by Rix, Dan
But now my mind was going crazy trying to guess what on earth he could have meant. So he’d figured something out . . . something about Trevor . . . something I needed to be ready for . . .
We pulled up to a boat maintenance and repair shop, which serviced the nearby lakes.
“What are we doing here?” I asked.
“Trying to survive the next twelve hours,” he said. “We need supplies.”
“Six marine flares, two handheld spotlights, a hundred feet of rope—in case we have to climb to get to the wormhole—a weapon and ammo, which will be useless . . .” Malcolm laid out our supplies on his dining room table, his mouth a grim line.
Now eight p.m., the pines outside shone gold in the evening sun, while inside, the last stripe of reddish sunlight climbed the walls, setting aglow the lint swirling under the ceiling fan.
Three hours left.
“Maybe it won’t come for us tonight,” I said, fingers crossed in front of me.
So far today, the coast had been clear. No creepy, disembodied shadows.
“Maybe,” he muttered, distracted by the preparations. “Hope for the best, plan for the worst.”
I swallowed thickly. We still had three hours of night ahead of us.
“Or maybe it’ll let us walk back through the wormhole. That’s all it cares about, right? That we leave this universe? Maybe we should tell it that’s what we’re trying to do.”
“Don’t think it negotiates.” Malcolm packed our supplies into a backpack, then checked the time on his phone again—which he’d been doing compulsively for the last thirty minutes. “It’s a forty-five minute drive out to the site. I can make it in forty. We’ll leave at ten.”
“Shouldn’t we give ourselves more time than that?” I said.
“We should,” he said, “but I don’t want to be in the woods any longer than we need to be. We’re safest here, inside. Where there’s light.”
Considering the Glipper could walk through walls and had at one point shown up inside both Jace’s house and my house, I doubted that, but I didn’t argue.
In the ominous silence, another nervous shudder passed through me, leaving my stomach in knots.
“So now what do we do?” Though I tried to sound calm, my quivering voice gave away my fear.
“Now we wait,” he said. “Hungry?”
I shook my head.
He ordered pizza anyway.
On the table, my cell phone buzzed with another text.
My parents again.
WHERE ARE YOU? COME HOME RIGHT NOW OR ELSE YOU ARE GROUNDED.
After they’d caught wind that Jace had vanished, too, they’d forbidden me from leaving the house.
The text wars had been going on since six p.m., when they’d come home from work and freaked out when I wasn’t there, but now I was just stalling for time.
I texted back: Grieving over Jace and Zoe. Please let me be alone.
I just had to make sure they didn’t call the cops before, say, 10:30 or so, by which time it would be too late for them to stop us.
With nothing else to do, I pulled from my pocket the note I’d written them, and reread it for the hundredth time.
Dear Mom and Dad,
By now, you’ve probably realized I’m gone. Hopefully, I’m safe in my bed in a parallel universe where I belong, and where there are alternate versions of both of you. Please don’t try to look for me, because you’ll never find me. Look for a woman named Mabel Ferguson. She’ll be able to explain everything, but please be nice to her. None of this is her fault, or anybody’s fault, actually. I know this is devastating to you, but know that I love you guys more than anything. I’m sorry about Trevor. That was my fault.
Whenever you look up to the stars, know that I’m out there somewhere, and that I’m happy.
Love,
Remi
It was a shitty note.
It made it sound like I was insane, and had gone off to kill myself or something creepy like that.
I couldn’t imagine what this would be like for them—first to lose their son, and then to lose their daughter nine months later, with nothing but this cryptic note to explain it. But it was either abandon them, or abandon my real parents.
“By the way,” I said, “can we stop by my house so I can leave this note?”
“Leave it here. They’ll find it.”
“Yeah, like, three days from now when the police search your house. I want them to get it before they freak out.”
He shook his head. “We’re going straight to the site.”
“But I’m pretty much on the way.”
“No. Every detour adds risk.”
He did this when he was nervous, started talking in clipped phrases.
“Really?” I glared at him. “I wrote this whole note, and you’re really not going to let me drop it off?”
“No. I’m not.” He gave me a blank look, which left no room for argument.
“But . . . but . . .”
“Leave it here,” he said gently. “The police will be here tonight. They’ll find it.”
“What if I disagree with that decision?” I said hotly.
“My bigger concern is our safety, Remi.” The way he stared at me made me feel tiny.
What was I supposed to say to that?
“Fine, Dad,” I snapped. By way of answer, I stormed to his front door and tucked the note under the edge of the doormat, so it would be the first thing the police saw when they came in.
I returned to the table. “My dad thinks you’re a thug, by the way.”
“Your dad can go fuck himself.”
My jaw fell open. “Um . . . rude.”
“You don’t want my opinion, then don’t tell me his opinion.”
I started to argue, but he raised an eyebrow, and a moment later I was forced to look away, seething.
Seriously, Malcolm in stick-up-his-butt mode was infuriating.
At least, I thought so, until he came up to me and lifted my chin to look me in the eye, and at once, my heart took off like a galloping racehorse.
“We’re going to get through this,” he murmured, “I promise.”
And then he brushed a kiss to my lips, making me stiffen.
“You want to watch a movie?” he asked with a crooked smile.
Reluctantly, I nodded, my prior frustration dissolving away. This might be our last night ever. I didn’t want to waste it being ticked off.
So we moved to the floor, and I sat awkwardly next to him while he opened his laptop. But I pushed the lid shut, changing my mind.
“Let’s just talk,” I said.
I didn’t want to spend what could be our last two hours alive watching a movie.
“Okay.” He leaned against a table leg and clasped his fingers. “What do you want to talk about?”
“You.”
The word just flew off my lips, and I felt my cheeks heat.
But there was a smile in his eyes. “What about me?”
“I don’t know. I can never tell what’s going on behind your eyes. And you never say that much.” I lay down next to him, head propped in my palm. “And I want to get to know you before you turn grumpy again,” I teased.
“That’s ironic,” he said, “because if I had to choose anyone to write my obituary, it would be you.”
At first I thought he was kidding, but his expression said otherwise. “Wait . . . seriously?”
“Yeah, what would you put?”
“In your obituary? Uh . . .” Oh God. I tucked my hair behind my ear, suddenly self-conscious. “I mean, I feel like you always stand up for what’s right . . . when no one else seems to care. You’re a good leader, obviously. You think things through. You’re really smart. And you’re always in charge, no matter what anyone else says. You’re like a force of nature. You’re humble. Wait, no, you’re not humble. Maybe you’re humble. But you’re really sure of yourself. I’m pretty sure if I’m writing your obituary, it’s because you died saving someone else’s li
fe.”
He laughed to himself. “See, that’s way better than Vincent’s version—cocky douchebag whose genius is wasted on delusional notions of honor.”
Yep, that seemed like something Vincent would say.
“He was teasing,” I said.
He shrugged. “Yours is the version I want to be, his is the version I am.”
I played with my hair, watching him.
He watched me back.
I wanted to kiss him.
But I didn’t know how to kiss him, didn’t even know if I was allowed to. He was still Malcolm, still untouchable, still way too intense.
What were we anyway?
We’d made out, once, and as of a few minutes ago, we’d both kissed each other one other time. On the lips. Which made us what? Dating?
My pulse drummed faster at the thought, and my cheeks warmed again, but no. Boyfriends and girlfriends were comfortable around each other, and I was anything but comfortable around Malcolm—
“What are you thinking about?” he said.
I blushed hotter. “Nothing. The Glipper. Why?”
“You had this cute look.”
Cute look . . . cute look . . . what did cute look mean?
Like kitten cute? Or like sexy cute? Because there was a big difference.
“What would you put in my obituary?” I asked shyly.
He thought for a moment. “Redemption.”
“Just one word, huh? That’s kind of epic.”
His smile reached his eyes.
“This is morbid,” I said. “We’re talking about what we’d write if we died.”
Our laughter was cut short by the doorbell.
I tensed up, first fearing the Glipper—but the Glipper didn’t ring doorbells—and then the police, who I imagined barging in, cuffing me, and escorting me home to my parents.
But it was only the pizza delivery guy.
Malcolm paid for the pizza and opened the box on the rug in front of us—since he had no furniture—and we ate on the paper plates provided.
He could have taken his piece and plopped down anywhere—at the dining room table, at the workout bench across the room, at the kitchen counter—but he didn’t. He sat down right next to me, brushing my shoulder.
My heart skipped a beat.
Suddenly hyper self-aware, I took too large a bite, chewed mechanically, and forced myself to swallow, feeling like I had to consciously control every tiny movement of my body or else it would all go haywire. I couldn’t tell which was making me more nervous—the Glipper . . . or Malcolm.
I stole a peek at him, at his high cheekbones catching the light, his hard jaw flexing as he chewed, his dark, lush eyebrows tightening in deep thought.
He glanced up and caught me staring.
My eyes averted much too fast for it to seem innocent, and I wanted to hit myself. Sensing his gaze still on me, my ears began to burn.
Malcolm, definitely.
No, I needed to be confident. He had sat next to me.
I looked back at him, this time determined to hold his gaze. Shy girls look away. I’m not shy.
But as the seconds wore on, neither of us blinking, my skin began to heat . . . everywhere. My heart beat harder and harder against my sternum. I hadn’t thought this through. Our faces were only inches apart, way too close to be looking at each other like this.
To break the tense silence, I whispered, “What are you thinking about?”
He continued to stare at me. “Guess.”
I swallowed hard. “Me . . . I think . . . I hope . . .”
I clamped my mouth shut, embarrassed. He waited for more, but I didn’t dare go further. I had a one-track mind right now, and my mouth was about to betray me—I’d read somewhere that when animals in the wild locked eyes and didn’t look away, they were either going to fight . . . or fuck . . . and I didn’t want any of that yet, I just wanted to know how he felt about me.
My gaze flicked to his lips, then back to his eyes, and my breathing came faster . . . too fast.
By the quirk in the corner of his lips, he noticed.
Still, he didn’t move.
He was enjoying making me squirm, the sadist.
Screw him. He took what he wanted, I would take what I wanted.
My pulse ratcheted up in anticipation. Slowly, my eyes never leaving his, I leaned forward and touched my lips to his, my eyelashes fluttering closed at the last moment.
He kissed me back. At the touch of his lips, all the tension melted from my body. Feeling emboldened, I scooted onto his lap and kissed him harder, with tongue, my stomach doing one happy somersault after another—because this was our second real kiss, and this one had to mean something. His hands clamped around my back, pulling me tighter against him, and every nerve in my body tingled with electricity.
I sighed into his mouth, drunk off his touch . . . wishing we could make out forever.
We did have two hours to kill.
“Do you even like me?” I asked, suddenly pulling away from the kiss.
His face turned serious. “As a friend, yes,” he said.
“Oh.” My heart sank into the pit of my stomach, and my voice came out dry and raspy. “Okay.” I began to climb off his lap, feeling like my insides were made of lead.
But he gently pulled me back down, and I looked at him, bewildered.
“As more than a friend,” he said, “yes.”
It took a moment to sink in, and when it did, that spark of hope came flaring back to life. Though I felt my pulse thumping like crazy at the base of my neck, I tried to play it cool, cocking my head sideways. “So you’re . . . into me?”
I needed to know these things.
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, a gesture so intimate it made my breath catch, and nodded.
“Even . . .” I gulped down a painful swallow, “. . . even though I’m not pretty?”
Now his gaze was reproachful. “Remi.”
His tone indicated my question didn’t even deserve an answer.
I searched his gaze, trying to figure out what he meant. Trying to parse Malcolm’s cryptic half statements was a full-time job. You had to analyze his tone, his body language, figure out alternate meanings, adjust for mood, and in the end I was still usually wrong.
Seeing my confusion, his expression softened.
“You are beautiful.” He kissed my temples—I went stiff in his arms, overwhelmed and unsure how to react—then he clasped his hands behind his head and laid back on the carpet, a lazy smile on his face. “When I asked you to homecoming, it was because I wanted to get to know you more.”
My stomach tightened into a ball of nerves. “You mean you liked me even back then?”
My heart refused to slow, waiting for his answer.
“Always,” he said, gazing wistfully toward the ceiling. “I have always liked you, Remi Weaver.”
I could only stare, blinking in surprise. So not only did he like me—which was amazing!—he’d liked me for just as long as I’d liked him—basically, the entire length of our friendship.
“But . . . why?” Stunned at my good luck, I scooted my butt to the floor, leaving my legs steepled over his. I wanted to stay touching him, worried breaking skin contact might break the magic.
“Why?” he said, lowering his gaze to mine. “Because of how you changed after your brother died. You used to be mean and self-centered and hateful, and then you lost him, but instead of blaming others and getting on a hate trip, you looked in here”—he thumped his fist against his chest—“and you didn’t like who you were, so you changed it—you went after your own hate, your pettiness, your cruelty—you went after it, you hunted it down, and you stamped it out. I saw you triumph and grow into who you are now—the person who defends the weak, who stands up to bullying, who holds her chin up in darkness. I saw you become that person, by choice.”
He sat up underneath me and cupped my cheek. “When your spirit should have been crushed, you made yourself into a good person. An
d that takes the greatest courage of all. That is true character.”
The incessant chatter in my brain had gone eerily still. I put my hand on top of his, interlocking our fingers.
No one had ever said anything that kind to me before.
Until the illusion popped.
“But my brother’s suicide was my fault,” I said. “I’m not a good person.”
“You’re not your past,” he said. “You’re the girl you are now . . . you’re one of my best friends, who I respect and admire deeply . . . there’s a reason I’m falling for you, Remi.”
I was so focused on proving my guilt I barely heard him—the fact that he’d just said he was falling for me.
“But I was so mean to him, I bullied him, it’s my fault he’s dead—”
He put his finger to my lips and whispered in my ear, “I think you’re ready to forgive yourself . . . I think it’s time to heal.”
I went rigid at his words, remembering what he’d hinted at earlier—something to do with Trevor’s suicide.
He thought I was ready to hear it.
“Okay, what?” I said. “What did you want to tell me?”
“Why did you bully Trevor?” he said.
“Because I was evil.”
“No, why?”
“Because I was mean, I don’t know.”
But he wouldn’t let me off the hook. “Why?”
I fidgeted under his stare, only somewhat reassured by the gentleness in his voice. “Because he was a nerd, and I wanted him to be cooler, and . . .” I swallowed the lump in my throat, “I didn’t like who he was hanging out with.”
“You can say his name.”
“Fine. Vincent. I didn’t like that he was hanging out with Vincent . . . because I thought he was a dork and judged him and never took the time to get to know him.”
Malcolm nodded, looking smug.
“What?” I said defensively. “What’s that look? I really, really like Vincent now.”
“In this universe,” he said, his eyes twinkling, “Vincent died when he was seven, remember? He never even met Trevor. Why does that matter? Because in this universe, you didn’t bully Trevor. You had no reason to. I know that, because I talked to your mom here.”
“Oh-kay,” I said, still not getting his point.
“Yet Trevor still killed himself,” he said. “It happened on a different day, but he still killed himself.”