Boundless (Unearthly) (19 page)

He pushes the door open for me, and I move past him into his room. I look immediately in the direction of the TV for Charlie, but he’s not here.

“We need to discuss Angela,” I say.

He doesn’t answer. Involuntarily, it seems, his eyes move to a framed photograph on his dresser, a black-and-white snapshot of a woman swinging a small dark-haired boy up in the air. The picture’s a little blurry, since they’re both in motion, but the boy is unmistakably Christian, Christian at four or five years old, I’m guessing. Christian and his mom. Together. Happy. They’re both laughing. I can almost hear it, looking at them. I can almost feel it. Joy. And it makes me sad to think that he lost her when he was so young. And now Walter, too.

I turn to look at him. He’s standing with his arms crossed over his chest, closed off in every way. “You know, if we’re going to have a conversation, you’re going to have to speak to me. With words, and stuff,” I say.

“What do you want me to say? You ditched me, Clara.”

“I ditched you?” I repeat incredulously. “That’s what you’re mad about? You were the one who wanted to leave.”

“I don’t want to be mad at you about the other thing,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “You can’t control that.”

Sometimes he’s so understanding it bugs me.

“But then you disappeared on me,” he says, and I hear the hurt in his voice. “You left.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it.

“Where did you go?” he asks. “I came by your dorm later, to apologize for what I said, or maybe for how I said it, anyway, and Angela said you weren’t back yet.”

I stare up at him, caught.

He closes his eyes and frowns like I am causing him physical pain. “That’s what I thought.”

I wonder if it’ll make him feel any better to know that my conversation with Tucker that night didn’t go much better than my conversation with him.

He opens his eyes. “It might.”

Good grief. Men.

Moving on. “Okay, as much fun as this is, I didn’t come here to talk to you about us,” I tell him. “I came to tell you about Angela.”

“Has she had the baby?” he asks, concerned. “What is she going to do?”

“She hasn’t had the baby,” I say. “Yet. But tomorrow she’s going to talk to Phen about it.”

Christian goes rigid. “She’s going to tell him about the baby?”

“Well, she’s going to tell him that he’s the father. That’s her plan, anyway.”

“Bad idea,” he says, shaking his head like this is the worst idea ever. “She shouldn’t be telling anybody about the seventh. Especially not Phen.”

“He’s not good news,” I admit. “He’s not … happy. But I guess we’ll see. Angela is dead-set on this. I’ll call you tomorrow after I get back.”

His brows draw together. “Wait. You’re going with her?”

“She asked me to go. Well, she told me I was going, and so I am.”

His mouth twists into a disapproving line. “You should stay out of it.”

“It’s her purpose. Besides, Phen’s already met me, so it’s not like I’d be giving anything away, here. I’m going to be there for moral support.”

“No way.” His green eyes are frosty. “It’s too risky. He’s an angel. He could figure out what you are.”

“He’s not evil, technically speaking….”

Christian scoffs. “You heard what your dad said about ambivalent angels. He’s worse than the Black Wings, he said. They don’t have any allegiance to anybody.” He grabs me by the shoulders like he wants to shake some sense into me, but all he says is “We can’t go parading ourselves around in front of ambiguous angels.”

“Ambivalent,” I correct him. “And I was thinking a marching-band uniform and a baton.”

“Don’t joke about this,” he says. “I’m serious.”

I try to step back, but he’s holding me tightly.

“Don’t go,” he says. “Be cautious, for once in your life.”

“Don’t boss me around,” I say, shaking him off.

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“Don’t call me names.” I head for the door.

“Clara, please,” he pleads, his anger dissolving.

I stop.

“All my life … well, all my life since my mom died, my uncle warned me about this exact sort of thing. Don’t reveal yourself, to anyone. Don’t trust anyone.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t talk to strange angels.” This would not be the best time to tell him about my little chat with Samjeeza this afternoon. And so I don’t. “I’m there in her vision, Christian.”

“You, of all people, should know that things don’t always happen the way they do in the visions,” he says.

That’s a low blow.

“Clara,” he starts in, “I’ve seen you in my vision, too. What if this is what’s going to—?”

I hold up my hand. “I think we’ve talked enough.”

I’m going to be there with Angela tomorrow. Where I’m supposed to be. Two steps behind. No matter how it turns out.

And so it comes to pass that at fifteen minutes to noon, February 13, a day that Angela herself picked to be her destiny, she and I set off from Roble to meet an ambivalent angel. She’s dressed up for the occasion, wearing a purple maternity camisole with lace at the hem, fitted jeans with a band around the belly instead of a zipper, a cream knit sweater that brings out the glow in her skin and the blue tint to her black hair. She’d even put on makeup, not her usual heavy eyeliner and dark lips, but a simple coat of mascara and rose-tinted lip balm. It’s warm weather for February, and Angela’s pink-cheeked and sweating under her layers of clothing, but she moves with a spring in her step that’s surprising for a girl in her condition. She looks healthy and vibrant and beautiful.

“I never paid attention to this part,” she huffs as we walk. “In the visions, I never thought about how I was feeling—physically, I mean. I can’t believe I never noticed this.” She gestures to her ballooning belly. “Or how my center of gravity has shifted way down. Or how I have to pee.”

“Do you want to stop?” I ask. “Find a bathroom?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t be late.”

The closer we get to the steps from her vision the lighter she feels, almost bursting into glory she’s so excited, her skin definitely glowing, her eyes alight with purpose.

“There he is,” she whispers suddenly, clutching at my hand.

There he is. Standing in the courtyard with his back to us, wearing a gray suit just as she described. What guy wears a suit to a meeting with his former girlfriend, I wonder? He’s looking at the burghers, whose downcast, mournful faces seem even more in contrast to the bright, sunny day, the flowers blooming all around the courtyard, the sun shining, the birds singing.

Birds. I glance around nervously. I hadn’t thought about birds.

Angela hands me her purse. “Here I go,” she says.

“I’m right behind you,” I promise, and trail her to the bottom of the steps.

She takes her time approaching Phen. The cut of her sweater parts in the middle, exposing her swollen belly, which pushes at the edge of her camisole like she’s swallowed a basketball, even though she’s not that big. I see her take a quick breath at the last step, and I can’t tell if it’s her sudden nervousness or my own that I’m feeling now.

She touches his shoulder, and he turns.

It’s definitely Phen. She was right on that count.

“Hello,” she says breathlessly.

“Hello, Angela,” he says, all charming smiles. “It’s good to see you.” He leans over and gives her a kiss on the mouth. I try not to think about the gray-souled creature that’s hiding in that attractive body of his.

“How are you?” she asks, like this is all about him.

“I’m better, for seeing you,” he says.

Um, gag me.

“You’re a vision,” he says. “I could paint you, right now.”

Here it comes. Her hands close into fists briefly, then release. “I’m better for seeing you, too,” she says, and pulls away from him, gazes down, and pushes the folds of her sweater back, rubbing her hand over her belly. His smile fades as his eyes travel down the length of her body. I swear that even from here I can see the color leave his face. I strain to hear their voices.

“Angela,” he gasps. “What happened to you?”

“You happened to me,” she says with a smirk in her voice, but then gets serious. “It’s yours, Phen.”

“Mine,” he breathes. “Impossible.”

“Ours,” she says, and I can’t see her face from here, but I think she’s smiling that serene, hopeful smile that’s so not the normal Angela—so open, so vulnerable. She puts her hand on his shoulder again, rests it there this time, looks up into his shocked dark eyes, and says, clearly, “The seventh is ours.”

A chill passes through me. Out of the corner of my eye I think I see the flutter of black wings, but when I look I don’t see anything. I turn my attention back to Phen. He reaches out and places his hand on her belly, his eyes still incredulous, and for a few seconds I think it’s all going to be okay, like Angela said. He’s going to take care of her. He’s going to protect them both.

But then the control over his human form slips, and I catch a flash of that gray soul of his. He looks wildly around, like it’s not safe to be seen in public with her. His gaze glances off me with only a flicker of recognition. I wouldn’t have to be an empath to pick up on the naked fear in his eyes, pure and undiluted. He’s terrified.

“Phen, say something,” Angela says urgently.

He looks up into her face. “You shouldn’t have told me,” he murmurs without emotion. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Phen,” she says, alarmed, her fingers gripping his suit jacket. “I know it’s a shock. It was a shock for me too, trust me. But it was supposed to happen, don’t you see? This is my vision, my purpose. I’ve been seeing this moment since I was eight years old. It’s you, Phen. We’re allowed to be together. We’re
supposed
to be together.”

“No,” he says. “We’re not.”

“But I love you.” Her voice breaks on the word
love
. “My heart’s been yours ever since I first saw you in the church. You love me, too. I know you do.”

“I can’t love you,” he says firmly, and she flinches. “I can’t protect you, Angela. You should not have told me. You shouldn’t tell anyone else.”

“Phen,” she pleads. She reaches into her pocket to pull out the ultrasound, like a picture of the baby might make him change his mind, but he catches her hand in his and closes her fingers around the paper before she can open it. He gazes up into her eyes, lifts his other hand to her face, his fingers brushing her cheek, and for a split second he looks torn.

Then he disappears. No good-bye. No
Sorry, but you’re on your own, honey.
He’s just gone.

I rush up the stairs as Angela sinks to her knees.

“It’s okay,” I’m saying over and over again, like saying it will make it true.

She gazes at me with unshed tears in her eyes. Her hands are shaking when I help her to her feet, but she won’t let me support her. She’s acutely aware of other students watching us, so she lifts her head and starts to walk in her awkward way back the way we came. I try to put my arm around her, to help take some of the weight, but she shakes me off.

“I’m fine,” she says then, in almost a monotone. “Let’s go.”

Back at Roble she moves around like a zombie, taking her clothes off and dropping them on the floor until she’s only wearing her camisole and panties.

Amy comes in, bearing an armload of books. I grab her by the arm and turn her around, push her back out into the hall. “You should come back later,” I tell her.

“But I have to—”

“Like maybe tomorrow. Get out.”

Amy looks horribly offended. I shut the door and turn to Angela.

Suddenly she laughs as if this whole thing is terribly funny, like Phen has played some hilarious trick on her. She brushes her bangs out of her face, smiles the most awful, heartbroken smile. “Well, that didn’t go the way I thought it would.”

“Oh, Ange.”

“Let’s not talk about it. I’m fine.”

She gets into bed and pulls the covers up to her chin. Outside, the birds are still singing, the sun is still shining, but inside her I feel everything go dark. I sit at the edge of her bed. I don’t say anything, because everything I think of sounds completely stupid.

“We agreed from the beginning that we weren’t going to talk about love.” She rolls over and puts her back to me, to the wall. “I should have remembered that,” she adds, her voice thin, straining with the force of acting like this isn’t killing her. “It’s fine. I’m fine with it. I understand.”

If she says the word
fine
any more, I think my head will explode. I stare at her back, where her shoulders are all tensed up.

“No. It’s not fine,” I say. “This is his responsibility too. He should be there for you. He should have stepped up.”

“He’s an angel,” she says, already making excuses for him. “It’s the same thing as what happened with your dad. I see that now. He can’t be with you all the time. He can’t protect you. It’s the same.”

It is so not the same, I think. My dad married my mother. He was there for my birth, my first steps, my first words. He took care of us, even if it was only for a little while. But I don’t say that.

“Ange.” I put my hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t touch me,” she says sharply. “Please … I don’t want you to read me right now.”

She starts to cry. There’s no shutting it out. Her humiliation hits me like a punch to the gut. Her embarrassment. Her fear. Her misery.
Of course he doesn’t love me,
she thinks.
Of course he doesn’t.

I lie down beside her and put my arms around her, hug her awkwardly from the back as she sobs. Tears run down my face as I feel it with her. For a minute I can’t breathe, I can’t think—I just hang on.

“It will be okay,” I tell her shakily, and I mean it. It hurts her now, but it’s better this way, I think. “You’re better off without him.”

She sits up, pulling away from me, and takes a deep, shuddering breath, then uses the sheet to wipe her eyes. As quickly as she lost it, she collects herself.

“I know,” she says. “It’ll be fine.”

After a while she lies back down. My heart aches for her, but I don’t dare reach out again. I listen to her breathing become steadier, deeper, until I think she’s fallen asleep. But then she speaks.