Page 92 of Chaos
I roll my eyes so he won’t see they’re shaped like impossible hearts. I don’t get to have heart eyes for a boy who will hate me soon. “You’ll make a wonderful ghost.”
“I’ll haunt you.” Moving slowly, like he wants me to know I can stop him anytime, he takes a stray end of my curly hair, and tugs at it. “I’ll spend my afterlife messing with your purple hair dye.”
“You can’t mess with what doesn’t exist.” My hair is barely purple anymore. Just softly faded brown. Like every part of me is fading.
“Anyone ever tell you your hair is like the chick in that show? The one with the zombies,” he asks.
Surprise has me sitting upright. “Monroe?”
“Yeah.” He grins. “That was my favorite show.”
“No. Really? Anyone ever tell you that you look like Cyrus?”
He drops his head back to rest against the wall beside mine, our faces close now, only seven or eight inches apart,the sparkling snowflakes bobbling above his head. “All the time.”
His gaze drops to my lips. “I’m so glad we didn’t get the zombie variation of the apocalypse.”
“Me too.”
My heart starts thrashing in my chest like it’s warning me not to do this. The two beatsboom-boom-boominglikethey’re chantingDANGER DANGER,because if I kiss him, this confusing situation will become untenable.
“You should go,” I whisper.
“You want me to?” The bandage on his hand catches my eye, and suddenly, I have to know.
“Wait.” I take it gently, staring down at it, massive in my hand.
He stills, staring down at our joined hands.
I’m too much of a wuss to ask, so instead I go with, “What did you get me?”
“Well, I woke up this morning and I thought to myself ‘if I were an Ephie, what would I want?’”
“You woke up thinking about me?”
His smile fades. “I wake up thinking about you more than I should admit.”
I swallow. “What did you decide Ephies want?”
“A gun,” he says fast enough he’s clearly thought about it. “But I can’t do that. Not unless you proved your loyalty and trustworthiness.”
“How would I do that?”
“Tell us what Ben was planning. Or where the pigeons go.”
“I don’t know.”
“But you know something.”
“No.” And if I told him where I think the pigeons go, would he stand up and leave? I’m not brave enough to find out.
Instead, I untie the bandage and slowly unwind it.
He lets me.
In the dim light I can just make out the network of pink scars that shows me where they stitched him back together, there are knots of what must be bone and connective tissue that didn’t quite end up in the right place. I trace one finger along them.
“Does it hurt?”