“The Board of directors. My aunt. Grayson.”
“Your family friend?” he interrupts, confused.
“No. Grayson is my psychiatrist, Lane. He’s been treating me since I was fourteen.”
He stops, startled, and I nod, smiling. “You understand now? I’m not the girl you can take home to your perfect family. And even if I were that kind of girl—I don’t want that.”
“But Gwen,” he says, desperation leaking into his voice. He moves, and I feel him gripping my arm.
Fear. Wrong. Get away, why is he touching us, we aren’t his. Wrong!
“Don’t,” I say, my voice shaking. I swallow hard, and pull myself out of his grip, taking a step back. He stays where he is, and I have a heartbeat of relief.
“We could be great together,” he says, a smile ticking his lips up. “If you give me a chance, I can show you that.”
“I think Gwendy gave you her answer,” a silky voice says from the side of the building. I shiver, my nerves coming to life as Peter prowls out of the shadows. His eyes gleam. Most people would think it was just the reflection of the café lights—but I know better, and this isn’t mood lighting. This is madness, gleaming bright and too steady for comfort.
Peter is furious.
And Peter is not the most sane person—which means anger can push him into violence. I take a step, putting myself between the two men. Peter gives me a smirk—he knows exactly what I’m doing. And for the moment, I think he’s going to let me.
“Lane, we aren’t going to be good together.”
“You aren’t going to be together,” Peter drawls.
“Shut up. I can talk for myself,” I snap, and he laughs, a soft noise that strokes across my nerves and soothes them.
“Just—we can be friends. I can’t do more than that. But I’ll understand if you can’t do that.”
His face is pinched, angry color high in his cheeks. “What is it about him, Gwen?” Lane demands. “Is it that you get off on the freaky factor? Because you both drink from the same crazy cup?”
I flush, my mouth falling open. And Peter explodes behind me, sidestepping me neatly and slamming Lane into the wall of the café. Lane grunts, but doesn’t do anything else. Maybe because Peter is in his face, over six feet of coiled anger holding him by the throat.
“You don’t get to speak to her. Do you understand? She’s so far above you, it’s fucking ridiculous that you think you could be with her. Gwen gave you her answer. Be a man and fucking accept it.”
“She isn’t yours,” Lane snaps.
It’s the wrong thing to say. Peter was backing away, letting him go. But Lane’s words—I shout, too late, “Peter!”
He punches him, hard. I hear the crack of Lane’s nose, the pop of cartilage as blood explodes, and the dull, meaty thump of his skull hitting the wall.
Lane crumples without a sound, and I jerk on Peter’s arm,, yanking him away from the prone body as he winds up to kick him. “Stop,” I hiss. “You gotta get the fuck outta here. Now.”
Peter blinks at me, his eyes barely concerned, but he nods and grabs my hand, wheeling around and pulling me away from the coffee shop.
“What are you even doing here?”
“You told me you needed to talk.”
“I meant come to my dorm room. Or tell me when was a good time for you. I didn’t mean you should show up at the café and assault a guy for talking to me.”
He whips me around me, catching me in his arms. I shove at him, trying to break loose, but he doesn’t budge—he’s like a mountain, completely unperturbed by my struggles. “He wants you. He tells you that you don’t belong with me. What in the hell do you think I’m going to do with that shit? Have you not picked up on the fact that I’m a possessive bastard?”
I huff a laugh. “Yeah, babe. I did get that. You’re worse than a two-year-old when it comes to sharing.”
He laughs, and nods. “I love you, Gwendy, and I’ll give you anything I possibly can. But don’t ever ask me to share you.”
I’m standing still, and he’s still moving, so he ends up jerking on my hand. I can’t move, though. Can’t process what he’s just said.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, moving back to stand next to me. The anger is gone, replaced with concern that takes my breath away.
“You love me,” I whisper.
A smile. Laughing eyes. “Of course, you little idiot. What did you think this was?”
“A crazy dream?”
His hands come up, delving into my hair and holding me steady as his lips come down, hard, on mine. I gasp into the kiss, and his mouth moves over mine, nipping at my lower lip. He sucks on my lip lightly, before he abandons it to stroke into my mouth, firm strokes that light me up like fireworks. My knees go boneless, and I lean into him as I go limp. Peter’s arm wraps around my waist, holding me up as he kisses me, until the world is spinning and I can’t breathe, until the idea of breathing seems very distant and unnecessary. Until there is nothing except this—this moment with him, and me, and the scent of the ocean and a warm summer breeze wrapping around me.
Wait. I jerk away from him, my eyes wide, and I look around frantically. Nothing has changed. We’re still standing on the sidewalk between the café and my dorm hall, the snow spiraling down from a cloud covered sky. There are no island trees, no exotic fruits. There is only snow and the icy wind, and a sky empty of stars.
“Peter,” I whisper. “I’m scared.”
“Of what, pixie?” he murmurs, pulling me close, tucking me under his chin.
“I’m afraid if I tell you the truth, you’ll run. I’m not sure what we’re doing here, but the idea of you running because of the truth—that terrifies me.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Sweetheart. I’ve been chasing you for longer than you can even know. Nothing you say can chase me away.”
I step away from him and lean back, searching the sky again.
Why are your stars different?
“Good,” I say quietly. James is waiting by the dorm hall, stamping his feet impatiently to ward off the cold. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”
Chapter 30
“I don’t want to watch the parade.”
Grayson glances at me, and I ignore him. Like I’ve been ignoring so much in the past few days.
“We always watch the parade, darling.”
“Maybe it’s time to let go of some traditions,” I answer. Grayson’s eyebrows shoot up, and I roll to my feet, grabbing my eReader and retreating.
The penthouse feels too full, too closed in, today. I want open spaces—idly, I wonder if I could sneak to the Park. I can’t. Aunt J is being militant about family time.
She’s missed us—Micah—and is desperate to regain a little of that normal.
I drop onto my bed, letting the door swing shut behind me. It muffles the sound of the parade and the antics from the kitchen. Here, I am alone with my thoughts, and that might actually be a bad idea.
“You were in an institution?”
“You saw them killed?”
“Where did you go?”
“But it’s not real.”
Peter, sitting cross-legged on my bed, his beanie pulled low, his hair obscuring his gaze. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and he hadn’t moved. Not in the entire time I spoke, or the ensuing questions. He doesn’t move now, as I say, weakly. “It wasn’t real. That’s the important thing. None of it—the island, the Boy, the time I was gone. It wasn’t real.”
He looks up at that, his gaze inscrutable. I stare at him, my gaze pleading, and his lips twitch in amusement. Without a word, he uncurls from where he’s sitting on the bed and rises. Stretches to his full height.
He brushes a kiss over my cheek as he leaves.
I flinch away from the memory, the cool dismissal in Peter, the pity in James, Orchid’s startled eyes. None of it gone the way I thought it would.
I hadn’t thought he would walk away without any hesitation.
I
blink, pushing back my tears. Peter hasn’t called, hasn’t texted. It’s been four days—even James has reached out, to tell me he and Orchid are together at some ski resort. Fucking like bunnies had been his words.
And not to worry, because they already knew I was batshit crazy.
It helped, some. But it wasn’t Peter, and if I’m being honest with anyone—myself—I had hoped he wouldn’t run.
It’s easy, to say you love someone, that you’ve waited for them. But words don’t mean anything in the face of actions.
I hear someone moving outside my door, and then Micah’s low voice. “Leave her.”
“What happened?”
“She told Peter the truth and he bolted.”
There’s a moment of quiet, and then Grayson sighs. “Fuck.”
I smile into my pillow. He doesn’t have a professional bone in his body.
“Yeah. That pretty much sums it up,” Micah says.
I listen to them retreat and watch the sleet cover my window while I wait for them to tell me it’s time to play happy family.
Someone raps hard on my door, jerking me from my restless sleep. I yawn and glance at my phone. “Come in.”
The door swings open, and I glance over my shoulder.
Peter stands there, awkwardly. “Your aunt wants to shoot me.”
“She’s probably not the only one,” I say faintly, licking my dry lips. His eyes dart away, and then back. It hits me that he’s nervous.
Peter is nervous. I’ve seen him many things—wild and dangerous and gentle and childlike, and skittish—but I have never seen him wear nerves like an old coat, the weight hanging naturally on his shoulders.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, sitting up. His gaze flicks down to my bare legs, and I tug my skirt down with a huff.
“I need to know—what if you were wrong?”
I blink, and then frown. “What do you mean?”
“What if you weren’t crazy?” he says, his voice a breath of hesitance dancing over the space between us. The hope and fear in his eyes are a tangible, living thing.
"What are you talking about?" I demand, my voice shaking. "Are you saying it was real? Because it can't be—it wasn't real, Peter, and I—" I cut off sharply, aware my voice is rising. I'm going to get Aunt J in here if I'm not careful.
"I'm not saying it was, pixie. I'm just asking. What if they're wrong—what if it's hard to understand, but you were right, all these years."
"I wasn't," I say automatically. "The onboard ship navigation system doesn't say anything about drifting into an island. There was no time that wasn't accounted for. I was on the Second Star the entire three weeks."
"But—"
"Why are you doing this?" I demand, cutting him off. "Why does it even matter?"
His eyes go wide, and he shakes his head "Gwen. It's the only thing that matters. They've lied to you!"
"No one lied," I snap. "Except my own brain, which is ten shades of fucked the hell up. I wasn't on an island. There wasn’t' a Boy."
He goes quiet, and I do too, realizing that I'm yelling. I can't yell.
"You look like him," I say, and Peter's gaze snaps up. "What I pictured, anyway. The freckles and the funny nose, and the red hair. The eyes—all of it. That's why you terrified me—you were the Boy all grown up." I smile.
"Does that scare you?"
I nod. "You shook all my carefully built walls. I knew what was true and what was real, and you fucked with that. My very own delusion come to life. And you refused to take no for an answer. You're like a child, you know that?"
A sick expression crosses his face. "I think I've heard that before," he mutters.
"Is Peter staying for dinner?" Micah says from the doorway. I wonder how much he's heard and how angry he is. Because my brother will not take well to Peter coming in and talking as if my delusions are real. There's a tightness to Micah's eyes that tells me he heard more than I really wanted him to.
"Do you want to stay?" I ask, tilting my head to look at Peter. "The food is surprisingly good, for homemade."
He takes two steps across the room to crowd me, but I don't give ground, stepping into him until we're pressed against each other from toe to hip to shoulder. His eyes flare with heat, and he nods, "I won't go anywhere until you send me away."
Peter is as good as his word. We sit through an hour of dinner and light interrogation as we pick at turkey and dry stuffing and a sweet potato casserole that Grayson always contributes. Not for the first time, I wonder why he isn't with his own family.
"Where is your family, Peter?" Aunt J asks, toying with the remains of broccoli salad on her plate.
"I don't have any, ma'am. I'm an orphan."
There is a distinct lack of caring in his tone, and her eyebrows shoot up. "I'm so sorry," she says quickly.
Peter shrugs. "They died a long time ago. It is what it is."
"Have you picked a major?" she tries.
Peter grins and shakes his head. "Not yet. I'm still exploring my options."
"And what options does an orphan have, exactly?" Micah asks, taking a sip of his wine.
"More than you would expect. Or believe, I'd bet. You have a hard time believing what you don't understand."
"Peter," I snap, clenching his hand hard under the table. Peter sighs and leans back, falling quiet. "Sorry," I say quickly.
"You don't have to apologize for me," Peter says. "I'm sorry. I was being inappropriate."
"You don't think we gave Gwen enough benefit of the doubt," Micah says, brushing aside the apology. Peter hesitates then lifts a shoulder in acquiescence.
"You sit here, now, and tell us that. But you have no idea what she was like—raving and insane, convinced there was an island no one had ever heard of. Talking to a boy who none of us could see or hear. She had watched our parents be brutally murdered. Her brain shut down to protect her from that. I don't think it's a good idea for you to tell her that it was real—Gwendolyn has fought hard for the sanity she has, and for you to undermine that because you want to get laid, it's screwed up, man."
I blink at my brother—he's apparently angrier than I realized.
"I would never do anything to hurt Gwen. If she truly doesn't believe the island and what happened there was real, I'll take her word for it. But I don't believe that myself—and I don't think she believes it either. If she did, the idea of being with me wouldn't be such a hang up."
"You know I'm sitting right there, right?" I say, finally, waving. "You could both try talking to me instead of around me."
Peter flashes a smile and sinks back into his chair, tugging me until I'm almost in his lap, my head resting on his shoulder. I should probably tell him to let me go, but I like being here. So I keep my mouth shut and relax in his embrace.
"Where is Belle?" Grayson asks. Peter stiffens.
"Don't," I say sharply. "Leave her out of this ok?"
"No, it's fair. Belle has threatened you—they deserve to know where she is and what she means to me," Peter says quietly. I glance at him, and he smiles at me, a slightly strained smile.
"Belle is in Chicago, with some of my frat brothers, seeing a specialist."
"What's happening to her?" I ask, the question I have avoided until now.
Peter glances at me and shrugs, lightly. "It’s difficult to say, pixie. A lot is up in the air, but the doctors are trying to sort out what's making her so sick. We're hoping to get some answers soon."
The questions lose their intensity after that, although Aunt J watches while she sips her wine, her eyes cool and assessing.
I sit with her as the boys clean up dinner, watching Micah and Peter skirting each other in the large kitchen as Grayson directs them with brief but efficient commands.
"He thinks it was real."
I glance at Aunt J. "I think he entertains that it's possible, where you and Grayson never have."
"And you? Do you still think it was real?"
I shake my head before I can actually assess
the question. Shake my head hard. "No. It was a way to cope. Nothing more or less."
I don't tell her that I can smell it, the intoxicatingly wonderful scent of the island wrapping around me, or the taste of salt and sand on my lips, when he kisses me. I don't tell her that every day I spend with him, the more I question my grasp on reality and the less I care about my sanity.
Peter is so bad for me. I know it, and I can't avoid him—like a junkie to a needle, I'm drawn to him.
After what seems like hours, Aunt J and Micah go out to pick our Christmas tree. I wait, sitting patiently next to Peter, curled into his embrace as a football game plays across the TV. I'm sleepy and content, half dozing as Peter talks in a low voice to Grayson. The couch shifts, and I feel a dry kiss on my forehead. Under my ear, Peter's body tightens, and I hear Grayson laugh. "Easy, boy. She's been mine to care for for years. You don't get to waltz in and steal her away all in one night."
"Is that what I'm doing?" Peter asks, his tone surprisingly light.
Grayson's isn't. It's serious, and thoughtful. "Aren't you?"
I listen as he walks away, the door to the penthouse swinging closed softly behind him. Distantly, I hear the elevator ding, and then we're alone.
Just me and this enigmatic boy in the lavish apartment.
"Are you stealing me, Peter?" I murmur.
He laughs. "Would you mind terribly?"
I shake my head and look up at him. I wonder what he sees in my eyes, that makes his widen and his breath to catch. "No, Peter. I don't think I'd mind at all."
He kisses me, and it's different. Not because he's never kissed me before. But because this tastes of desperation and hunger and hope—like whatever has held him back, every time, is gone. His lips crash down on me, hard and hungry, demanding. His weight follows me down, until we're sprawled across the couch, and all I can think is too much and also not enough and a very distant, "Peter, stop," I gasp.
He jerks back, like I've slapped him, and that curious panic flares in his eyes. "No, not stop, stop. Stop as in, not here." I take a deep breath and twist my fingers together, and blurt it out. "Come back to my room."
His eyes widen, briefly. Fear flickers across his face, and then he nods. Once.
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