Girl Lost (21 page)

“That’s why she came here,” he says, crossing the room. I scoot back in my bed with a little noise, and Peter stops abruptly. Tugs his beanie off. His hair sticks up wildly, and I have the insane urge to smooth it down.

This man child, with his easy smiles and secrets and mysteries. How did I let him into my heart so easily? And why is he so damn dangerous to me?

“She’s dying. They lied to you, Gwendolyn. I know you don’t believe that—but you know the truth. You know what really happened, and I need you to remember that. I’ve tried to give you time to remember me, and remember what we had. But I’m out of time. I need you back, Gwendy.”

“
QUIT CALLING ME THAT,”
I scream, startling all of us. “My name is
Gwen,
Peter, and I have no fucking clue who you are. I didn’t before college, and I don’t now. I don’t think I want to know. You need to leave.”

He flinches, going very pale. His freckles stand out, and I swallow tears. “You need to go, Peter.
Now.”

“
Gwen,” he says weakly.

I can’t do this—I can’t face his pleading eyes and the sure knowledge in them that I’m the answer to some riddle—or that he’s waiting for me to do something, fix something. I can’t be his savior.

I can’t even save myself.

“Go. Now. Or Orchid will call security,” I say. “I don’t want to see you anymore—and I want your demented frat brothers to stay the fuck away from me.”

Peter sways, as if he’s dizzy. It hurts to say. It hurts worse than anything else in my life—even waking up on the god-awful boat and realizing my parents were dead. I can see the desperate belief in his eyes, and the dull sheen of defeat.

I put that there. And it hurts.

“Gwen, please don’t do this,” he whispers. I roll away, unable to face him any longer, and Orchid murmurs something to him. The door opens, and he says something softly.

“
I know you remember.”

Then the door shuts, and I’m alone with Orchid and the weight of what I’ve done.

“I want to come home,” I say, my voice shaking. I can’t help the fear that’s coursing through me. It’s been there since I threw Peter out of my room.

“Why?” Grayson says sharply. I sigh and explain it to him, quickly. Everything about the attacks and the strange distance, the night time visits and the weird connection. I finish with Peter’s belief that I can help Belle.

“I don’t even know what’s wrong with her,” I say desperately. “How am I supposed to help her?”

“You can’t, darling. Peter is grasping at straws, because he’s desperate. I understand that and he—and Belle—have my sympathy. But my concern is you. And this isn’t healthy.”

“So I can come home?” I say, too eagerly.

“No. You have three days before you’re supposed to come home—I want you to stick it out and go to your Monday exams. Come home when they’re over. The jet is already scheduled to pick you and Micah up. I don’t want you to run from him, darling. You are better than that.”

“I
don’t want to be,”
I snap, my voice breaking with desperation and fear. “I don’t want this at all.”

Grayson is quiet, and I know he won’t give me an easy answer. He’ll wait for me to fall apart, and he’ll push the pieces back together in a messy, sharp edged pile. And then he’ll wait for me to put myself back together.

“He’s dangerous, Grayson,” I say. “My delusions get stronger around him.”

“You haven’t seen the Boy in years,” he protests.

“What if I have? What if I see him in Peter every time I see him? What if I can’t separate them?”

“Are those legitimate questions, or are they hypotheticals?”

There’s a distant caution in Grayson’s voice that shakes me back to myself.

I might be a screaming mess curled in the corner of her bed to avoid the world, but I refuse to give Grayson or Aunt J the proof they need that this grand experiment has failed. I don’t want it to fail.

“I’m fine, Grayson. I’ll be fine. I just need a little bit of a break.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, weighing my words. Finally he says, “Fine. Get through the next three days, and we’ll give you a week of nothing—you won’t even have to help with Thanksgiving dinner.”

I summon a dry laugh, and it seals the deal. Grayson chatters for a few minutes longer, talking about my meds and how religiously I’d been taking them.

Just before I hang up, he says, “I think you need to talk to Peter. Explain to him what you’re dealing with on the mental health front. Maybe if he understands how fragile your mind is, he’ll back off a little. I believe this boy cares about you—he’s going to want to protect you.”

“Do you think he cares enough to stay with a crazy person?”

“You won’t know until you give him the chance to, right? And you care about him as well—I don’t want you to throw this away because you’re scared of the past.”

“I’m not scared of the past,” I protest.
I’m terrified.
“Peter is expecting something I can’t give him. I’m not the only crazy person in this equation.”

“Will you give him the chance to explain what he’s asking for? To explain where you are both coming from? Or are you going to run now?”

I bite my lip and sigh. “Fine. I’ll talk to him.”

“Good girl,” Grayson says, his voice warm with affection.

“Most doctors would tell me to run the other way, you know,” I grump at him.

He laughs. “Which is why they never worked for you. You can’t run from everything that makes you a little nervous or uncomfortable. Figure out why he thinks you can help Belle, and tell him why it’s important for you to have distance. If it works out for the two of you, then that’s wonderful. If it doesn’t—at least you can tell yourself you tried. That’ll be important, when you have the time and distance to think about it.”

The island is a vast place. That surprises me, because from the
Second Star
, it appeared almost claustrophobically small. I sit on the top of mountain, staring down at the thick forest, the wide plain to the east where the Boy has made me promise to avoid. To the west is a natural cove, and four boats, made small by our height, bob there. From here, I can’t see it, but I know the waterfall is to the south, a crystal tumble of water into a deep cold pond fringed with leafy ferns and scarlet berries that burst like liquid sugar on my tongue.

The Boy kicks at the rocks next to me, his feet dangling off the precipice. It makes my stomach turn, but I’ve learned that he doesn’t have normal fears, normal things that keep him in check. It’s annoying and awe-inspiring.

I want to be as free as him.

“Why did you bring me to this place?” I ask softly.

He gives me a curious look, from the corner of one slanted eye. Not for the first time, I wonder where he comes from—what blood runs through his veins. He defies any simple explanation.

“Do you wish I hadn’t?”

“Of course not,” I say, my mind shying away from the truth of where he found me.

“You would have died if I left you there, Gwen. You know that, don’t you?”

I do. That’s part of it—I would have died and, “Sometimes I wish I had,” I blurt. I look away quickly. Who wishes that? I’m lucky—something I try to remind myself of.

It’s hard to remember when I can still see the blood splatter when I close my eyes.

“You’re ashamed of that,” he says softly. “Why?”

“Because I lived. I should revel in that and embrace my good fortune. I should dance in joy every day that I get. Instead I want to lie down next to them and let the knife find me. Daddy would expect better from his daughter.”

I can feel tears pricking at the back of my eyelids, and I blink hard to keep them at bay. I haven’t cried in this whole time—since before the Boy found me on our boat and took me away from it all.

I don’t want to cry, not here in this strange paradise.

A shriek comes from the forest, and the Boy flicks a frown in that direction, then shakes his head and pulls me to my feet.

“You are a survivor. How you chose to cope with that is your choice, pixie. No one can fault you for that. No one has the right to.” He tips my head up with gentle fingers, until I’m staring at him, and the tears filling my eyes brim over, splashing on his fingers.

“You
survive
and nothing else matters. So dance. Scream. Rage and cry and laugh and love. Because you can. Yeah?”

“I’m terrified of going home,” I whisper.

A violent thrill flashes in his eyes. There and gone before I can puzzle through it.

“Then stay with me,” he says softly.

I smile, because it’s ridiculous and tempting and because when the Boy stares at me like this, like I am the only thing in existence, nothing else matters. I smile. “For how long?”

“Pixie,” he says, gently reproving. “I’m a greedy thief. Don’t you know I would only ever want forever?”

Me: I need to see you. Alone.

I stare at the message for a long minute, waiting for a response, but none is immediately forthcoming. Whatever is going on with Peter, he can’t be bothered to answer my texts quickly.

“No answer?” Orchid says, glancing at me from one eye.

“Not yet. Did you talk to James?”

“Yes. He had plans,” she sniffs, and I raise an eyebrow—it must not be the legal kind of plans.

“So he won’t be there?”

“No, he will. He’s moving his schedule around. Come now, James will move heaven and earth to be there if either of us call.”

I pull open the door to Bitter Brick “Are you okay with that?”

She laughs, a low noise. “Unless you decide you want to sleep with him, I am.” I snort, and she leans close, her voice a teasing whisper, “Don’t laugh, babe. James would give his right ball for a threesome.”

“And that would make the threesome decidedly awkward,” I shoot back.

She laughs. I turn back to the counter and freeze.

Lane is staring at me, his lips turned into a hesitant smile, holding two cups. Even over the coffee, I can smell the rich tea.

“Hey, Gwen Barrie.”

Orchid touches my arm lightly, and there are a thousand things in that little gesture. I nod to her briskly, and she drifts a few steps away, to the counter where she orders a tall Americano.

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to you. Is that ok?”

I shrug. “Friends talk.”

His eyes shift at that word—
friends—
but he forces a strained smile.

“How are you, Lane?” I ask, taking my drink carefully from him and going to the condiment bar. I dump some cream and sugar into the tea, a touch of cinnamon, and stir it all together. I take a cautious sip and sigh a little. Perfect.

“I miss you,” he says.

Oh. So we aren’t going to ease into it, then.

“I’m sorry, I know I didn’t give you a lot of warning before I ended things.”

“A lot?” he laughs, a little disbelieving. “You didn’t give me any warning. One day you just showed up in clothes from the day before and told me you were with that freak. He’d been stalking you and you wanted to be with him. I can’t get that to make sense, Gwen. I’m trying, but I can’t.”