Sorry for not updating for a month, I moved across the world, got bitten by a bug I shouldn't have gotten bitten by, was hospitalized for a week and then still had to get used to a new country. Here's an extra long chapter to make up for it lol

Chapter Thirty-eight | Blankets
♫ Blankets by Early Internet

"Where are you going? Can I come?"

"I don't think my phone battery would be able to handle that," I say to Milo— or rather his voice, cracking through the fragile connection of the phone.

His face freezes every four seconds. I've propped him up against the wall behind my desk while I gather my things in a totebag, steps light because of the braces I'm wearing underneath his jeans. I wonder if he notices that he got me these. He doesn't know they're the only pairs I wear these days.

"Talk to me, Supernova. I feel like I'm missing out on... you."

I glance at him, ignoring the way my stomach flips and only momentarily pausing in my movements before I continue. I need my wallet.

"There's nothing to miss out on. Unlike someone, I'm not in a crazy, transitional period of my life. I go to class—" I pause to duck out of frame, retrieving my wallet from underneath my desk— "I go to Hyde's meetings, I go to my dorm. That's it."

"There's more," he insists. "You have sleepovers now? I thought that was an us-thing."

"I do have sleepovers now, and it's not an us-thing. I'm a girl, Milo, I have my needs and a girly sleepover is one of them."

Milo chuckles. I don't look at him, but I know he's watching me fly around the space like a balloon pushing out all of its air like a rapid fire.

I admit, I don't have this much to pack to go over to Atlas' place. It's just that when he called me and I just sat there looking at him, knowing he was looking at me, I had to do something with my hands. And then I had to look away. And this just happened.

"You look better."

His words catch me off guard. "I look better?" I echo.

"Yeah. I'm not saying you ever looked bad. I mean, you look happier. Excited."

"How do I look happier? I just had to crawl on all fours to get to my wallet."

"It's like a spark. Your face is brighter." I can see the idea form in his playful eyes even before he says it, "It's kind of suspicious and upsetting that you're happier with me across the planet."

I roll my eyes. "Don't think you're connecting dots here, Milo." I pause, mulling over his words. "I don't know. I don't know if I'm happier, specifically. I'm just more put-together, I think. I've fixed the things that needed fixing and I'm trying to be better. Genuinely."

"Be better, how?" He asks.

I pull back my desk chair and drop myself onto it. I can see myself in the corner of the screen: my hair pulled back in a lazy half-up-half-down Olivia taught me to do, even though my hands suck, my face 'brighter' because of the facials I got with Elle and Logan, my limbs relaxed, somewhat.

"Be better as in, make an effort to stay social and take care of myself. I'm the one Feeding Nova, now. Literally and figuratively."

Milo smiles. Small at first, then it broadens. He leans back in his seat: a garden chair in the sun, with a lemon tree and the Italian rolling mountains as a backdrop. His hair is longer, to the point where it's starting to hang, even, graze more than just his dark eyebrows and near his brown eyes. He then leans closer to the camera, filling the frame with his face.

"I'm selfishly kind of disappointed you don't need me there," he admits. "But even more than that, I'm proud of you, Nova."

I remain quiet, fighting the smile that's threatening to take over my face, and avert my gaze elsewhere. "What about you? You should be the one to tell me things, not the other way around."

"I disagree. I love listening to people speak. I am a sponge, if you will." He leans back again and I'm almost disappointed he doesn't stay so close. "You know what's weird about me?"

"A lot."

He genuinely laughs. "True. But, I mean— I've always felt so out of place, you know? And I thought it was just who I was. And now I'm here, and I get to wake up to this crazy view and I'm getting to know my mom, who is this amazing, talented and kind person and now I just feel..."

I wait. Then wait some more. But the quiet remains.

"How do you feel?" I ask softly.

His eyes meet mine for as far as they can through the screen, then they drop, signaling him looking at me instead of the camera. "I feel like the storm has passed," he says. "A storm I didn't even know I was in."

"That's good, isn't it?" I smile at him, raising my shoulder in a half-shrug as I cross one arm over the other and lean forward on the desk. "Life isn't supposed to be a continuous storm. It's supposed to—"

I stop myself. I'm back in Logan's bedroom in Addenfield, telling him about Milo and making the very comparison I want to make now.

"It's supposed to burn like a candle," I say. "Not a forest fire."

He swallows. I can tell because his adam's apple bops up and down. Behind him, the sun is starting to sink lower on the horizon, and it gives him a slight outline, gold in color.

"I miss you."

"What?"

"I miss you," he says again. "I miss being with you. Life doesn't burn like a candle or a forest fire or... or a supernova, even. I think the last thing I need to really be happy is you."

A record player.

The words replay in my head like a broken record player. I know, deep down, that I'm reading too much into what he's saying, but I can't help the natural reaction I have: my heart fluttering heavily, my stomach flipping, my muscles tightening like a friend grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me back and forth.

"You—" I take a breath. In a whim, I duck out of the frame again as if I'm picking something up from the floor. I speak to him from there. "You just think that because you— you still need to get used to everything."

When I feel put together again, I rise and readjust myself, only glancing at him briefly before busying myself with a random sheet of paper on my desk.

"Probably."

I know what he's thinking. I'm thinking the same thing. Can't you just say it back?

I open my mouth. Just then, a pair of hands land on Milo's shoulder and a woman comes into frame.

It's his mother. There's no doubt about it. She has long, thick brown hair that's been perfectly curled, his dark eyes and his nose. She's in her forties, but she could pass as someone in her late twenties, with a youthful look to her. She's smiling kindly as she lowers her face and lifts a hand— decorated with rings and multiple bracelets— to wave at me.

"Are you Nova?" She asks.

"Y-Yes, ma'am." I blink at her.

Her smile grows. It's like Milo's, too, taking over her entire face. The corners of her eyes wrinkle when she does. "I've heard so much about you, Nova. Everyone is convinced Milo only has one friend because you're the only one he talks about."

I look at him. He sits slightly ducked, but he's in no way tensed under her touch like he is at his father's mere proximity.

"You must be his mother."

Both their eyes seem to widen at the mention of the word, mother. I fear I said the wrong thing, until she nods. "My name is Marcella, it's nice to meet you." She pulls back from Milo, her eyes darting between us. "I hope I'm not interrupting. I wanted to call Milo to help make dinner, if he wanted to. But if you two would rather talk..."

"You're not interrupting," I say quickly. "Actually, I'm supposed to be halfway to Atlas' place by now. I'll let you guys make dinner."

Milo perks up. "Wait," he says to me, before turning to Marcella. "I'll be there in a second, okay?"

She nods, offers him a smile and a pat on his shoulder, and waves at me before walking off.

"You shouldn't keep her waiting. We can keep our goodbye short."

"Okay," he agrees. But he makes no move to hang up until I do.

I make the leap, eyes anywhere but on him. "By the way," I say, "I miss you, too." And then I hit the red button and turn off my phone.

I spend the entire way to Atlas' building feeling guilty. I can't believe I just turned off my phone. He probably didn't even think of texting me, let alone do it, and here I am cutting off our only source of communication just in case.

It's safe to say I don't know how to do this— like someone. I haven't liked anyone in my life. Quin Willoughby didn't count, and Atlas doesn't either. Nobody has ever been a Milo to me before. Someone who makes me calm and excited all at the same time, so pretty that I could stare at them forever, making my stomach do backflips when they look at me long enough.

I've always been unwilling to go too far. Holding Atlas' hand was uncomfortable at times and I was never really able to envision myself comfortable enough with anyone to do anything I'm too unfamiliar with, but I know it would be okay with Milo. Everything would be okay, as long as it's him and nobody else.

It's a problem.

I make my way over to the penthouse elevator with my head in the clouds. As I press the 'PH' button, I pull out my phone and switch it on. The doors close as I stare at the logo appearing on the screen.

At least— they're supposed to close. At the last moment, someone sticks their hand between the doors and slips inside once they reopen.

That someone is none other than the infamous Ramona Sinclair.

I haven't seen her in a while, I realize as I take in her braided hair and smokey eyes. I can't remember her being so tall, nor calm and quiet, but it's just the two of us here.

She pays me no mind. Instead, she goes to press the button only to see it's already lit up, and her expression tightens before she straightens up and focuses only on the doors, which shut again. Smoothly and completely this time.

My phone turns on. I enter my passcode and my simcode and I have zero notifications.

A sudden jostle startles me. I grip the golden banister along the black marble wall as the lights overhead flicker and Ramona screeches— and then it all stops. The jostling. The flickering. And the movement of the elevator as a whole.

"You've got to be kidding me," Ramona mutters as she angrily punches at the buttons. The elevator remains unresponsive.

"We're stuck?"

"Yeah, no shit." She sighs heavily and pulls out her phone.

Something starts cracking, but I realize it's the speakers when a nearly unintelligible voice echoes in the small space. "Excuse me, we seem to be experiencing some slight technical issues in the elevator systems. We'll get you out of there as soon as possible, please sit tight."

"Sit tight?" Ramona calls back. I'm not sure she notices the cracking stop. "This is a penthouse elevator! People have places to be, especially people who ride penthouse elevators!"

I resist the urge to tell her off. I might have to spend hours in this small space with her and would prefer not to get murdered two minutes in. Besides, she's clearly stressed out. This might be a fear of hers.

"It'll be fine," I decide to say, as gently as possible. "And if not, we can always sue them."

It's supposed to be a joke, but the thought strangely seems to calm her down.

"I don't understand how anyone can even be remotely calm in this scenario," Ramona sighs, pressing her back against the wall.

"Not thinking too much about it," I suggest. I look at the floor. It's so clean that it almost sparkles, so I feel comfortable sitting down. If we're going to be stuck here for a while, I might as well allow my legs to rest.

Ramona hesitates— too proud, I'm sure, to get down to the floor—, but then she makes a show of looking away from me and follows my example.

I'm not sure how long we end up sitting there. Once in a while, the cracking will start again and the voice will say something along the lines of "we're getting closer to repairing the elevators" or "please sit tight for just a little longer" and Ramona will give the dirtiest look as a reaction. Other than that, we just sit there. Her phone died half an hour ago and I'm too uneasy to use my hands.

"So, what are you doing here?"

It's the first thing she says in ages, and it's obviously a question she's been sitting on for a while.

"I'm hanging out with Atlas today."

"Why?"

"Because... we're friends?"

She rolls her eyes. "I get that. I'm not stupid. I'm trying to understand what you two even talk about, let alone when you're hanging out for hours."

At first, I'm offended. It's meant as a jab at me and could easily be translated to "he's out of your league", but when I think about it a little longer, I understand the confusion.

After all, Atlas Wilder should be out of my league. He's so much more than I am: an entrepreneur, a home owner, a soon-to-be NYU graduate. There's not really anything we have in common.

Maybe I should admit that it was awkward at first, right after Milo left and Ramona had settled in. I was still intimidated by him, he was still careful around me, but somewhere along the way, he noticed.

"You notice what?" I remember asking him.

He gave me a knowing smile. "I know that it's Milo. It's always been Milo for you, Carter."

I tried denying it at first, but he was so calm about it. I didn't admit it, I stopped fighting it. That was enough for Atlas to know.

Since then, something between him and I seems to have been resolved, in a way. I suspect he might feel a certain responsibility towards me now that Milo's gone, because he takes care of me and I know it— regularly checking up on me, inviting me to his place to study in peace and involving me in all social gatherings with the rest of the group. Being with Atlas Wilder is still sort of intimidating, but it's no longer uncomfortable.

"Hello?" Ramona blinks at me.

I just completely zoned out in front of her.

"I know. I mean, that's valid. We're just good friends. He's looking after me," I tell her.

"Do you need to be looked after?" Ramona asks, raising an eyebrow.

"I—" I stop myself.

It's the first time someone ever asked me that question. Do I need to be looked after?

It's one of those things people have always done for me: my siblings, my parents, Logan, Milo. When you have such a noticeable disability, everybody who cares about you naturally harbors a certain protectiveness towards you, to the point where that protectiveness becomes a quality you look for in the people you trust.

But I've never rejected it. I've never even questioned it. And now Ramona Sinclair is the one to propose such a notion. Do I need to be looked after?

"I don't know," I end up saying, truthfully. There's more to my answer, but I can't think of it.

"I don't think you do." Ramona shrugs. "What are you, a child? You're perfectly capable of looking after yourself like the rest of us do."

I find myself smiling. "I know you didn't mean it that way, but thank you for the vote of confidence. Really."

She gapes at me. "It wasn't a vote of confidence. I have no confidence in you, Nora. I have no feelings when it comes to you, at all."

"I know. I'm just saying I needed to hear that." I pause. "And you know my name is Nova."

"Nova, Nora, whatever." Ramona crosses her arms and pointedly fixates her gaze on the marble wall, away from me.

For the first time since I've met her, she appears a little more transparent. Not as secure in her stance as she usually is, but accidentally kind of nice to me. I can feel the effects of this version of her melt into my muscles. They're not as tight and nervous as usual, a little less afraid to make a mistake in her presence.

She said she didn't believe I needed anyone to look after me. Even though she's seen me move, even though she made such a show of infantilizing me when we first met — she admitted that she doesn't see me as an incapable person. I shouldn't give so much credit to the words of someone who openly doesn't like me, but it's strangely nice to hear that from her.

"So, what about you? Are you on your way to hang out with Atlas, too?" I ask her.

"People like me are too busy to hang out. I'm purely going over there for business." She tips her chin upwards.

"Business? You aren't..." I trail off, hoping she understands what I'm insinuating.

Ramona raises her eyebrows again. "Whole sentences, Nova," she says. At least she got my name right.

"Dating. You aren't dating?"

She shifts immediately, her eyes darting around the elevator. "I don't think that's any of your business."

I nod my head, moving back to rest against the wall with my back. She's right. It's none of my business.

Even so, after a moment of silence, she says, "No. We're not dating."

I study the look on her face as she averts her gaze to her lap. The designer bag she had fashionably slung over her shoulder when she entered the elevator now just lies there. It doesn't look as pretty as it did when it was carried.

"Why not? You two look good together," I say carefully, not knowing whether she's okay with continuing on the subject.

To my surprise, Ramona turns to me fully, tucking her leg beneath her body. "I don't think Atlas likes me."

"Are you joking?"

She shakes her head.

"I'm being honest when I say that Atlas likes you," I tell her, stressing the words. "Did you not see him when you made your grand entrance on Halloween? He was just gaping at you the entire time."

"Yeah, and he also rejected me in front of you."

"Because you were being mean." I tilt my head in a way that says, come on now.

Ramona shrugs. "Okay," she says. "I can admit that."

"Regardless. It was obvious then that there was something between you two. Is there..." I hesitate. "Is there a history there?"

She rubs her hands on her jeans— a pair of low-rise skinnies with patches embroidered on them— and glances around the elevator again, as if she's looking for another subject to talk about that'll literally present itself as a physical idea in the space.

"There isn't a history there," she admits. "Atlas has always been too young for me, I mean, when I was a senior in high school, he was a freshman. You don't look at a fifteen-year-old kid as a senior in high school and think, I'm romantically interested in you. Not if you're a sane person, anyway." She snorts at the last comment.

"So how did you get so close?"

"Our parents. Hudson Wilder was in the process of buying a hotel chain my family had owned for generations, and my mother basically asked me to suck up to the Wilder kid. So I used to wait for him after school and help him with his homework, things like that. At one point we realized we actually got along and I guess we've been friends ever since."

I want to ask the real question. When it changed. But I think Ramona notices, because she looks at me out of the corner of her eye as if to say, I'm getting there, and continues.

"I moved to the UK for college, Cambridge. Things kind of ended there. To be honest, hanging with a kid overseas didn't sound cool to me, so I let it die. And then, last year, I came back and he was... different. He was twenty-one, he had a beard, he had his own place. He wasn't that little boy anymore. I started looking at him like the man he'd turned into and it scared me so much that I packed my things and moved to Dubai."

"You ran away," I conclude.

She shrugs nonchalantly, but she's unable to mask her slight embarassment. "I ran away."

"I get it," I tell her.

Ramona seems surprised. "What do you get, exactly?"

"Why you ran away." I zone in on the floors, and how our reflection is so clear in them. "Liking someone is weird. Especially when you're suddenly seeing them in a different light. But you're staying this time, right?" I look up to assess her reaction.

She nods resolutely. "Yeah. Totally. I signed with a modeling agency here and everything. I even got a dentist and a therapist— you don't do that if you aren't willing to settle."

"Does that mean you're making your move?"

"Don't say it like that, that's disgusting," she responds, grimacing. She busies herself with looking through her purse. "And no. Maybe in the future."

I chuckle. I'm not in a position to give anyone any advice about making moves when I let Milo leave the country unknowing of my feelings for him, but it's so clear with Ramona.

The situation is funny enough, too. Ramona Sinclair is not the kind of girl to recieve advice. At least, not from an eighteen-year-old disabled girl. Yet here she sits, listening.

"One of you has to do it," I say. "It's so clear you both want it to."

"You wouldn't be bothered?" She asks, unexpectedly.

I look at her. "Why would I be bothered?"

"The unveiling? Halloween? This, even—" she gestures around us— "Do you really expect me to believe that whatever that was between you two is just over?"

"Yeah," I say simply. "I dare even say that there was nothing there, yet. A bud that didn't bloom."

"Then, why are you here?"

"People can hang out without having ulterior motives, you know, Ramona." I rest my head back as I watch her think that through. "Atlas and I are friends. I'm going to sit on his couch and let him serve me drinks, I'm going to study, and then I'll leave again."

She looks at me. Or she stares at me, I think that's the better word. "Okay," she says, as if approving of it.

We sit in that elevator identically, then. Our backs against the wall and the back of our heads, too, waiting.

"So..." she trails off.

"Hm?"

She waits a few beats. "What should I— I mean, should I even... do something?"

I nod. "Yes. Definitely."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Get some fried chicken together, take a nice walk during the sunset or something. I'm really not the right person to ask."

"Fried chicken. Fried chicken? Are you kidding me?"

The tone of her voice startles me. "What?" I ask. "You're vegetarian?"

"No, but I have class. Who eats fried chicken?"

"Everyone but vegetarians." I snort. "Are you saying you've never had a good, crunchy, fried chicken wing?"

"Of course not, Nova, I respect my body. I feed myself vegetables and nutrients, not artificial bullcrap." She turns away again, as if she's deeply emerged in a fantasy. "My chicken is either cooked or grilled to perfection. Ideally with a side of asparagus and roasted potatoes, but I also adore a good caesar salad."

"And what classifies as bullcrap in your world?" I ask her, genuinely curious.

"Fast food, obviously. Listen to me, food is not supposed to be 'fast'. If it's well-prepared and good for your body, it's a meal that comes with a waiting time. Unless it's a salad."

"But aren't you curious—"

"No." Ramona crosses her arms.

I'm the one to stare at her this time.

"Okay. Maybe I'm just a tiny bit curious about what everyone's obsession is. But you won't catch me in a KFC unless someone drugged me and dragged me there. I have a reputation to uphold."

"I know you do, and I respect that," I say.

"Thanks."

I look at her again, stifling a smile. "But if I ever showed up at your door with some really good, fried-to-perfection chicken, would you eat it?"

Ramona looks at me out of the corner of her eye, thinking it over. "I wouldn't let you in," she warns after a while.

I roll my eyes. "Got it. But that wasn't my question."

"I'd probably try it." She shrugs. "If you came all the way to my place and spent money on food for me... I'm not a heartless monster. I'd respect the effort."

"Good to know," I hum.

Ramona's head suddenly turns, so fast that it startles me. "Don't get any ideas now, Nova."

"I'm not." She gives me a stern look and I can't help but laugh. "I promise, I'm—"

The elevator chooses that moment to start working again. The motion is apparant and heavy, carrying us down to ground floor again.

"Oh my God, thank you, thank God," Ramona shrieks, jumping up to her feet.

I get up, too, with the help of the banister. When the doors open, Ramona dashes out of the elevator with the speed of a bullet. I'd laugh at the sight if I wasn't amazingly relieved to exit, myself.

Atlas Wilder stands right outside, a concerned look etched onto his face. "Ramona, Nova, I am so sorry about that," he apologizes once he sees me. Ramona is already standing next to him, a hand to her forehead.

"It's okay. How long were we in there?"

"An hour and a half," Atlas grimaces. "Again, I'm so sorry. Would you still like to come up?"

I glance back at the elevator. "Uh, I'm good actually, that was enough of an adventure for today. I'll come by some other time." I turn to Ramona. "And I'll get you the chicken."

"Stop," she says in response. But there's amusement in her eyes, which even Atlas seems to notice through his confusion.

I wave at them both before I leave, back to my dorm, where I'll probably sleep until dinner time (which is when I'll be Feeding Nova). In all the chaos, I've even forgotten about Milo and classes and stress.

Who would've thought I'd survive being stuck in an elevator with Ramona Sinclair? Who would've thought I'd kind of even have fun?

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