Chapter Nine

Rosemary.

The word pulsed through my mind as I walked across Mrs. Hummel's front lawn, as Logan drove me home, as I unlocked the door to my house and slipped into the empty foyer. It bounced around in my skull as I attempted to read my Psych textbook. It gave me so much grief that eventually, I slammed my book shut and clomped down the stairs to the kitchen.

I wasn't really hungry, but I opened the fridge anyway, staring at its contents: fruits, whole wheat bread, leftover curry and rice. Nothing remotely interesting. The freezer yielded even worse results, and I sighed.

Humming softly to myself, I padded across the tile floor in slippered feet, shivering slightly in the cool air of the kitchen. I let my hand run across the birch cabinets, tracing the wooden edges until my fingers came to a stop at the final door.

Rosemary, Svana's voice echoed in my head. Mrs. Hummel's favorite spice.

Evidently, in my search for an explanation, my subconscious had led me to the one place where I might find something to help me.

My mother's spice cabinet.

I made a racket in opening the door, drawing Zipper from the sun room. Her nails clicked against the floor as she trotted over to me, rubbing her soft fur into the fleece pink fabric of my pants. I nudged her gently with my calf, pushing her back as I stuck my head into the cabinet.

Immediately, my senses were assaulted with the overwhelming scents of many spices mingling together in the stale air. I sneezed twice, wiped my face on the back of my sleeve, and attempted to blink the water out of my eyes.

With breath held, I began to swipe at the containers, reading their labels and shoving them aside. I got the feeling that they were in some kind of order, because basil was lined up before chamomile, but I disregarded that completely. There was a primal hunger gnawing at me: a deep-seated starvation for knowledge that willed me to face the possibility of my mother's wrath.

I went through row after row, shelf after jam-packed shelf, from garlic to mint to thyme, mumbling the names to myself and sometimes knocking the canisters off their perches. Zipper leapt around me, whining, but I just shushed her and continued on. I don't know what I was hoping to find by going through the cabinet, but I needed to and so I did and I didn't stop until I'd gone over every spice and herb twice. Then I checked again, because I was sure that I had missed it.

Rosemary. It should have been right there, between parsley and saffron. But I'd gone through already, and there was nothing. No space between the two to say that we'd run out. Just nothing. Rosemary wasn't there.

“What are you doing?” The incredulous sound of my mother's voice pricked me in the spine, and I whirled around to find her standing in the kitchen doorway, purse in hand. Her mouth was gaping open, aghast, as she regarded the state of the kitchen.

Worry built in the pit of my stomach as I, too, took a look around. Somehow, in my frantic search, I'd upended several containers onto the ground, sending flakes of sage and garlic and who knows what else onto the floor. Other bottles had shattered completely, leaving a mess of glass shards and spices. Zipper, who had accidentally licked up some pepper, was in the corner, coughing.

“Are you going to answer me?” my mother demanded. Her bun was slipping loosely down the side of her head, matching with her deteriorating mood. I frowned at her, not moving from my knees. There was some sort of irrationality in my calmness, a heavy weight in my stomach that made my words solid.

“We don't have rosemary,” I stated, staring at her. “I just went through the entire cabinet, and we do not have rosemary.”

My tone implied the need for an answer, and looking back, I think I must have sounded crazy. Perhaps that explains the look of horror that passed across my mother's face—at least, that's what I assumed at the time. Because at my words, a flicker of fearful disbelief crossed her features, leaving her expression several degrees more frigid than before.

“We do not cook with rosemary in this house,” my mother snapped coolly. “Now go upstairs to your room.”

I opened my mouth to protest. “Wha—”

“Now, Parker Sage. I'll clean up this godforsaken mess, just go. And take the dog with you.”

Slowly, in the silence, I rose to my feet and began to pick my way over the spilled herbs and glass bits that covered the ground. My mother had left to get a broom, and when she returned, she wouldn't look at me. One hand was pressed against her face, and she used the other to wave me out of the room.

“Come on, Zipper,” I murmured. My puppy gave a final hack, then rounded the kitchen table and scrambled over to me. Stooping over, I picked her up and buried my face into her fur as I descended the stairs.

◙════════════◙

“The Freudian slip,” said Dr. Hennessy, “aptly named after Sigmund Freud, a brilliant yet very controversial Austrian neurologist who made countless contributions to the field of psychoanalysis. The idea of the Freudian slip is that it is a mistake in speech or memory that causes people to say things that they do not mean to say or misinterpret words they read or hear. Freud's idea was that these words are normally suppressed within the unconscious, and when a slip occurs, it reveals a person's hidden beliefs, thoughts, and wishes. I assume that many of you have heard the term before, but another common phrase is 'slip of tongue', though that is rather generalized and does not completely cover the entirety of the phenomenon. It's quite an interesting subject, though Mr. Freud was quite a disputed figure during his heyday.”

I stifled a yawn at Dr. Hennessy's lecture, typing furiously in hopes of keeping myself awake. It'd been two days since I'd seen Mrs. Hummel, and over the past couple of nights, I hadn't slept any better. Both nights, the paralysis nightmares had returned with a vengeance, bringing not only the demon creatures but a taller, thinner monster who raised its hands at the side of my bed and made it shake violently. Logan kept telling me to tell my mother, but I was hesitant. She and I hadn't been on speaking terms recently, anyway.

I didn't see any strange men for two days, though maybe that's because I never left the house. Thursday was spent with Logan, pouring over the endless papers from Dr. Hennessy in my living room. But apart from a long, occult piece about incubi and succubi, we hadn't found anything new. He didn't ask why my mom was so peeved when she came home, so I said nothing about it. I also hadn't told him about the rosemary incident, because I also hadn't divulged the subject of the strange smell or the girl from my dreams.

I don't know why, exactly, I was being so secretive. Logan was my best friend; I was supposed to spill my mind out to him. I guess I was afraid that the way he thought would not compute what was happening to me. That he would laugh it off the way he did so many other irrational things, passing over the subject because it didn't make sense in his reality. Which was why I was surprised that his art was always so creative and unrealistic; anyone who knew him would have thought that his brain would reflect his logical rigidity onto paper.

I sneaked a glance over at him as I typed, half-listening to Dr. Hennessy's words. He wasn't drawing today, but pecking at his keyboard with his pinkies and pointer fingers; his own weird way of typing that he swore was efficient, no matter how awkward it looked. As my eyes roved over his face in profile, he caught me watching and glanced over with a small smile. I ducked my head, irrationally embarrassed that he'd noticed my stare.

“Just a reminder that your midterm is scheduled for next Monday, the nineteenth.” Dr. Hennessy strode around the podium, turning off his projector and killing the PowerPoint of notes projected onto his huge screen. “I haven't quite finished the formatting, but I do know that there will be an essay on a random subject that we've covered so far this year. I do believe that you can can pass, so long as you study. Class is dismissed, have a good weekend!”

For once, Logan and I left class at the same time as everyone else. We trooped outside with the masses and into the chilly Pennsylvanian air, Logan pausing in the middle of the sidewalk to look up at the sky.

“Looks like snow,” he observed, glancing at the grayish clouds.

I looked at the sleeves of my sweater with a groan. “Well, damn,” I muttered. “I sure hope it isn't; I kind of forgot a jacket.”

“Parker Elway, prepared as ever,” Logan teased, elbowing me lightly. I ducked away, but he jumped forward and pulled me into a lopsided bear hug that nearly toppled both of us into a nearby rosebush. Squealing, I tried my best to wriggle out of his grasp, but he wouldn't let go. I can't say I minded completely, though, because he was wearing his windbreaker and it was very warm.

“Don't worry,” he murmured into my hair, “if you get cold, I'll throw you into an ice drift and make sure you freeze.”

I pulled away and slapped him across the arm.

◙════════════◙

Several hours later, I was cocooned in a castle of cushions, making my first attempt at studying for the midterm. So far, I'd figured that my knowledge would put me at an F level.

“Schizophrenia,” I murmured to myself, “is a psychotic disorder in which thinking, emotion, and behavior are severely impaired, often characterized by loss of contact with the environment.”

After checking to make sure I'd recited the correct definition, I tossed the purple flashcard onto my bed with all the others. My comforter was covered with them; dozens of color-coded pieces of cardstock labeled with every single one of the 247 vocabulary words we'd covered in the first quarter. In one hour, I'd only managed my way through about a fourth of them, what with having to check for every other word in my textbook.

As I was reaching for the next card, the door to my room was thrown open, rattling the miscellaneous junk in my bookshelf. Zipper, asleep on the end of my bed, jumped onto the carpet and wiggled her way over to the doorway.

My mother stood within it, her hands poised carefully on the waist of her heather gray pantsuit. Sighing internally, I lifted my headphones off my ears, pressing pause on the iPod that lay beside me.

“What?” I demanded, trying and failing to keep the edge out of my voice. Mom and I had been skirting around each other since the rosemary incident, but it seemed like every time I looked at her, she was giving me a look of judging disdain.

It was the same expression that marred her features as she asked, “Parker, have things been all right with you, lately?”

“Uh...” I stuttered for a moment, so taken aback by her uncharacteristic concern that I couldn't form any thoughts. “Fine,” I fibbed eventually. “Just studying for midterms.” Pressing my lips together, I held up a flashcard as proof.

Mom nodded, her jaw tightening as she appraised me with a frown. “Are you certain? No more bad dreams? Haven't been seeing anything...out of the ordinary?”

She was looking at me funny—almost as if she knew. But that was impossible; the only person who knew about the strange men and continual nightmares was Logan, and he knew me well enough to realize that the subject wasn't one I was eager to discuss with my mother.

For half a second, I considered telling her the truth; then I realized what would happen if I did. No phone, no computer, no school; no leaving my house, maybe not even my room. My mom freaked out about that kind of thing even more than all the other things she freaked out, and that was saying something. She may not have been a loving parent, but she could switch to insanely protective mother bear mode in a heartbeat if the situation called for it.

“Mom, what are you talking about?” I questioned, raising my eyebrows in an attempt to look skeptical. “Nothing's wrong; everything is perfectly all right.”

Thankfully, my truth-twisting skills are up to par with my mother's perceptiveness, and she didn't seem to realize that I was lying through my teeth. She nodded slowly, her gaze moving down to Zipper, who hopped expectantly at her feet. I saw her upper lip curl; she'd never liked the idea of getting a dog, and I'd only managed to convince her by the skin of my teeth.

“In that case,” she snapped, “take the dog for a walk.”

Apparently, in her mind, walking the dog and my mental state were correlated in some way. She did not ask me if I could Zipper around the block, she told me. And that's how things always were with her. Every word she said was law, and everyone was automatically expected to heed her. Most people, though they wouldn't admit it, were at least slightly afraid of her, so they obeyed her orders.

But I wasn't.

So I didn't.

“I can't,” I said sharply. “I'm studying.”

An eyebrow raised, creeping slowly up her forehead like a thin, plucked caterpillar. “Is that so?” she said frigidly, her hands balanced on her hips. “Well, I guess you'll have to study another time.”

“Are you kidding me?” I demanded, my voice shrill.

“I don't believe I look like I'm kidding.”

A hiss of anger escaped my lips, and Zipper glanced over at me, her little head tilted in confusion. Fury and fear mingled in my stomach, creating a twisting nausea that crawled up my throat like bile. Disgust at my mother's insistence was only half of it; the idea of going outside where any one of those penguin-suited men might be waiting was even more sickening. But I couldn't tell her that, not without revealing all those other little things that would drive her up the wall.

“You can't make me,” I sneered. “I'm not doing it.”

My mother threw up her hands, her face contorting in rage. “Just do it, Rose, it's not that hard!”

Rose?

There was silence for a withheld breath as I processed the misnomer and my mother realized her mistake. I saw surprise and worry pass across her face in quick succession, leaving her expression briefly vulnerable.

“What did you just call me?” I asked slowly, the monosyllabic name repeating in my head. Rose Rose Rose Rose Rose Rose.

My mother swallowed, smoothing down the front of her suit as she evened out her features.

“Parker,” she murmured. “I called you Parker.”

I shook my head, my hair falling into my eyes. “No, no you said—”

“It doesn't matter what I said,” she snapped, cutting me off. “This conversation is done, Parker. Take the dog and go outside.”

With a final belittling glance, she lifted her chin and stalked out of the room. Zipper glanced between us quickly, fur whipping, before scampering to my bedside and licking my overhanging foot. I didn't even notice; my thoughts were a whirlwind in my head, probably dwelling on that slip of tongue more than they should have.

But what was it that Dr. Hennessy had been talking about in class? A mistake in speech or memory that causes people to say things that they do not mean to say or misinterpret words they read or hear.

Is that what had just happened? Had my mother just made a Freudian slip?

◙════════════◙

“Zipper, would you hurry up?” I snapped. “I swear to God, you don't have to pee on every single thing we pass.” I tugged at her leash, hoping to speed up our procession. But Zipper stayed put, her nose buried in a nearby bush. She snuffled loudly as I stood there, shivering in the cold air.

When the dog finally decided that it was time to move on, I could hardly feel my fingers. Logan had been right; it did look like snow. The clouds overhead hung low and ash-gray, looming over the city like an itch that couldn't be scratched, and there was a icy gale bulleting down from the sky. I thought I'd dressed warmly in my sweats and knit sweater, but they didn't seem to stop my hands from shaking.

Zipper and I hurried down the sidewalk, crossing the deserted street. It was only four o'clock, but the residential part of town was dim and empty. I found myself jumping at every sound, glancing over my shoulder often; and really, can you blame me? I couldn't take a single step without feeling my heart leap to my throat, absolutely certain that I was going to feel that presence, that I would turn around to see those pitch black eyes boring into my face.

On the corner of Mill and Orin, Zipper stopped in her tracks.

Fear is a funny thing: when there is a possibility of finding something to be afraid of, it quickens your step, makes you whirl and then run if you hear or see anything out of place. But when something actually happens that should be frightening, you are suddenly frozen in place by your terror, unable to move even though you should be running, running, running.

“What is it, girl?” I breathed, my voice cracking. Zipper was a few feet away from me, leaning against her leash with her ears perked. She growled, a deep and throaty sound, at something I couldn't see. But I could feel it—oh, I could feel it. The air had suddenly become thin, stretch bare by the overwhelming feeling that someone was watching. Yet my feet were rooted in place. My fear had bottomed out my stomach and plummeted to the soles of my shoes, securing them to the gum-caked sidewalk.

“Zipper?” I squeaked. My dog backed up slowly, coming to stand in front of me as if her fifteen pound body was enough to protect us both. Another growl escaped through her bared teeth, followed by a mighty bark. I scanned my peripherals, expecting to see those men everywhere, surrounding me, but the streets were barren as ever.

So what was that feeling? That overwhelming pressure was in me, on me, around me, everywhere and nowhere all at once. Every muscle in my body was coiled, ready to bolt, and my heart was a jackhammer against my chest. Slowly, swallowing, I raised a hand to press my fingers to my neck, that weird habit I could never break. My pulse jumped erratically against my neck like it was trying to escape.

And as my fingertips touched the soft skin of my throat, the presence began to fade.

It was slow, gradual, an invisible person retreating from a room. Then, like the echoing slam of a door, it disappeared completely, and I was alone.

Zipper slunk forward quietly, whimpering, with her ears pressed flat against against her head. Her little body was quivering, and, I quickly realized, so was mine. I let out the shaky breath that I'd been withholding and watched it stain the air with a frosty white cloud. When no hands reached up to pull me into the gutter, I thought it was safe to take a step. Then another. Then another. Five footfalls, with a disgruntled Zipper creeping along in front of me.

That's when it began to snow.

It, like the appearance and departure of the shapeless watcher, came suddenly. One moment, I was walking down the sidewalk, huddled into my sweater; the next, I was still huddled into my sweater, but now, there were dozens of white flakes skittering down from the sky.

I cursed loudly, kicking at the ground as the snowflakes tumbled into my hair and melted against my skin. Each one was a shocking stab of ice that lanced through my flesh and into my blood. I hopped from foot to foot, glancing wildly around myself in hopes of figuring out somewhere to find shelter, and fast. It might have been the first snow of the year, but I knew from experience that we could end up with a blizzard. I was too far away from my house to get there quickly; but Logan lived two blocks down and around the corner. I could be there in less than a minute if I ran.

“Zipper, let's go!” I shouted, sprinting into the downfall of snow that was rapidly sheeting my vision with blankness. I nearly missed the turnoff, and I would have kept running if I hadn't recognized the ostentatious pink paint job of Gracie Peters' minivan.

My feet slapped loudly against the ground; Zipper's dog tags jingled. I sped up, knowing that Logan's house was at the end of the block. I tried to convince myself that I was only running because I wanted to get out of the storm, but there was still that little sliver in my gut that knew I was driven by fear. Fear of whatever had been watching me back there, that might still be watching me, though the snow, even as I ran and ran—

I arrived at Logan's house a gasping mess, slamming gracelessly into the door and then banging on it, desperately, with both my fists. Zipper, riled up by my desperation, began to bark, her paws scrabbling against the wooden floorboards of Logan's porch. His house, paneled white except for the burgundy rims surrounding the windows, was nearly lost in the storm.

Just as I was beginning to think he wasn't home, the door was thrown open wildly. I tumbled inside, nearly hitting the carpet as my legs tangled in Zipper's leash. Logan, who was standing at the edge at the doorway with his mouth hanging open, was too shocked to catch me.

“Parker, what the hell?” he demanded. I righted myself against the dark chocolate walls, shaking.

“M-my mom m-made me walk t-the dog,” I sputtered. “A-and it started s-snowing.”

“No kidding!” Logan closed the door with a loud thunk, his expression incredulous. “What was she thinking, sending you out here? Look at you, you're freezing!”

I managed a chattering laugh as I let Zipper's leash slip from my hands. “J-just a little, yeah.”

“Well come here, then,” he urged, grabbing the arm of my sweater and pulling me into his living room. The switch-on fireplace was blazing, its orange tongues looking invitingly bright. I knelt down in front of it and let the blistering heat wash over me.

“Let me get you something warmer,” Logan said, his tone solicitous. I followed his movements with my eyes as he moved toward the stairs.

“Is your dad home?” I called after him.

“No,” he called over his shoulder, “thank God. He's at Stan's.”

Internally, I let out a sigh of relief. Of course, it never ended well when Jack Dearborn went to Stan's, but him being gone was better than him being in the house, where he could and would wreak havoc on everything that looked at him funny. And I looked at him funny a lot.

Remember how I told you that I know some parents who, unlike my mother, are real, actual alcoholics? Meet the prime example: Logan's dad, Jack Dearborn. The man was never seen without his hand around the neck of a bottle, and I can't remember the last time I saw him with lucid eyes. He'd always liked drinking, but I think he really lost it when Aubrey, Logan's older sister, left for college four years ago. His wife—their mom—died long before, and he'd managed to cope well enough. Then Aubrey went halfway across the country, and he stopped being a father and started being a drunken waste of human space.

It wasn't that he abused Logan, not physically, but he was never there. And when he was, he was either passed out on the couch or so cranky that all he could do was sit drunkenly on his oversized behind and shout obscenities at his son.

“Here,” Logan said, drawing me from my thoughts as he pulled a blanket around my shoulders. He sat down next to me, cross-legged, and picked at the carpet. I stared into the waves of heat emanating from the fireplace, not speaking.

“Parker,” he said quietly, “are you okay? I mean, I know you're not, but it's just that you've seemed really out of it lately and—and I'm just—I'm worried.”

I pulled my knees to my chest and rested my chin on them, chewing thoughtfully on my lip. When my mother asked me the same question, the lie had fallen from my lips without hesitation. But now, I was too spent to fib, especially to someone who I knew would actually care.

“No,” I admitted, feeling a weight lift from my chest with the simple word. “I'm not okay. I've been having those nightmares, I've been seeing those people, and I don't even know who they are or where they're from because no one else seems to notice them and I just don't even know what's going on in my head anymore. I feel like I'm going insane, Logan. I feel like I'm completely losing my mind.”

For a long, drawn out moment, there was silence. I heard Logan swallow: saw his Adam's apple bob in my peripherals. His expression was at war.

Eventually, with a long exhalation, he reached over and put a hand on my shoulder. “You're not insane, Parker,” he said with absolutely conviction. “It's just these nightmares messing with your head. You're sleep deprived, aren't you? Can't people who haven't slept see weird things or something? It makes sense; it's logical. There's nothing wrong with you, I'm sure of it.”

I swallowed the urge to let out a laugh. Logan hadn't felt the weird things I felt; he hadn't seen those eyes staring at him; he didn't know what it felt like to have monsters haunting your dreams at midnight. He lived in a rational world, and he didn't know what it was like to feel crazy.

“I'm glad one of us is confident in my sanity,” I muttered.

“Parker...” Logan shook his head, pulled back, and pivoted so that he was facing me. “Listen...my sister is coming out this weekend and staying through Thanksgiving. I know you said that you don't want to talk to anyone about this, but Aubrey studies this stuff for a living. If you let her, she might be able to help you.”

I pressed my lips together, hugged my knees tighter. Aubrey was a psychology student, studying to obtain a doctorate and pursue a career in psychiatry. I knew her really well; even though she left years ago, she'd hung out with me and Logan when we were way younger, and she came back to visit several times a year. She was one of the people I trusted the most, with everything, not to mention that I looked up to her for being strong enough to leave our little dead-end town and not be stuck here her whole life.

“I'll do it,” I mumbled.

Logan started up immediately. “Just at least think about it, all right? It's just a suggestion and I—wait, what?”

I peered at him, amused. “I said I'll do it, Logan,” I repeated. “Maybe...maybe it'll help.”

“Yeah,” my best friend said. “Yeah.” Then, under his breath, “My God, I can't believe she actually listened to me.”

I snorted.

We sat in silence for a while, side by side, listening to the crackling of the fire. Zipper had curled up beneath the coffee table in a pillow of white fur that stood out against the dark green carpet. I tugged absently at the checkered blanket around my shoulders, Logan picked at a loose thread on the sleeve of his blue- and-gray-striped sweater, and gradually, all my pent up fear and anxiety began to seep away.

“Parker,” Logan said several minutes later, an unreleased yawn in his voice.

“Mm?”

“You know everything is gonna be okay, right? Like, with you, and everything?”

“Mm.”

“Parker,” he said again, disapproving this time.

“Mm?”

“Parker, stop it.”

His hand found my arm, peeling it away from my leg and turning me to face him. His green eyes were clouded with worry, the freckles on his nose like constellations. I felt the strange urge to get a pen and play connect the dots on his face, and I looked down to keep from laughing aloud.

“You're going to be okay,” he stated, shifting onto his knees. “Okay?” When I didn't respond, he grabbed my wrist and shook it gently. “Okay?”

“Okay,” I murmured.

“Parker, look at me.” He put two fingers under my chin and lifted my head so that our eyes met, green to hazel. “Well?”

“Okay,” I breathed.

I realized, suddenly, how close we were, our noses nearly touching. I mean, as best friends, we'd been close—he'd slept at my house, I'd worn his clothes, we hugged every time we parted. But this was a different genre of closeness; not an easy, friendly kind, but a new, intimate variety that made my stomach knot up because it was such vast, uncharted territory. I could tell that Logan felt it too, because something shifted in his expression. But neither of us pulled away.

Suddenly, before I had any idea what was happening, he was leaning closer, shrinking the distance between us more and more by the heartbeat. My mind was freaking out, throwing off panic lights behind my eyes. Yet I didn't move.

And then his lips were pressed to mine.

Considering that fact that I'd never had a boyfriend, I didn't have a lot of experience in kissing. The only boy I ever kissed was Barry Bryant in the seventh grade, when a girl from church played spin the bottle at her birthday party and I'd been forced into it. And that just wet and sloppy and awkward.

I knew enough to realize that this was different.

I'm not going to go all teenage girl mode on you and talk about the fireworks and immediate chemistry, because we all know that stuff doesn't happen in real life. But for the few seconds that it lasted, the kiss wasn't bad at all. I felt my eyes drift shut without my consent, my body lifting slightly as I unconsciously leaned in closer. And maybe, possibly, I might have actually enjoyed it.

But the sensation was cut off with a jolt as Logan pulled back sharply, his hands searching for the ground to keep himself from falling. His face was a bright, tomato red, and as we stared at each other, I felt a blush creep over my cheeks as well. I raised one hand slowly to my lips, still feeling the essence of wood and toothpaste on them—the same taste as the way he smelled.

“I'm sorry!” he blurted, slapping a hand over his mouth. “I'm sorry—I didn't mean—I'm sorry—”

“I-It's okay,” I said quietly, confusedly. “I—I don't—it's fine.”

He shook his head again and again, an odd look of horror in his eyes. But there was no regret there—none at all. Just disbelief at what he had done. I felt that same disbelief, but for me, it was at the fact that I had let him.

“I'll drive you home,” he stuttered, standing awkwardly.

I heard the sound of Zipper's dog tags jangling as she looked up, but my eyes were fixated on Logan. In a corner of my mind, I remembered what Juliette had said, about how he was starting to like me instead of her. Unless that kiss had been some kind of fluke, there was now a very distinct possibility that she was right.

And in a strange, nervous way, I didn't think I minded.

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A/N: YES, Larker. I didn't even realize I was at this chapter, I crammed so much into each chapter it's crazy. The flow is all right, though, right? I don't know if I should shorten things or keep them as they are.

p.s. if you're reading this, could you maybe, possibly  go vote for my story Superior in the Watty Awards? It's in the On the Rise section of the sci-fi genre, and every vote would mean a lot to me. c: