I am not selfless.
But Ria…I owe her this much.
I hold my breath while I wait for her answer, and I don’t know what I want it to be. On the one hand, she’d make a fine wife. But I’d be a terrible husband, and neither of us would be faithful to the other.
At least she wouldn’t be fucking dead.
“No,” she finally says, and I exhale, although I’m not sure it’s with relief. “No, Maverick. I don’t want to marry you. You have too many demons.” She laughs quietly. “I don’t want to see them all.”
The Ark is not what I thought it would be. After I called Atlas, got Natalie’s number, confirmed Ella would be there, and got the address, I’d been imagining a yellow building with peeling paint, orange-flecked carpets, counselors and kids with snotty noses. I don’t know why. I haven’t been to a therapist since I turned thirteen, and the bubbles incident never clicked.
Therapy is forbidden by the 6’s unwritten code, Mos Maiorum, after a boy becomes a teenager.
But this place is not what I imagined.
It’s down a winding drive, trees on either side with a steep incline. At one point, there’s a bridge that’s icy in Alexandria’s unusually cold temperatures. I’m glad I took the Audi.
But I didn’t do it because I knew this place was some sort of backwoods farm. I did it so Ella won’t notice me.
Not at first.
The shaded driveway empties into a dirt parking lot, dozens of cars backed in to easily get out of the angled lot. There’re a few sheds, a ranch-style house with an expansive front porch, and beyond that are more barns, and a field stretching as far as I can see.
After I back in, I see a woman pushing a kid in a wheelchair down to a small playground. There’re a few donkeys in the enclosure at my back, and as I step out of the car, I take a deep whiff of horse shit.
Fantastic.
I’m wearing a hoodie with the hood up, skeleton bandana on because 1. I always wear it and 2. It covers some of my tattoos.
But that scary one on my face is kinda hard to hide.
Maybe no one will come over to me. Maybe I’ll just look like I fit right in.
My boots grow dusty on the dirt drive, and I shove my hands in my pockets because, oh right, they’re tattooed, too.
But just as I’m wondering what the best way to find Ella without arousing too much suspicion is, I hear her voice.
I’m walking by a shed with God knows what inside, the top part of the door half open. It’s painted a terrible green color, and definitely not big enough for horses. It’s barely big enough for one person.
If two people are in there…
I clench my hands into fists, listening right outside. I dart my gaze around the fucking farm. The only human beings I see are the kid in the wheelchair and his chaperone.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” Ella is saying.
Who the fuck?
Whoever it is doesn’t speak. Maybe it’s a nice old woman. I’d be okay with that.
I hear a squeak, a few of them actually, and I jump back, confused as fuck. What is in there?
The smell of horse shit is making me feel grimy. I’m not an animal person. It’s hard to keep something else alive when you’re barely holding onto your own fucking sanity.
Or maybe no one likes the smell of horse shit. I don’t know.
“Thanks again,” Ella says, and my mouth falls open. She’s actually thanking someone for something? Who is this god in there?
Whoever it is doesn’t answer her thanks. It occurs to me that maybe she’s…alone. Maybe she talks to herself. Natalie said she had BPD, which I was vaguely aware of, because artists love their mental health problems.
As much as I try to keep it under wraps, the journal I’ve got in my safe back home is full of something one might call poetry.
It’ll never see the light of day…but still.
Even so, as far as I’m aware, BPD doesn’t include hallucinations.
“Mom hasn’t come home in two days.”
Her voice is low, and it sounds like she’s speaking through a lump in her throat. I unclench my fists, step closer to the shed.
She blows out a breath, but it sounds more like a distraction than anything else. Like she’s exhaling air to keep from letting go of something else entirely.
“There’s no food in the house.”
Fuck her mom.
My stomach flips. I think about the way she stuffed each forkful of mac-n-cheese down her throat. How I’d almost said something stupid about it. Almost.
“Alright, Connor,” she says with sigh, “I think we’re done here.”
Connor?!
I open up the bottom half of the shed door, wrenching it free from whatever rusty ass lock it was held together by.
The squeaks grow louder, and the smell grows worse.
And Ella is getting to her feet with half a carrot in her hand, her beautiful hair pulled into a high ponytail, and a dude with dark hair and an angry scowl on his face is looking back at me.
He has celery fisted in both hands, and I see a muscle in his neck jump. His eyes are green, a shade lighter than Ella’s, but they darken the longer he stares at me.
At their feet are a shit ton of Guinea pigs, going wild in circles around their hay, some scurrying into little plastic huts.
“Shut the door or they’re going to get out,” Ella snaps at me. She steps through the door, turns to Connor and offers her free hand.
He stuffs his celery into one hand and takes her hand with his eyes still on me. He’s careful with his feet, ensuring no Guinea pigs get harmed in his exit.
Ella closes the door carefully, latching it from the outside, and then she whirls around to face me.
I see she’s still holding Connor’s hand.
I’m going to fucking break it.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Ella snarls at me. She has a smudge of dirt on her pale skin, and it covers some of her freckles.
“Who the fuck is this?” I nod toward Connor.
Connor clenches his jaw.
“Oh, fuck off. How did you even know I’d be here? Are you following me?” She steps forward, and Connor with her, still holding onto her hand.
He looks about my age, and he’s wearing a tight grey sweater that shows the muscles of his arms. I’m taller than him, but he’s bigger than me.
I can guarantee I know which of us is angrier, and it damn sure isn’t him. I’m always angry, asshole.
“I was just checking on you, but so fucking what if I was following you?” I step closer to her and Connor steps closer to me, but I don’t give a shit. “There’s not a fucking thing you can do about it, kid.”
Her brows furrow, freckles on her face vivid against her pale skin. She’s fucking pissed.
The feeling is mutual. And I don’t even know why I want to shove her against this shed and fuck her right here. Maybe do something obscene with those goddamn carrots in her hand.
Connor brushes his shoulder against mine and I think I’m going to fucking flip out.
But Ella turns to him. “It’s okay,” she assures him. She drops his hand, offers him the carrots and puts her hand on his shoulder.
I want to rip it off.
“I’ll be in soon, okay?”
Connor’s expression softens as he looks at her, his brows flicking up.