Wesley, still considering me, says, “I’m not taking any of them.”
Safia gasps. “Wesley Ayers, going stag?”
He shrugs, finally turning his attention back to the group. “I didn’t want to pick just one and deprive the others of my company.” He flashes a crooked smile when he says it, but the line rings hollow.
“No one’s taking anyone,” announces Amber. “We’ll go as a group.”
“Screw your group,” says Safia. “I’ve already got a date.”
“You’ve been working hard enough to get one,” says Cash.
Saf throws a book at his head. It nearly hits Gavin, and the rest of lunch is a blur of chattering, bickering, and festival prep.
I barely hear a word they say.
As the lunch bell rings, I scribble another plea to the Archive.
Again it’s denied.
“When did Safia decide to join the Court?”
Amber and I are walking to Physiology, our shoes echoing against the science hall’s marble entryway.
“Ah, the migration,” says Amber cheerfully. “A time-honored tradition, really. Saf starts the school year determined to make a name for herself, climb the social ladder, build an entourage of minions—god knows enough of the first and second years are willing—and then she realizes something.”
“What’s that?”
Amber smiles and lifts her chin. “That the Court is, in fact, infinitely cooler than anyone else she’ll find at Hyde. She usually comes around before Fall Fest, and we welcome her back as though she never left. I’m sure she’d rather just ditch the act, but she’ll never admit she actually wants to hang out with Cash.”
And I’m sure Wesley has nothing to do with it, I think as Amber squints at me.
“Speaking of Cash—” she starts.
“Any new leads on the Judge Phillip case?” I say, changing the subject as obviously as possible. “Or Bethany?” Amber sighs, but takes the bait and shakes her head. “I haven’t seen Dad this stressed in ages. They put a new case on his plate this weekend. Another unsolvable. This one doesn’t even have a crime scene or a point of departure. Some guy just went for a morning run and never came back. The brother finally reported him missing.”
My stomach twists. Jason.
“How can they possibly expect him to solve that?” I ask.
Amber shrugs. “It’s his job, I guess. They act like he’s some miracle-worker. Trust me, he’s not.” Halfway up the stairs, she says, “Hey, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure thing.”
I expect her to ask why her father picked me up this weekend, but instead she asks, “How long have you known Wesley?”
“A couple months,” I say, rounding up. It certainly feels like longer.
“And how long do you think he’s been in love with you?”
I feel the heat creeping into my face. “We’re just friends.” Amber makes a sound of disbelief. “I mean, we’re close,” I add. Bonded by secrets and scars. “But we’re not…I don’t…I care about Wesley, and he cares about me.”
“Look,” she says as we reach the classroom, “I just met you, but I’ve known Wesley for ages. I can tell you that ‘he cares’ is an understatement.” Amber steps out of the way to let someone get to class. “Did you really kiss Cash this morning?”
“He kissed me,” I clarify, “and it ended right there.”
Amber waves a hand. “I don’t care about the details. The point is, I don’t want you playing games with Wes. He’s been through a lot, and I think he’s finally in a good place, and—”
“And you don’t think I’m good for him.”
The words hit like a blow, even though they’re mine. Because they’re true. I’m not good for him. At least, I haven’t been. I want to be. But how can I? I feel like a bomb waiting to go off; I don’t want him holding on to me when it does. But he won’t let go, and I can’t seem to, either.
“I didn’t say that,” says Amber. “It’s just…Gavin and Saf and Cash and I, we work really hard to keep him in that good place. He may live in a big house on a hill, but we’re his family. I don’t know how much you know about his life before you came into it, but he’s been hurt by a fair number of people. He may have put himself back together decently, but he’s not all the way there. And it’s obvious he cares about you a lot; so all I’m saying is, don’t hurt him, okay? Because it’s obvious you’re going through some things, too, and I want you to be really sure before you let him fall any harder for you. Be sure that you’re good for him.”
She opens the door. “And if you’re not, don’t let him fall at all.”
Mr. Lowell’s out, and the sub in Government spends the first half of the period reading everything Lowell’s already taught us straight off a handout, then decides that revolution is too heavy for a Monday and mercifully lets us go early. There’s a text from Mom saying she’s going to be late picking me up—I’m hoping I can use it as leverage when the topic of transport comes up again tomorrow morning—which leaves me with half an hour or so to kill. I send a third request to the Archive, then wander out onto the quad to wait for the reply.
Even though the bell hasn’t rung yet, a dozen gold-striped seniors are scattered around the quad assembling tents. I spot Wesley at the northern edge of the green, hammering steel rods into the grass.
Not the Wesley who hunts Histories, or the one who lies in bed with me, drowning my nightmares with his noise, but one who laughs and smiles and looks happy. It’s not that he doesn’t look that way when we’re together, but there’s an edge to him when I’m around. The strain of scars and shared secrets and worry shows in his face even when he smiles, even when he sleeps. I weigh him down.
A bone-deep sadness spreads through me as I realize something.
Wesley may be worth it, worth loving and worth letting in, but I can’t do it. I won’t. Not as long as there’s a target on my back. I can’t drag him into this mess. Amber was right. The last time he got pulled into my fight, he lost a day of his life. I won’t let him lose more, not because of me.
I retreat through campus, weaving from one path to another, the urge to move stronger than the desire to go anywhere in particular. Restless bones, that’s what Ben used to call it. I have never been able to sit still. Maybe Eric’s right, and being a part of the Archive isn’t just a job. Maybe it’s in my bones. Maybe I couldn’t be normal, even if I had a chance to try. Normal is like stillness: uncomfortable, unnatural. So I walk. And as I walk, a word scratches itself onto the paper in my palm.
Denied.
The answer hits like a dull blow as my feet carry me down the path. I don’t even realize I’ve heading for the Wellness Center until I look up and see the stone mantel. I pass through the lockers and into the massive gym.
With everyone either still in class or setting up for Fall Fest, the gym is a hollow white hull—similar to a Returns room, but vast and walled and full of equipment. It’s strange being in here alone, and yet it’s peaceful. Like the Archive used to be. The quiet here might not be as reverent, but it’s all-encompassing, and it reminds me of a time years ago when I was normal—or closer to it—and running was the nearest thing I had to peace.