"I always miss you, Gwendy. I'm sorry I've been away."
"Is something wrong on the island?"
He shakes his head. "No. And you needn't worry. I'm here now. And I'll always be here, when you really need me."
"I needed you in Brecken Ridge."
He nods. "I know."
It's unspoken that he was there. Something in me—an instinct that I have ignored in the name of sanity—tells me that he was never far. That he will never be far, so long as I continue to want him.
The Boy won't leave me. Not voluntarily. He wild only go if I order him away. And as bad for me as he is, I can't bring myself to do that.
Chapter 5
After class on Wednesday, I linger in my seat as the classroom clears. A few of the guys I recognize from the club wait at the front of the lecture hall, but Peter dismisses them with a jerk of his head and they grudgingly disperse.
And we're left alone, with only my too short breath and pounding heart as a soundtrack for this meeting.
I am here to convince him to leave me alone. That I don't want him in my life.
And he is here to convince me of the opposite. I can see it in the determined gleam of his eyes and the way he leans forward, over the desk. Into my space.
I look at anything but him.
“Come on,” Peter says abruptly, standing. His chair screeches as it scraps across the tile. I look at him blankly, and he nods. “Let’s go. I’m not having this conversation in a deserted lecture hall.”
“This isn’t a chance to get me to go out with you, Peter,” I say, and he jerks a little. “It’s me trying to get you to leave me alone.”
“And you can—in a coffee house or the juice bar. We’re not doing it here.”
I swallow hard, but he’s already standing and hooking his bookbag onto his shoulder. He looks at me expectantly, and I huff a sigh. “Fine. But I’m not staying.”
“You can leave anytime you want, Gwen,” he says.
I flinch at the nickname, but don’t comment or correct him. Instead, I follow him through the dark lecture hall and outside.
I expect him to lead me to Bitter Brick, the largest café on campus. But he doesn’t. Instead, he leads the way to the student center, down into the basement. There is a small food court there, in the center of the bookstore, game room, and media rooms. There are a few study corrals, and off to one side, an art room with jarringly bright lights.
I know it’s a popular place for the rest of the student body, but I couldn’t care less about the student life center. I study in my room, and eat in the caf, and try to avoid people aside from my brother and Orchid. Even James is someone I would have happily ignored, if he hadn’t latched on to Orchid like a drowning squid.
One of the food stalls is a soft serve ice cream shop.
Which is fucking ridiculous. Who the hell puts an ice cream shop on a college campus?
And who the hell takes a girl to get soft serve when he’s trying to talk her into not cutting him out of her life? Peter’s face is relaxed—like I’m not about to sit down and explain all the reasons he needs to leave me alone.
He steps up to the counter and says—before I can argue or give my input—, “I need your triple scoop split, with double the cherries and hold the pineapple—let’s do raspberry instead.”
The girl rings up his order, and he pays her then catches my hand and pulls me to an empty table.
“Why are we getting ice cream?” I ask, staring at him.
He shrugs, a smile teasing the edges of his lips. “Why not?”
I bite down on my lip—that’s not an answer. But it doesn’t matter. I need to explain to him I’m not staying.
“Look,” I say, taking a deep breath.
“Can I go first?” he asks. I hesitate. “You want to tell me all the reasons why we’re an awful idea, and I get that. I understand and respect that you have reservations. But I want you to hear why I think you should be open to being with me.”
“I don’t know you, Peter,” I say softly.
Something in his gaze shifts, and he smiles, a dark expression that makes me shiver. “Don’t you, Gwen?”
I sit back and nod. “Fine. Tell me why I shouldn’t run.”
“I’ve watched you. Not in a creeper sense”—he grins when my eyes widen—“but in a ‘there’s Gwen, and I can’t think of anything else’ sense. I’ll see you, sometimes. In the morning, especially. You row, with some guy.”
“Micah,” I murmur. His eyes widen briefly and then he nods.
“I see you, and I can’t think of anything else. I’ve tried. But you fascinate me. You smile—you see these people around you, and I can see you interact with them, even as you keep yourself separated from them. You are a gorgeous girl, Gwendolyn, and I won’t even bother to deny that some of it stems from that. But you’re different. You try not to show it, but you can’t help it sometimes.”
“I’m awkward, and you’re attracted to that?” I say flatly.
He grins and nods. “I am.”
God. He’s insane.
“I don’t want to marry you, Gwen. I just want to be friends and see where things go.”
“You really don’t need to be nice to me just because you feel bad for the awkward girl.”
The girl at the counter rings a bell and calls Peter’s name. He looks away, his mouth compressing into a thin, annoyed line. I watch him stand and retrieve our ice cream, thanking the girl quietly before he carries the massive sugary concoction to our table.
He drops into the bench across from me and scoots a spoon toward me. Warily, I take it as he takes a bite of ice cream.
Here's the thing about Peter: he has absolutely no regard for societal norms. The constant surveillance during Lit should have clued me in, but the innocent excitement and joy in his eyes as he contemplates the ice cream isn't normal. College frat boys don't get excited over ice cream. They get excited over kegs and wet t-shirt contests.
"Who are you?" I blurt out. Peter's gaze snaps up to mine, startled and wary.
"I'm Peter Agreus. Another freshman in your Lit class. I just want to have a conversation."
I shake my head. "You want more than that."
He shrugs. Takes another bite of ice cream and grins at me, his eyes sparkling with challenge and amusement. "So tell me. Why is us being friends a bad idea?"
I've thought about this. I've planned how to respond—telling him the truth isn't really an option.
"I'm here to learn," I start, "not date."
Across from me, Peter goes very still. He carefully lowers his spoon, and I notice, inanely, that there is still ice cream on it, melting and sliding down the curved metal. "Bullshit," he says softly.
I jerk back in my chair, and he gives me a scathing glare, his green eyes glittering. I inhale sharply—when he is angry, it is hard to remember that Peter isn't the Boy. That he's separate and different.
Which might be why I say what I say next.
"Have you ever known someone you know is bad for you? Someone that even though you might want to get to know them, everything in you says it's a bad idea and that you'll only end up hurt?"
"I'm not going to hurt you," he says.
I shake my head. "You already have, Peter. Just looking at you hurts."
He looks stunned. "Why?"
I hesitate for a moment. This is my fresh start. But Peter is persistent. He won't be put off by half-formed fake excuses.
Which leaves the truth.
"When I was twelve, I was in an accident. For a long time, I didn't know what was real and what wasn't. I spent most of the years since then in a mental institute." A look of horror and anger drifts over his face, and I hurry to add, "It wasn't a bad place. It was comforting, at times. I was happy there."
Something I can't name flickers over his face. "But I worked hard to put my life back together. And part of that is avoiding things that trigger those feelings of being lost."
"How do I do that?"
I
swallow hard. "There was a Boy. My doctors say I created him—a defense mechanism when the accident happened. He wasn't real."
My face is hot. I can't quite believe I'm saying this to Peter, of all people. I don't talk about the Boy to anyone. I don't even like talking about him to Micah.
"I'm the boy."
I gasp, startled, my eyes swinging up to find Peter. It sounds, for a moment, like a confession, until I realize he's asking me. I shake my head. "You just look like him. It's eerie how much. And it makes it difficult to remember what is true and what is not."
"So instead of fighting, you'll run away from the possibility."
I stiffen. That feels like an accusation.
"I've fought to be where I am," I snap. "You don't get to sit there and decide that it isn't enough. Fuck you, Peter."
He flinches, but I’m done. I’m done with his smirk and his fucking ice cream, and his dismissal of the life I’ve fought tooth and nail to create. I slide out of the booth and head for the exit. Behind me, I hear him huff in aggravation and then his footsteps hurrying after me.
He catches me halfway across the student center. It’s happily deserted—even if it weren’t, I wouldn’t have tolerated the way he reaches out and grabs me by the arm.
Like he has the right to touch me. I snap around and shove him, hard.
“Leave me alone, Peter!” I snarl. “I don’t want you around me. I don’t want to deal with fighting memories.”
“I can’t,” he says, his tone a shade of desperation. “I can’t leave you alone. I’ve tried.”
I give him a bleak smile. “Try harder.”
Chapter 6
I need to get some exercise. It’s a day off—a Thursday. Micah would jump out of bed and row with me, but I don’t want to bother—worry—him. So I choke down the desire to text him and creep out of my room. I’m not terribly surprised that James is asleep on the floor next to Orchid’s bed—he’s been around almost constantly since we went to the club. I have my own thoughts and reservations about the guy, but I remind myself that it’s not my business as I slip into the dark hallway.
There’s a girl asleep in the hall, a computer propped next to her. I stare for a brief moment then shake my head and step over her and head out.
I promised Micah I wouldn’t go out on the ocean by myself. I wrestle with that promise the entire way down to the boathouse.
I could always use the rowing machine, but I don’t want that—I want the freedom of the open water, the danger of the ocean thrumming around me.
My promises be damned. I need that today.
I see something from the corner of my eye, a flash of red and the ghost of laughter. It makes my stomach drop, and I break into a jog, racing the memories that aren’t real. I’m more unsettled today than I have been in years, and I’m furious with Peter. He should have accepted my limits, shouldn’t have pushed for more when I was so very clear.
Talking about it has stirred up all the old memories, the anxious desire to see someone that I know I won’t see—because he’s not real.
Why couldn’t he be? Why did he have to be an illusion—why couldn’t the precious memories of happiness been grounded in fact and not a gauze that hid the horrors of my parents death? Why did even that meager comfort have to be so fucking false?
I can feel tears on my face, but I ignore them as I hit the water, cutting through it with fierce precision. The ocean is rough, rising to the weather that is starting to chill. A wave slaps the side of the kayak, and I fight to keep her upright and steady, gasping as the ice cold water drenches my thighs.
Any thought of the Boy and Peter and the mess that is my life vanishes under the chill and the need to deal with the crisis at hand.
Which is why I came out here. I bare my teeth, a grimace more than smile, and push the boat farther into the deep waters, riding the danger like a wave.
It’s stupid. It’s fucking suicidal, and Micah will be furious. The Boy will be irate, his cat eyes flaring with anger.
The other boys will suffer, because he is angry. I hesitate at that thought, and the kayak gets yanked around by the pull of the tides. I swallow the sour taste in my mouth, suddenly exhausted. I don’t want to fight an ocean any more than I want to fight my memories. So I row, letting the ocean’s rhythms pull me in, until I hit the rocky beach. I pull my kayak up and flop onto the ground.
I lost it. I haven’t been that caught up in the delusions in years—I’d almost forgotten the others, the ones who followed my boy like a loyal pack.
How the hell had I forgotten them? And—more importantly—why was I remembering them now? Was I going backward—was I going to lose it completely? Again?
A sob gets stuck in my throat, and I make a strangled noise and drop my head. I can’t go backward. I can’t go back to Pembrooke.
A hand settles on my back, warm and heavy. I flinch, almost pulling away. But this feels different from my brother, and after the disaster that was yesterday, Peter won’t come to me. Cautiously, I look up.
James crouches next to me, pulling his hand back to run it nervously through his hair.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. My voice is raspy, like I’ve been screaming. I wonder if I was, if I’ve merely forgotten.
How does one forget screaming her throat raw?
“I saw you leave. What are you doing, Gwendolyn?”
It annoys me that he calls me that. No one calls me Gwendolyn—not even Aunt Jane. Daddy had, before the accident. But hearing a familiar name wrapped in James’ silky tones, with odd inflections—it sets my hair on end. I shrug slightly. “What business is it of yours?” I demand.
He hesitates then finally settles on the ground, abandoning his crouch. He makes a slight moue as his hands hit the mud. I smirk. Who would have thought James would be so damn fussy?
“You matter to Orchid. Orchid matters to me. So, by default, you matter to me.”
“I didn’t ask for that, and I don’t want it,” I snap. “I want to be left alone. Don’t you think if I wanted company, I would have woken Orchid up?”
He shakes his head. “No. I don’t think you would. You open up to her, Gwendolyn, but you hide so much of yourself. You won’t even tell us where you came from.”
I go quiet and compress my lips into a thin line. That is also none of his damn business. I’m not giving up my secrets to some good looking boy with a pirate’s smile and a fleeting affection for my roommate.
“Go away, James,” I say tiredly. “I’m not up for playing games, and I don’t want to be bothered.”
“Will you be safe?” he asks softly, touching the bare skin of one arm. It’s a barely there gesture, a brush of his fingertips. I struggle to hold in my shiver and nod my head vigorously. I will tell him anything I have to, if it will get him to leave.
“I don’t believe you,” he says, his voice laced with amusement.
“I don’t give a fuck what you believe,” I snap. His eyebrows shoot up, and it occurs to me that James and Orchid aren’t used to seeing this side of me—the angry girl with a mouth of a sailor and no need to make the people around me happy. “Fuck off.”
“I can’t,” he says simply.
“Why do guys keep saying that?” I demand, furious now. “You can. I want you to. But for some reasons that only you seem to know, you won’t. And you’ll tell yourself its okay because I don’t know what I want, because I was angry and hysterical, but the truth of the matter is, it’s creeper behavior and it’s not okay. And I’m over it.”
I push to my feet and grab my kayak. It’s light enough that I can carry it easily to the boathouse. I make it maybe twenty feet before I hear James’ footsteps, crunching the rocks together as he tracks my progress.
“I’m not being a creeper, Gwendolyn. I’m just being a friend.”
“I don’t want a friend,” I say.
He catches my arm, tugging me to a stop. He’s standing too close, and I know I should step back. Everything about this boy screams danger�
��I should run from that, but I can’t bring myself to move. Can’t bring myself to shake his hand free from where it’s playing in tiny circles against my bare skin. I can’t bring myself to do anything, because how long has it been since a guy came this close? Since I let one? It’s been since the Boy, and the island.
“Why won’t you let someone help you?” James breathes, and I’m pulled from where I’m going in my mind, back to the here and now, to where we stand on a rocky beach, his fingers pressing into the curve of my cheek. His lips are curving into a full, sensual smile.
Wrong. So wrong. He will be furious.
He isn’t real. He can’t be mad.
Liar.
Then thought vanishes as his lips brush mine, a feather soft caress. I make a soft noise of surprise, and another when his tongue traces my bottom lip. When he bites down, so gently I feel like I am breakable, I gasp, and his arms come around me as he kisses me in earnest.
And for a few endless moments—his hands roaming over my back, cupping my ass and settling on my hip, everywhere at once as he kissed me senseless—I can’t bring myself to move away. I can’t even remember why this is a bad idea, why I should move away.
James shifts, and I whimper as he nibbles at my neck, my hand catching in his dark hair.
Wait.
Wrong.
Now you listen. Warned you. He’ll be furious.
Shut. UP.
“Stop,” I gasp. For a moment, as his lips press harder against my skin, sucking at my pulse point, and making the world spin crazily, I think he intends to ignore me. A bolt of fear goes through me.
“James, stop.”
To my relief, he steps away, his cloudy blue eyes lazy and full of hunger. “Why?” he asks, taking another step away when he sees how shaken I am.
“Because you are with Orchid. And because I love someone else.”
“You don’t have a boyfriend. I know—I checked. What the hell are you talking about?”
Too complicated to try and explain. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not the point,” I say quietly.
“Then what the hell is?” he demands angrily. I watch as he reaches down, casually adjusts himself, and my stomach turns.
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