“Emma!” he called after me, following my footsteps and grabbing my arm.
“Let go of me,” I said calmly, dispassionately. I was in control. I felt nothing.
“Emma, listen. I want you to understand. It’s not that I don’t love you—”
Love.
There was that lethal word, those four letters filled with dynamite. I didn’t want to hear them now. “Gray, stop. Nothing you say right now is going to make this any better.”
“But you mean so much to me!”
I laughed in his face. “What do I mean to you?” His brow furrowed. “Seriously. Was I just the girl who had to heal you so you could move on with your real life? A temporary refueling station for your soul?”
“Emma—”
“God, Gray, if you say my name like that one more time, I’m going to kill you.” He flinched. He didn’t understand what I meant because he couldn’t hear the pity in his voice, the absolute smugness I heard. He really thought he was doing this for my own good. “Just leave me alone, Gray. Just leave like you want to anyway.”
“I can’t leave. Not with you so angry.”
“I think you’ll manage,” I said. He was pleading with me now, tugging my arms, trying to get me to look at him. “I mean, what did you expect? Did you think I was just going to roll with it?”
“No, but I want you to understand why I’m doing this. You saved me, Emma. In more ways than one. And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to keep going without you. But I have to try.”
I folded my arms across my chest, shivering in the wind. “So go off, Gray, and do your civic duty. Prove whatever it is you have to prove to yourself. But don’t use me as some memory you can come back to when you’re feeling lonely. I’m not going to stand here and tell you everything’s okay or that I understand, because I don’t. I’m not going to give you my blessing so you can leave with a free conscience.” I didn’t know where all this anger was coming from, but it was like someone else was speaking through me, someone much tougher and more sure of herself than I was.
I could feel Gray’s eyes on me. He was waiting for me to turn around, relent, hug him and wish him well. Whatever. It wasn’t going to happen. I refused to be that girl. Part of me knew that by leaving things like this, Gray could very well leave, and I might not see him again for six months. Maybe longer. But I couldn’t give an inch or I’d crumble. “Good-bye, Gray,” I said, without looking at him.
There was a long silence, and finally, he said, “I’m so sorry, Emma. For everything.”
I stayed there shivering on the beach, waiting until I felt my heart return to its usual place, until I was certain Gray had gone because I could no longer feel his pitying eyes on my back. I couldn’t go back to the house and face him and his family. Or my own.
So I stayed until the clouds obscured the stars, until the tide turned out to sea, until the cold of night hit me full force and my father came to the beach to fetch me. Putting an arm around me, he guided me back to the house without saying a word, knowing that no words could help.
C
HAPTER
6
T
hat first day back at Lockwood, the rose lay in the glass on my nightstand, completely dead. Fitting.
Owen called my cell a few times, but I couldn’t bear to talk to him. Someone knocked on my door around dinnertime, maybe Jess, but I didn’t get out of bed to see. When Michelle got back from rehearsal that night, she took one look at me and knew.
“Oh God, Emma. Is it Gray?” she said.
All I could do was nod.
For the first time in weeks, things felt normal between us. Michelle made me tea and Pop-Tarts, our usual comfort snack, but I couldn’t eat. I lay in bed feeling drugged. All the butterflies that had ever fluttered in my stomach seemed to have died and rotted inside me.
I dragged myself to class each day and went through the motions, sleepwalking through my waking hours, then coming home to sleep some more. Sleep relieved me for a little while, but then I’d wake and remember, only to feel pain rip through me fresh and raw as ever. Owen kept calling and leaving sympathetic messages—Michelle must have told him what had happened—but I couldn’t face him. For some reason, I felt ashamed, as if I’d somehow brought this upon myself.
On Thursday, I got a text from Anna that said:
Gray’s gone. I miss him already.
I wrote back to her:
Me too.
We texted back and forth a few times, and she asked me if something bad had happened between me and Gray since he’d seemed sad while he was home. I told her we’d had a misunderstanding, but that everything was okay. I’m not sure she believed me. Then she wrote:
Truth. Do you still love him?
Feeling sick at heart, I slowly typed,
Yes.
The following weekend marked the opening of
The Crucible
. Out of guilt for being so pathetic and mopey all week, I took the shuttle into town and bought some cheap bouquets of roses at the grocery store—a dozen red roses for Michelle, and a dozen yellow for Owen. Then I changed into a black sweater and jeans and wrapped Michelle’s red scarf around my neck to keep me warm.
It was cold and blustery as I made my way to the Commons. Other students passed me by as if I were a ghost—a real one, not a Halloween specter in a white sheet. Before my mom had died, Halloween had been our favorite holiday. She used to make my costumes from scratch, telling me stories about her Celtic ancestors who celebrated Samhain, the night the doorway between the living and the dead was at its widest and the spirit world could commune with the living. If you had lost a loved one, you were supposed to set a place for them at the dinner table in their honor. I regretted that my father and I had never enacted this simple ritual for my mom.
A low peal of thunder rumbled overhead. I shivered as the leaves swarmed around my feet, seeming possessed. When I reached the Commons Building, parents and students were congregating outside the doors of the auditorium, talking and browsing through their playbills. Feeling conspicuous on my own, I entered the auditorium and found a seat.
Lights flickered momentarily, and everyone converged into the room. As soon as the house went dark and the curtains parted, I allowed myself to be transported, losing myself in Arthur Miller’s ingenious dialogue and the strong performances. Michelle ceased being Michelle, transforming into the villainous Abigail, a girl so desperate for John Proctor’s love that she sticks a large needle into her belly and claims that John Proctor’s wife, Elizabeth, sent her spirit out to stab her. When officials come to arrest Elizabeth for witchery, she denies the charge, but the constable finds a poppet with a needle in its belly and accuses Elizabeth of using it as a voodoo doll.
I watched with tears in my eyes as John Proctor clung to his wife, who nobly walked toward her doom. Flynn’s haunting score punctuated the final scene, in which the innocent victims walk the scaffold and three nooses descend from the ceiling. Then the music halted abruptly as the theater went black.
A few seconds of silence ensued before the audience erupted into applause. After the lights rose and the actors took their bows, I scooped up the bouquets of flowers and jostled my way to the stage. When Michelle and Owen finally emerged from backstage, along with Elise and the others, it seemed that some magical transformation had taken place. Michelle and Elise were smiling at each other, Owen was rubbing Elise’s shoulders and telling her what a great job she’d done, and Gallagher was beaming and congratulating the entire cast and crew. They were surrounded by a field of energy I had no part of.
I slunk up to Michelle, hoping to avoid Elise. “Emma, you’re alive!” she said when she saw me. “My hermit roommate has come to celebrate with us!”
“Hey,” I said, handing her the flowers. “Congratulations! You were wonderful.”
“Aw, thanks, Em. That was sweet.”
Elise glared at me from a few feet away, and I wished I could teleport myself back to my room. I felt so raw and vulnerable, and Elise was the last thing I needed.
Or maybe the second to last, because Flynn Markham suddenly appeared beside me and passed me a flask. “Here,” he said, handing it over. “I think you need this more than I do. I heard about the big breakup.”
Great. Everyone knew I’d been dumped. “No thanks,” I said, falling under the scrutiny of his steely eyes. He’d lined them in a deep violet color tonight, so they looked fierce and alien, almost reptilian. He shrugged his shoulders and took a swig from his flask.
“Where’s Owen?” I asked.
“Over there. In that sea of girls.”
I glanced over and saw that Owen was, indeed, surrounded by a circle of girls, most of them still in their Puritan “witch” costumes. I muttered a halfhearted thanks to Flynn, then maneuvered my way through the bodies to get to Owen, handing him his bouquet.
“You didn’t have to get me anything,” he said, giving me one of his patented hugs. He leaned into my neck and whispered, “I’m so sorry about Gray.” I wanted to melt into his arms and cry. When he pulled away, he said, “We’re having a cast party in the gardens out back. You’re totally staying.”
“But I’m not part of the cast.”
“So what? You’re my honorary guest. Flynn’s DJing, and Gallagher ordered a ton of pizzas.”
“I don’t know if I’m feeling up to it,” I said. “I was planning on wallowing back in my room.”
“You’ve done enough wallowing for today, I’m sure. You’re staying.”
A few moments later, we headed out to the gardens. The trees had been strung with lights, and the pathways were filled with students, talking and laughing and drinking spiked punch. Punk music with a driving rhythm came crackling out of the speakers, courtesy of Flynn. It was drizzling lightly, but nobody seemed to mind. Michelle had disappeared, but Owen wouldn’t leave my side. It was like he felt obligated to stay and make sure I had a decent time. I was starting to feel a little better, but I was freezing since I’d forgotten to wear a coat. Owen offered to get his from inside.
Together, we went into the warmth of the Commons Building and wandered down the darkened hallway, trying to find our way back to the auditorium. All the lights were off except the emergency lights, which cast only a dim glow along the floors. Once inside the auditorium, we went up to the stage and Owen flicked on some stage lights. I sat down on the edge of the stage to wait for him as he found his coat. When he came back out, he joined me on the floor, scooting close enough that I could smell his cologne, woodsy and sweet.
“So how are you doing?” he said. “Still thinking about Gray?”
“What else?”
“It sucks,” he said. “I really thought you guys had something.”
“Yeah, well, I’m beginning to think nothing good ever lasts.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I think it’s over between Michelle and me, too.”
“What?”
“I think we’re through.”
“Really? Why?” I said, trying to keep my voice even.
“I can just feel it coming,” he said. “The only thing I can’t figure out is why she hasn’t done it already.”
I bit my lip. “Maybe you’re just imagining things.”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I just wish I knew what I did wrong.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing you’ve done.”
He gave me a sidelong glance. “Has she said something to you?”
Blood rushed to my cheeks. “No,” I said, a little too emphatically. “Honestly, Owen, we barely speak anymore.”
“If you know anything, Emma, please tell me. I feel like a tool just waiting around for her to cut me loose.”
He turned to look at me, and a curl of brown hair flopped onto his forehead. Without thinking, I reached over and pushed it out of his eyes. When my fingers grazed his temple, a surge of energy thrummed through my arm. For the first time that hellish week, I felt a spark of life again.
“Whatever happens,” I said, “it’s not you. You’re wonderful.”
He gave me a half smile, but he looked so sad, and I wanted him not to be sad anymore. And because I wanted to tell him the truth about Michelle but couldn’t, and because I was feeling sorry for myself, and mostly, because he wasn’t Gray, I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He turned his head slightly, surprised, and then we were really kissing, his lips on my lips, his hand gripping the back of my neck.
The kiss only lasted three or four seconds, but in that span I noticed his lips were thinner than Gray’s, but warm and dry and strong. And even though I knew this wasn’t right, my body responded to the kiss until a moment later when I felt him pull away. My eyes fluttered open to see his boyish face gazing at me in surprise.
“Oh my God.” A voice sliced through the silence. I didn’t have to turn around to see who it was. Her voice was almost as familiar as my own.
Owen jumped to his feet. “Michelle, it’s not what you think—”
For some reason, I wanted to laugh. People always said such clichéd things when they were caught in the act.
It’s not what you think.... I can explain.... It’s not you, it’s me. . . .
But Michelle didn’t wait for an explanation. She took off out the side door in a rage. Owen just glanced back at me with a heartbreaking expression and then followed after her.
I slumped back down on the stage, overcome by a mind-blowing, bone-numbing fatigue. The voodoo doll used in the play was lying about two feet in front of me. I leaned over and swiped it, holding the doll in my lap. It provided a strange comfort.
Finally, I shoved myself off the stage and walked back toward the party to face up to what I’d done. As I walked through the hallway, I had the strange sensation of someone following me. A chill ran up my back like a cold finger. Shivering, I quickened my pace, almost breaking into a run by the time I reached the back door.
When I opened it, I stopped cold on the threshold. No music was playing, and everyone in the garden was staring at me. Michelle and Owen weren’t there, but Elise was, standing sentinel at the front of the group, her eyes boring into me with disgust.
My instinct told me to turn and go the other way, but that seemed too cowardly. And then Elise began to laugh. “So Little Miss Perfect ain’t so perfect after all,” she said. “I mean, really, Emma. We all know you’re on the rebound, but going after your roommate’s boyfriend? That’s low, even for you.”