Despite vehement protests about the rain—which, of course, started up again about two minutes after I got into Benson’s car, stupid weather—I make Benson drop me off down the street from the house. I want everything to appear normal.

 

After he told me to be careful, I started to lean in for a kiss. But stopped.

 

I can’t go there—we can’t go there—until I figure this out. I plod home slowly, rain trickling down my neck from where the

 

wind blows it into my face. The chill wakes me up. Its bite is so sharp it seems to scrape the skin on my cheeks, but it grounds me, reminds me that I’m here. That I’m alive.

 

It used to only take simple things to do that—the feel of fresh air on my skin, the smell of bread baking, the sound of children laughing.

 

Now my reminders have to be harsh, and I admit, it frightens me.

 

My head is spinning. Being betrayed by Reese and Elizabeth was bad enough. The rest is hard to even contemplate.

 

I can make stuff.

 

Stuff that disappears in about five minutes.

 

It’s not so bad, I try to convince myself as I turn up the front walk. I’m breathing. I’m healthy. And that doesn’t seem to be changing. At least not in the very immediate future.

 

As in, tonight.

 

But the sight of the house—the place I have, until this afternoon, thought of as my home—brings everything back. Truth is, I’m seeing things that aren’t there, people are both hunting for and hiding me, and, oh yes, the laws of physics apparently no longer apply. Did the brain surgeons do this to me? Is it something I could do before? Am I dying as a result, or is someone trying to kill me?

 

I don’t even know for certain which side my aunt and uncle are on.

 

I reach for the doorknob but can’t make myself turn it. Instead I sit on the top step of the porch, barely protected from the downpour, and curl my arms around my knees, pulling them close to my chest. For hours now my mind has been racing. Running around and around the same problems, worries, and suspicions until my brains feels physically tired.

 

Everything with Quinn and now Benson is tipping me over the edge. I’m not sure I can handle things changing with Benson—even a good change. He’s my rock, the one solid thing in the hurricane of my life.

 

But the feel of his lips on mine . . .

 

I jerk my hand down from where my fingers are gingerly touching my mouth, reliving those minutes. Perfect minutes.

 

Not now.

 

I have to figure things out with Quinn first.

 

Quinn, who I might be in love with.

 

It sounds crazy, but I’ve never in my life felt an emotion this overpowering. It’s like quicksand, threatening to drag me under the more I try to fight it. He makes me feel like someone I know I’m not—someone who’ll take risks, throw logic out the window, gamble it all for the thrill.

 

I’ve been a stranger in my own body before, and I don’t like the similarities.

 

If only it was merely a matter of the heart. But Quinn has answers; I’m sure of it. He knows me. The way he looks at me—as though he hears my inner thoughts, my darkest secrets. Things I don’t know about myself.

 

A week ago I had a normal crush on Benson. Steady, comfortable Benson. Now I’ve moved on to an intense physical relationship with him even while I’m obsessed with another guy who I can’t find, can’t contact—and yet he makes me feel more alive than I have since my parents died.

 

It’s too much. Too fast. With both of them.

 

And where does that leave me?

 

I stare out at the storm lashing the bushes and trees now as it ramps up its violence; it’s a fitting mirror of my own emotions.

 

The screen door behind me opens and my spine snaps straight. “Tavia? Is that you?” Reese peers at me down on the steps. “Are you okay?” Her brow is crumpled into the slightest furrow; enough to look concerned, but not fake. You’d think she wasn’t nosing behind my back with my therapist just a few hours ago.

 

My mouth is dry and sticky and I can’t say anything. Reese drops onto the step beside me. “I’m fine.” I choke out the words, a little surprised when my ears hear my voice and it sounds okay.

 

But Reese isn’t quite convinced; I guess I’m not as good a liar as her.

 

“Long day,” I tack on, and smile weakly.

 

Reese pulls in a breath, as though through a straw, then hesitates. “Where have you been?” she asks, the words coming out in a rush, like it was difficult to say. “You were gone all day.”

 

She rarely asks. Elizabeth told her not to. No questions when I go out, no bugging me for my whereabouts. I am eighteen, after all. I used to think Elizabeth was protecting me, but now I see it for what it is—a false sense of security to keep me off guard. Not freedom, merely the illusion of it.

 

Now Reese is breaking the rules. She’s asking.

 

I try to decide what that means and it only makes my head ache. “With Benson,” I mumble, too tired to think of a lie.

 

“Did . . . did you guys have some kind of a fight? You look a little sick. Pale,” she amends.

 

“I skipped lunch.” Sadly, also true. Maybe I could cope better if my stomach wasn’t getting angry with me. But it’s still roiling and churning despite the pile of mini candy bars I ate with Benson.

 

Or perhaps because of them.

 

“Tave,” Reese scolds, rising to her feet. “You can’t skip meals—your body needs the nutrients. You’re still—” Her voice cuts off.

 

But I practically hear the word as if she shouted it.

 

Healing.

 

More than any of the others, Reese has always avoided talking about my injuries. Before this evening I liked that. It made me feel less selfconscious, like she saw me, not a walking mass of stitches and scars.

 

Now? I don’t know what it means.

 

“Growing,” she finishes lamely.

 

Growing, right. I was done growing three years ago. But I numbly accept her fussing and rise to follow her into the kitchen. She chatters about work as she warms me a bowl of gourmet butternut squash and free-range-chicken bisque. I suppose it’s her version of comfort food. I spoon the rich, golden soup into my mouth, but it’s bland gruel on my tongue. I can’t bring myself to touch the buttered sourdough bread on a little glass plate beside my bowl, even though it looks great. My stomach feels hollow, and I’m not sure how I’m managing to feel such an empty hunger and complete lack of appetite at the same time.

 

I glance up and Reese is scrutinizing me. I hear some kind of sports game playing on the plasma in the adjoining room and wish Jay would come in. Disrupt this strange playacting with Reese. We’re both dancing our routine of deception, and neither of us wants the other to find out. So we dance. We laugh. We smile.

 

Not that it would be any more real with Jay, I remember, and the soup I’ve just eaten turns sour in my stomach.

 

Does he know?

 

His words from yesterday echo in my mind: I tell Reese everything. But does Reese return the favor?

 

I’ll have to hide from both of them. I hate the thought.

 

“Tavia,” Reese says quietly, “do you remember the business trip I told you about?”

 

“Yeah, sure,” I say, developing a sudden interest in my bowl.

 

“I was hoping to leave tomorrow,” she says hesitantly, and I’m gripping the spoon so hard my fingertips are white. “But if you need me to stay—”

 

“No,” I blurt, too loudly, panic jolting through me.

 

“I can,” she rushes to assure me, but I hear a desperation in her voice and know it’s the last thing she wants to do.

 

“No,” I repeat, calmer. “I won’t forget to eat, I promise. I just . . . I was reading at the library and lost track of time, that’s all.” And it’s kind of true; I absolutely lost track of time.

 

And space.

 

And sanity.

 

She opens her mouth to speak, as if to correct herself and let me know what her actual concern is. But she changes her mind and only nods. “It’s an important trip,” she says. “It’ll take a couple of days max.”

 

“Where are you going?” I ask, and my throat freezes up as I wait for the answer.

 

She hesitates, then says, “Phoenix. Client there who I need to see personally.”

 

I confess to being rather shocked that she told me the truth. Kind of the truth.

 

What’s really in Phoenix? Something that affects me or she wouldn’t have brought it up when she was on the phone with Elizabeth.

 

I don’t know anyone in Phoenix. But . . .

 

“I’ll be fine,” I say, forcing a smile. “And Jay will be here.”

 

Reese’s eyes turn to the half circle of a head she and I can just see over the top of the couch and her eyes soften. I don’t know exactly what roles they’re playing, but I can read in her eyes that she actually loves Jay. Somehow, that makes me feel better. Two people who love each other couldn’t mean me harm. Not really.

 

I convince myself it’s a good argument even though I know it’s completely crazy.

 

Not crazy.

 

Just irrational.

 

“Please go,” I say, startling Reese’s attention back to me. She doesn’t look quite convinced and I pull out my final ammunition. “I don’t want to be an inconvenience.” I lower my eyelids as I speak. It used to be the truth—and it embarrassed me as fully as I’m feigning now. I’ve always thought myself an inconvenience to them.

 

I’m not. I’m some kind of project, which is worse. But tonight I’ll make it work in my favor.

 

Reese nods and her warm fingers cover mine the way they often have in the last eight months.

 

All those times in the hospital.

 

It makes me want to throw up.

 

“Okay, I’ll go.” She pauses and I know there’s more.

 

I wad up my linen napkin and toss it onto the table beside me. “What?”

 

“Dr. Stanley wants to see you tomorrow.”

 

My mouth dries up and I blurt, “Why?” before I can stop myself.

 

“She called this afternoon and told me she wants to follow up with what you talked about today.” I can tell Reese is trying to pick her words carefully. Not to let me know that she knows everything I talked to Elizabeth about today.

 

I look down at my bowl, trying to get a grip on my anger. I know the truth; they don’t trust me to behave—or maybe survive—while Reese is gone. They want to babysit me.

 

Maybe I need it.

 

“Whenever you want. She’ll make time for you.”

 

“But—”

 

“It can be fast—she just wants to touch base.”

 

I say nothing.

 

And nothing.

 

Until finally Reese has to ask. “Will you go, Tave?”

 

I still. There’s something in her question. A wisp of emotion; I’ve heard it before. It screams to me that she cares. Really cares.

 

But I don’t dare believe it.

 

“Whatever,” I mutter. “I don’t have anything else to do.” We may as well both lie.

 

I plead a headache and dutifully swallow the two white pills Reese places in my palm. She says they’re Tylenol and I see the little words stamped into the tablets, but part of my mind wonders what else they could be.

 

Paranoia.

 

I fight it. I will not go down that road.

 

But when I drag myself upstairs and into my room, my legs tremble and I can only hold back the urge to run for a few steps before the flight impulse kicks in and I launch myself onto my bed, cursing under my breath when the bed frame bellows an earsplitting creak in protest.

 

I’ve been sitting in my dark room staring at my ceiling for a good half hour when I hear Reese shush Jay as they tiptoe by my room. I’m never going to get a better chance than this. I peek out the crack in my door, and as soon as they’re out of sight, I follow them, my feet silent on the runner carpet.

 

Their door is open just an inch or two and loud voices sound from inside as hangers audibly slide along the metal closet rod.

 

“I’ll take a cab—if Daniel calls . . . tell him I’m ill.”

 

“We should tell Tave first,” Jay says, sounding weirdly serious.

 

“I can’t. I can’t—” Her voice breaks off, and even after everything that’s happened the last few days, I’m shocked to realize she’s crying! Strong, nearly emotionless Reese. “You do not understand what it was like last time. I won’t put her or myself through that again. I have to be sure before we do this. I have to know it’s him.”

 

“Sammi—”

 

“Don’t, Jay,” she hisses.

 

“Samantha.” The word is a whisper, but Reese doesn’t retort. “Come here.”

 

When he speaks again, his words are muffled, and in my mind’s eye he’s holding her, his face buried against her neck.

 

“Whatever you need,” he says. “Just tell me what to do.”

 

My hands are shaking as I back away and flee to my bedroom. Tell me what to do. The same words Benson said to me a few hours ago. I don’t like the comparison.

 

I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands, trying not to cry. I’m so sick of being helpless in my own life. No one will tell me anything; I’m trying to figure everything out on my own with only half of the information I need. I hate this!

 

I blink into the darkness as a thought occurs to me.

 

Forget this waiting-for-Quinn crap. I know where he lives—tomorrow I’ll go to him.