded that plane. Elizabeth tells me I’m mis-assigning blame. But knowing that and feeling it are two very different things. Every day I fight the guilt.

 

Sometimes I win.

 

Most days I lose.

 

Someone at the school—Huntington Academy of the Arts—saw my work when it was displayed at the Michigan state capitol. They contacted me and requested a portfolio of every piece of art I’d ever done, tempting me with full-color brochures of a beautiful campus where students could apparently take out their easels and paint sunsets at their leisure.

 

Mom and Dad were skeptical at first, but when the school sent me a full-ride scholarship for my senior year to the tune of about $50K, they had to at least agree to let me go see it.

 

After the crash I was surprised to realize that I still wanted to go. It felt wrong, yet something inside me still wanted to reclaim what I’d lost.

 

But the first time I tried to pick up a pencil, it fell out of my fingers. I couldn’t even hold the stupid thing. The doctors told me it was because my brain was still healing; that they expected me to regain all my motor function with physical therapy.

 

And time.

 

I insisted Reese call Huntington. After she explained everything, I was surprised how willing they were to defer my scholarship—to let me start up in January when my injuries were healed.

 

But the fall months passed and I could still barely write my name. Every time I tried, I’d turn into a crying mess all over again. Reese encouraged me through November, December. She told me art was an inherent part of me, part of who I am. To this day I’m not sure why she cared so much. But New Year’s came and even though my hands were better, my artist’s block was all too firmly in place. I called the school myself, on my last day in the neuro-rehabilitation center, and withdrew.

 

Reese and Jay didn’t try to talk me out of it.

 

I sigh, loudly. With Benson still AWOL and the weight of anxiety pressing down on me, I cast about for something to keep me busy—to distract me—while I wait. I grab a newspaper from the table next to me and start mechanically reading the words, hardly taking them in. I’m on the second page before I feel an arm drape around the back of my chair.

 

“Sorry I took so long,” Benson says. I have only a moment to take in a blur of khakis and a pastel green and blue plaid shirt before he’s there on the chair beside me. His breath feels warm on my neck as he glances at the paper, and I feel my fingers tingle. I grip the page tighter and force myself not to lean in—not to press my forehead against his cheek and see if it’s as soft as it looks or gritty with stubble. “Marie had a crapload of filing saved up for me.”

 

“I hardly noticed you were gone,” I say with mock-loftiness, though my body has practically gone limp with relief. “I was too busy reading about the plague that’s going to destroy the world,” I say but my humor falls flat.

 

“That virus again?” Benson says grimly, pushing up his glasses as he leans in to read the story over my shoulder.

 

“Yeah. They found a new case in Georgia. Dead in twenty-four hours, just like those six people in Kentucky.” I flip back to the front page and point to the first part of the story, then hand over the section.

 

Since almost dying, I feel like I’m surrounded by death. People are constantly killed in accidents, from diseases, flukes. I know it’s always been that way, but now I’m hyper-aware.

 

“Sixteen victims so far,” I say quietly. But Benson doesn’t respond— his eyes dart back and forth as he reads. “Jay’s lab just started him working on this,” I add as Benson flips to the second half of the story.

 

“Really?” Benson’s sudden attention startles me.

 

“Really, what?”

 

“Jay’s lab?”

 

“Yeah. New assignment. You want me to ask him about it?” Benson’s been following the story pretty closely since the first mini-epidemic in Maryland last week. Then Oregon, then Kentucky just a few days ago.

 

Benson meets my eyes for a second and sits back and pushes the paper away. “Nah. I imagine everybody’s working on it. Hoping to be the one who makes a big breakthrough. It only makes sense.”

 

“I guess.”

 

Benson glances down at my backpack. “So what do you need my incredible expertise with?” he asks. Technically Benson doesn’t actually do all that much helping anymore—mostly I just needed the microfiche thing—but we sit and discuss my assignments and readings and he often returns the favor with his own suggestions. It’s why I started reading Keats.

 

“Nothing but calculus today, actually.”

 

“Please, a waste of my creative skills. Also, way too hard,” he says with a grin. “I’ll let you do that one on your own.”

 

“Thaaaaaanks,” I drawl, whapping him on the nose with a pencil.

 

He pulls my backpack open with one finger and peeks inside. “Don’t you have anything fun in there? Like history?”

 

“I’m completely finished with my history class for the rest of the semester, as of that paper we researched last Friday. We ate our dessert too quickly.” Since Benson and I are both history buffs, it was just too big of a temptation to work ahead.

 

“More’s the pity,” Benson says in a faux British accent.

 

I shake my head at his dramatics. The first time I saw Benson, I thought he was just a run-of-the-mill library nerd. But his comfortable grip when he shook my hand and the way his light green button-up shirt and gray sweater-vest had an all-too-purposeful touch of wrinkling told me this was a carefully crafted look—not a persona he stumbled into after a geeky childhood.

 

In some ways, he keeps me sane better than my shrink. Reminds me of the normalcy life used to have.

 

He’s an intern from UNH, but even though he’s in college, we’re practically the same age. His birthday’s in August and mine’s in December, so we’re both eighteen, just on opposite sides of the school year cutoff. Not that he doesn’t take every opportunity to bring up the fact that he’s older and wiser.

 

I’ll give him the older part. But only just.

 

“I just had to get out of the house.” It’s only a half lie. A few more seconds of procrastination as I try to decide how to start the real conversation.

 

“Admit it, you missed me.”

 

“Pined,” I say with an eyebrow raised. But it’s the truth. More than I like to admit.

 

I rummage through my backpack—not actually looking for my math book, just avoiding looking him in the face. “Hey, Benson?” I begin. “Is . . . is stalking ever acceptable? Like, justified and not weird and creepy?”

 

“Oh, absolutely,” Benson says in a very serious voice.

 

“Really?” I say, and I feel my heart speed up as hope leaps into my chest.

 

“Yes. When Dana McCraven is stalking me. That is completely acceptable, rational, and even expected as far as I’m concerned.” He strikes an exaggerated thinking pose, resting his cheek on his fist. “No, other than that it’s pretty much always weird and creepy. Why?”

 

“No reason,” I grumble, going back to my pointless poking around. “Oh please,” Benson blurts after nearly a minute of silence. “What?”

 

He runs his fingers through his light brown hair, styled in a casual messy look today. “‘What did you have for lunch?’” he says in a high, mocking tone. “That’s a question that people sometimes ask for no reason. ‘What did you do last night?’ is also a random question. I would even accept ‘Did you shower this morning?’ as a question without true motivation since you are aware of the fact that my hygiene habits are beyond reproach. Whether or not stalking is socially acceptable is definitely not a random, casual question.”

 

I refuse to meet his eyes.

 

He angles himself toward me and lets his arm rest on the back of my chair again, as if that didn’t make this whole conversation even more awkward. “Tave, seriously. This isn’t funny. Are you the stalker or the stalk-ee?”

 

“That’s a stupid word.”

 

“Is someone seriously stalking you?” Though he remains calm, all traces of humor are gone from his voice.

 

“No! Yes. Sort of.” I groan as I cover my face with my hands. “It’s complicated.”

 

“Reporters?”

 

I shake my head.

 

“Cupcake, spill.” He always refers to me as some kind of confection when he’s trying to worm information out of me. Which, considering my somewhat sordid past, happens on a semi-frequent basis. I caved once to muffin but put my foot down at croissant.

 

Cupcake is acceptable, though, so I give up and tell him. Once the words start, it gets easier. Then it’s a relief. Then I’m talking so quickly I’m having a hard time enunciating. The guy, the triangles on the houses, everything. By the time I reach the part where the guy tried to get me to come outside, Benson is done joking.

 

“Tavia, you need to call the police. This is some seriously scary shit.”

 

“I think that’s a little extreme, don’t you? I’ve only seen him twice.”

 

“No!” Benson says, leaning closer, his arm tightening around my back. “He tried to lure you out of your house at two in the morning.”

 

I know it’s true, and I know I should be as freaked out as Benson. But somehow I’m just . . . not. “He’s not some creepy old man. He’s, like, our age. Or close to it.”

 

“Oh, good point,” Benson says, but his tone is flat and dry. “Because the rule book says that all dangerous stalkers are ugly and old.”

 

“That’s not how I meant it. I didn’t feel afraid. Maybe ‘stalker’ isn’t the right word.” I rub my temples and gather my thoughts, trying to figure out what the right word is. “I don’t think he wanted to hurt me. It’s more like he . . . he wanted to tell me something.”

 

“Like, ‘Get into my car before I blow your brains out’?”

 

“Benson!”

 

Benson senses that he’s pushed me one step too far and stays quiet for a while. Finally he offers an apology. “I’m sorry. I know you’re not stupid, and I don’t mean to treat you that way. I just . . . I’d hate to see you get really hurt because your instincts might be . . . off.”

 

He doesn’t have to tap one finger against the side of his head for me to take his meaning. A lot of my reactions are still a little off-kilter. Maybe that’s all this is. This overwhelming draw to be near a strange guy—to talk to him, to sit in silence, to just be the two of us—it’s a ridiculous feeling, a terrible instinct, and I know it. But telling myself that and turning the feeling off are two vastly different things.

 

The moment gets a little heavy, and to cover my anxiousness, I lean away from Benson and start digging around in the bottom of my backpack again.

 

“What are you looking for?”

 

“My ChapStick,” I grumble. The cold air here is surprisingly hard on my lips. The winters were plenty harsh in Michigan, but Reese says that the salt from the ocean is what’s making my skin dry out. So now I carry ChapStick everywhere.

 

Except when I misplace it.

 

Which is frequently.

 

“Look in your pocket,” Benson says with apologetic warmth in his voice. “It’s always in your pocket when you can’t find it.”

 

Making a silent wish, I dig into my pocket and breathe a sigh of relief when my hand closes around the familiar tube. “You’re a genius.”

 

“You’re an addict,” he counters.

 

“I’m telling you,” I say, pausing to rub my lips together, “in five minutes I’ll just have to do it again. I think I’ve become immune.”

 

“I think you have a serious problem, Tave. You need to go to therapy.”

 

“You’re so weird,” I say, turning back to my homework.

 

“No, seriously,” Benson says. “It’s almost three o’clock. You need to get to physical therapy.”

 

I hesitate. In the face of everything that has happened, going to physical therapy seems so small. So unimportant.

 

As though reading my thoughts, Benson squeezes my hand as he says quietly, “Let me think on this for a bit. It’s hard to take in all at once. Go ahead and go to your appointment and text me later, deal?”

 

I muster up a smile and say, “Deal,” feeling a little better. I pull on my jacket and, in a playful impulse, grab Benson’s face, planting a ChapStick kiss on his cheek.

 

As soon as my lips make contact with his skin, he stills, his hands tightening on my arms, and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake.

 

But then he’s wiping his cheek and his eyes aren’t on me and I’m not completely sure it happened at all. ‘Tavia,” he protests. “Gross!”

 

“See you tomorrow,” I say with a little finger wave.

 

“Addict,” Benson hisses one more time just before I reach the front doors.