CHAPTER TEN | ROWAN LAFONTAINE

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          Like the coward I am, completely unable to stand up for myself, I keep the yellow and purple leaflet Claudia gave me.

          Odette thinks I should attend the sessions ("It's forty-five minutes, seven days a week," she said, absentmindedly scratching Sidney behind the ears. "It's almost like a therapy session, but not really."), whereas Betty seems a bit more apprehensive ("I don't want it to, like, trigger you, or something like that."), and I'm, as always, somewhere in the middle, torn between my two options.

          I don't dare touch the subject around Xavier, even though I'm certain he can sense there's something amiss when I get home. I don't touch the flyer when he's around and stuff it inside the safety of my laptop's bag, where I know he won't pry, but I don't want to worry him by turning this into a more important thing than it really is.

          "There's bean burgers in the freezer," he tells me, once Sidney and I rush past him. There's a massive mug of coffee sitting in front of him. "Just make sure to leave them outside to defrost for a bit."

          "I had a burger for lunch," I reply, taking off my coat and hanging it by the staircase. "I can eat one for dinner again, it's fine," I add, not wanting to upset him for disregarding his efforts in making sure I'm eating properly, and a voice in my head reminds me of something Doctor Albott and I often discuss during therapy.

          Do I really need to sacrifice my own happiness, well-being, and general preferences for the sake of other people's? Does that bring me happiness in return, or is it just making me miserable and wearing me out?

          Even thinking about it is draining, so I don't. I don't need any more reminders that I'm being selfish, ungrateful, and immature, with my brain never shutting up about it, so I save that stress for therapy sessions instead of occupying my free time with those thoughts.

          There have been many times in my life when I've somehow convinced myself Xavier has the uncanny ability to see right through me, particularly in moments when that's the very last thing I want him to do. I've taken my first steps up the stairs when he appears in the hallway, still holding his mug of coffee, and he has yet to shave.

          "You okay?" he asks, sipping his drink.

          I nod, maybe too quickly for it to be even remotely convincing, and clench my fingers around the railing to maintain my balance. "Yeah. College was tiring. I already have a lot of reading to do, essays to write . . ." I shrug, hoping it's a good enough answer. "You know the drill. Sophomore year is no joke."

          "It's your first day."

          "I know. Betty was also caught off guard by the workload."

          "So you've been hanging out with her?"

          "And Odette, by association. I don't think she likes me much." I nibble at my thumb's fingernail, scraping off some of the black nail polish with my teeth by accident. "Maybe she does. Maybe it's all in my head, I don't know. I have a hard time reading her. I hate to feel like I'm intruding and screwing up their friendship because I've been spending so much time with Betty. Is it stupid? Am I being paranoid?"

          The correct answers are yes and yes.

          Xavier wrinkles his nose. "I think you're jumping to conclusions. You've only just met her. Give her some time to warm up to you." He raises his mug at me. "Coffee? I brewed an entire pot. I can fix you a cup, if you'd like."

          I don't usually drink coffee, as it worsens my nerves and leaves me shaking like an excited Chihuahua, but I still accept his offer for the sake of being a good sister. There are far more things that go into that, but small steps to fix what we lost during these years of separation certainly can't hurt.

          We sit in the kitchen with our steaming hot mugs of coffee like anything about this situation is normal, and I even allow myself to pretend it is. It's raining outside, but not pouring, and the lights are on, giving the house a cozier atmosphere than usual, which I decide to properly cherish before I lose it. Now that my days are busy with college, I'll rarely get to spend time with him during the week, and maybe these are the few moments we'll get to try to catch up.

          Neither of us is a chatty gossip, so we don't really catch up with each other, but being around him gives me a sense of security I haven't felt in a long time. With him in the room, I don't find myself wishing the doors and the windows were boarded up to protect us from intruders, and the thought of someone hiding upstairs and waiting to catch me by surprise only crosses my mind when I realize I haven't even considered it.

          "Do you have your textbooks yet?" Xavier eventually questions, rinsing his now empty mug with water. He keeps his back turned to me, unable to see my face drop, and I'm secretly grateful for that.

          "I'll order them once I go upstairs." I wipe the rim of my pink mug—very funny, very considerate, too—with my thumb, mostly to keep myself occupied with something besides this conversation, especially since I've been dreading it all day. "My World Literature professor said no one should run into any trouble ordering them, but then there are the extra materials I'll need, like required reading books. I think I can get away with borrowing them from the library. I have my Whale Card."

          "Your what?"

          "It's my campus ID. You can use it as a credit card, but it works as a library card as well, amongst other things. It's convenient. I picked it up this morning after World Lit."

          "Ah." He finally turns around to face me, arms crossed, leaning the small of his back against the counter behind me. "Mom and Dad are paying for your tuition, I assume."

          "Yeah."

          "Do you need help with the textbooks? They're not usually cheap."

          "I really don't want you to be spending even more money on me. You're buying double the food, then there's Sidney, all the extra money you'll be spending on bills—"

          He raises a hand to cut me off. "It's fine. I'm offering. I can try to hook you up with some discounts, if you'd rather, but I can't promise anything. I know people," he clarifies, in response to the confused look splattered on my face. "Print the list and I'll see what I can do, but I really don't mind paying for them. They'd be far more expensive if you were studying Chemistry or Math, or something, and I want this stay to be as close to normal as possible for you. I know it's not ideal, but we can at least try to make it work."

          My chest tightens with guilt, and I stare at the steam spiraling out of my mug instead of looking him in the eye. There aren't many people I'm able to do that with—not Doctor Albott, not my own family, and certainly not my friends' families—as it leaves me so terrified of what I'll find staring back at me, and it pains me every day that Xavier has joined that group. I want nothing more than to be normal and okay, but something inside me disconnects itself from the world, and I can't even do that right.

          Xavier returns to his seat in front of me and tentatively curls his fingers around my wrist, slowly and gently, as though he's scared I'll run for the hills. "I don't know what to do here. I've lived here by myself for a few years now, and I'm not used to having people stay the night, let alone for an undetermined period of time, but I'm trying, Wendy. I really am. I don't know if you know what you're doing, either, but we're both in this strange, new situation, and I think it would be good for us if we actually talked about things. I told you I wouldn't try to drag you out of your room, but I don't think I'm that unapproachable."

          "You kind of are," I mutter. "You were very mean to Betty."

          "It's banter. She's like my little sister." I am his little sister, and I'm not treated the way she is. I don't say this out loud, but something in my eyes must give it away, as I watch realization wash over his face. "Ah. I get it."

          "Look, I'm sorry." I briefly dare to look back at him, not just from the corner of my eye. "I don't want to be jealous of her because that's stupid and unfair, when she's been here the whole time and I've been hiding away in Chicago, but you never acted that way with me. I know it's different, I know we haven't seen or spoken to each other in years, but it hurts knowing you're closer to the next-door neighbor than you are to me. You never even went back home for the funerals." It's his turn to look away. I know I've touched a sore spot, but it's a lot more of an open wound to me. The one day I needed him to be there, he voluntarily decided not to go. "What am I supposed to do with that knowledge? Emma, Zach. I needed you to be there, and you never answered my calls or my texts. You knew what happened. You knew I needed you, and you stayed here. I can't act like that's normal behavior between siblings, because it's not, and I'm tired of pretending that it didn't break my heart."

          Dumping all these negative feelings on him was uncalled for. I know that. However, it's been consuming me, filling me with black, thick smoke, and I can't even breathe properly with the way it's clogging my lungs. It's toxic, dangerous, and it's out in the world now, but, somehow, it doesn't make me feel any better.

          I was expecting to feel relieved in some way, now that I've put it into words, but a reality check comes kicking in and I'm terrified I might have burned the final bridge connecting me to him. It wasn't sturdy to begin with.

          "Xavier—" I begin.

          "It's fine," he grunts, through gritted teeth. I don't think it's fine; in fact, I think I was way out of line. "I guess I deserved that. Not a day goes by without Mom reminding me of it. I should have flown back. I'm really sorry I didn't, Wendy. I am."

          I'm sorry, too. I don't think it's fair to keep hurting and attacking him any further, especially with Mom doing it by herself—behind my back, even—and it's not necessary to keep pushing the subject any further. It's not solved by any means, as it's something I don't think I'll get over or come to terms with anytime soon, but I also don't want it to contaminate my whole stay here. I'm still a guest, after all, and he's free to send me back to Chicago whenever he feels like it.

          It's not fair to either of us, period; to me, for constantly feeling inadequate and resenting him every time I look at him, and to him, for being put in this position.

          With a small sigh, I rise from my seat and walk up to him, before he can get the chance to assume I'm turning my back on him and leaving the kitchen. I don't know what makes me do it or if I'm just too touch-starved to stop myself, but I still lean down and wrap my arms around his shoulders in the most awkward hug to have ever graced Juneau.

          No matter what he does, he's still my brother, and always will be. We'll both have to live with that knowledge.

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          My first week of college is remarkably unremarkable if one ignores the amount of work I already have piling up.

          I survive my lectures just fine, in spite of my initial ambivalence, and it's not the act of attending them that brings me so much dread—it's the environment, it's the people. Though no one has been openly antagonistic or aggressive towards me and it may very well be my paranoia speaking louder than my rational thinking, I'm still unable to deal with the staring and the constant fear they're whispering about me.

          With Sidney being allowed inside every building on campus, I have a safety net I can turn to whenever I'm feeling particularly attacked, even in the library, and I take advantage of that to get a head start on my papers. I don't want to fall behind, especially this early in the semester, but even Odette, who's so academically inclined, thinks I'm getting ahead of myself.

          "The professors here are pretty chill and lenient," she tells me, on Wednesday. "I wouldn't worry too much, if I were you. Even if you miss a deadline, you can ask for an extension. They won't care as long as you turn it in."

          Unfortunately, I can't do that. I'm too big of a people-pleaser to simply lean back and relax, comforted by the knowledge that not meeting a deadline won't be too big of a deal, and I'm not here to rebel against the system. There are rules in place for a reason and, if I already feel like an outsider here as is, there's no telling what would happen if I did something to tarnish my well-established reputation.

          I'm good. I'm responsible. I follow the rules.

          Then, on Friday, things come crashing down.

          Out of every day in the week, Friday is the day I expect to see the least amount of people on campus; back in Chicago, plenty of people I knew decided to start the weekend early. In here, it's so busy I can hardly catch my breath or see where I'm going.

          I barely dodge a group of rushing freshmen, but, when I turn to the center of the campus, something catches my eye and I immediately stop in my tracks. Even if I want to move or run away, I'm unable to do so, frozen in place.

          He's standing right there, staring right back at me, with those stone eyes of His. I'm desperate to leave His line of sight, get lost in the middle of the crowd, but I'm the only one who survived, so He probably wants to finish what He started that night. I don't want to put several other people at risk, turn them into mere collateral damage, and, realistically, I should be facing my fears head on.

          I'm not fearless. I'm the furthest thing from that.

          When I blink, He's not there anymore, nothing but a figment of my imagination, but I know I'm not out of the woods. I'm not safe just because I can't see Him; just because I can't, it doesn't mean He can't. Even when I pick up my pace, finally finding the strength to move instead of making people bump into me, His hot breath fans against the nape of my neck, under my hair, and the strong metallic scent of blood follows me.

          I know it's not real. I know that, deep in my core, but I'm still sprinting for my life, with Sidney attempting to keep up with me, and she must be so confused for running from an invisible threat. She's always watching, always on high alert, and I rarely let strangers pet her for the sake of my safety, but she didn't see a thing. She didn't see a thing because it's all just in my head, but I can see and feel everything so vividly.

          Sweat prickles my forehead, oozing down my face, but I still taste the blood from my head wound when a drop hits my lips. I lose count of the people I push aside, running without knowing where I'm headed, where I'll be safe, and there are only so many storage closets I can hide in. For a brief moment, I consider freeing Sidney from her leash so my sluggish steps won't hold her back in case we really are being followed, but she won't leave my side, especially when she can sense my panic from a mile away.

         My heart is beating so fast I can't distinguish one beat from the other. I fear it might explode into a million little pieces, struggling to keep up with the adrenaline flooding my veins, and my nerves are so electrified they can easily make my brain go into a short-circuit. With the adrenaline fully kicking in, I can move faster, despite being so out of breath I'm dry heaving, drowning on dry land, with every heartbeat feeling like a kick to the chest.

          A distant voice rings in my ears, pleading and desperate and pathetic, and I finally identify it as being my own. It whispers for help, for someone, for Emma, for Zach, for Xavier, for Mom, for Dad, because I can never do things on my own. Saving myself that night was a fluke, a lucky comet in the night sky, and there's no baseball bat that can help me now. Mom and Dad are in a completely different state, and Xavier wouldn't come.

          Emma and Zach are dead. Soon, I'll be, too.

          He beckons me to turn around, to stop running away, to stop fighting fate. I don't, more out of stubbornness than bravery, and I only stop when I stumble inside a bathroom and lock myself and Sidney inside a stall. The edges of my vision blur and darken as I crouch on the toilet with my feet on the seat, the cold porcelain cooling down my muscles even over my clothes, and I wait, praying to God it won't break under me.

          I wait. I wait. A clock ticks in the distance. There are no footsteps in the bathroom, no voices, no sounds but the blood pulsating in my ears.

          Then, someone knocks on my door. I jump back, nearly falling off the toilet, and Sidney growls.

          "Hello? Wendy?"

          Stomach sinking, I dare to unlock the stall, knowing very well it could be a deadly mistake. She could be under threat, she could be being forced to pretend everything's normal to lure me out and so I can get us both killed, but, when the door opens, it's just her.

          Betty stands in front of me, almost as out of breath as me, and bends forward, hands on her knees. "Wendy. Dude. Are you okay? I saw you running across the campus and I had this . . . I don't know, this feeling that something happened, but you wouldn't stop. You look like you just saw a ghost."

          That's not far from the truth.

          I'm too exhausted to explain, stumbling out of the stall, and almost fall face first against the sink when Betty moves out of the way to give me space. She pulls me back before I can smash my face in, and I still find the strength of spirit to firmly hold the edge of the sink.

          In the mirror, my skin is ashen, lips red and swollen from being bit, and my wheezing echoes in the silent bathroom. It ricochets off the walls, mortifyingly so, and I must look so frightened—or frightening—that Betty doesn't even dare touch me, though I can see the worried look in her face staring back at me.

          "I can call Xavier," she says, quietly.

          "No," I reply, too quickly. "No, don't."

          "Are you sure? You—"

          "I'm fine." I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. There's no blood.

          She sets a shaky hand on my shoulder. "At least let's get you to the nurse."

          Defeated, I'm forced to accept her proposal, but decide to ignore the pity look she throws at me on our way out. Sooner or later, they all look at me like that. Everyone but Him—it was just primal rage.