“What does that mean?”
I roll my eyes. “You saw her wrists. She made her wishes pretty clear when she opened up her veins like that. She didn’t want to be saved, man.”
Vertical. The wounds were vertical. My older cousin used to cut herself for show. Hers were horizontal cuts. Cries for help, or attention, or release, depending on what day of the week it was. Presley meant it when she took that blade to her skin. It's a fucking miracle that she made it.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, working here over the years, it’s that you can never make assumptions about someone else’s intentions, kid,” Remy says. “Fuck, why don’t you spot me one of those.” He points at the pack of smokes.
I give him one, mainly because I’m so bemused that he would lecture me about smoking in front of the hospital only to then do it himself. Still in his scrubs, no less. He sparks up and passes me back my lighter. “It’s the worst at night. Depression. Anxiety. Fear. Worry. People’s demons creep out of the shadows and run amok once the sun goes down. She might have meant it when she did it, but who knows. She could have instantly regretted it. Changed her mind. You won’t know until you ask her.”
I laugh sourly, flicking ash from the cherry of my cigarette. “What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not asking her shit.”
“You’re not going to see her?”
“Why would I? It’s gonna be bad enough seeing her at school. I don’t need to—”
“Wait, you know her?”
I shrug. “Yeah, asshole. What did you think? We’re both at the academy.” I don’t need to qualify which academy, of course. There is only the one around here: Wolf Hall is notorious.
“Well, what’s her fucking name? We’ve been in there, trying to figure out who she is for hours now, and you fucking know her. Jesus Christ, dude.”
“Presley Maria Witton Chase,” I say. “I don’t know her parents. You’re gonna have to call the school for her next of kin information.”
“Presley? What kind of name is that?”
“How the fuck am I supposed to know, man? The one her parents gave her. I barely know the girl. Call the school. Get whatever you need from them, okay? I don’t wanna get involved.”
“I’d say it’s a little late for that.”
I pull extra hard on the cigarette, wincing against the burn in my throat.
“You said it yourself,” he continues. “You’re gonna have to see her at school. And it’s an intense thing, saving someone’s life. It’ll change you just as much as all of this is going to change her.”
“Wow. Spitting facts. You’re a regular Seneca. Can’t wait for you to release your book on moral philosophy. I’m sure it’ll be an overnight New York Times bestseller. You don’t know shit about me, dude. I’ll have forgotten all about this—” I wave a hand at the spot on the ground where the mess of blood was less than an hour ago—“by lunchtime. By tonight, I’ll have forgotten all about Meredith, too. I don’t waste energy on things that don’t fucking matter.”
Remy smiles an infuriating smile. “Okay, man. If you say so.”
“I just did.”
He huffs out an amused breath when he checks the screen of his phone. “I love that mindset for you, I really do, but I doubt it’s gonna stick. Looks like your Presley Maria Witton Chase just woke up, my friend. And she’s already asked about you.”
She asked about me?
Why the fuck would she do that?
Remy smirks as he walks away. “Personally, I think you should go see her. You never know. She could be pretty cool.”
10
PAX
* * *
I go home and shower. I didn’t want to. I figured the blood spatter would add extra theater to my performance when I burst into my mother’s room like wrath personified, but after a while I realized that I was wearing Presley’s blood like it was an accessory. My skin started to itch. It had dried and was beginning to flake off, anyway. Plus, I made a small child cry, being carried out of the hospital in his father’s arms, and I felt weird after that.
Once I’m clean and changed, I check the time and find that it’s only ten in the morning. Another three hours before I can officially get in to see Meredith. I decide that a couple of hours’ sleep are in order—my body’s still so fucked up from the jet lag—and I pass out on the couch in the living room.
I wake up five hours later to find Wren sitting on the coffee table, eating a blood-red apple, staring at me. His thick, dark hair is a mutiny of waves and half-formed curls, pointing in every direction. If Timothée Chalamet bulked out a bit, I guess this is what he’d look like. My friend is wearing a loose ACDC t-shirt and ratty, torn jeans; the thick book wedged under his right arm completes his standard issue Wren Jacobi uniform. Sinking his teeth into the apple, he regards me with eyes the color of washed-out jade. “You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve forgiven you,” he announces.
I prop myself up on one elbow. “Will I now?”
Shrugging his shoulder, he takes another huge bite. “If you have any sense.”
Laughter itches at the back of my throat but I swallow it down. I tend to unnerve people when I smile; a bout of full-blown laughter has the potential to terrify even the dark lord of Riot House himself. “You and I both know that I don’t.”
He grunts—fair comment—and casually wipes a bead of apple juice from his lower lip with the back of his hand. Thank Christ the female population of Wolf Hall didn’t just witness him do it. They’d have collectively torn the clothes from their own backs and engaged in Mortal Kombat to decide who gets to fuck the dude, and I don’t have the energy to referee that kind of shit show right now.
I take the apple from him, shove it into my own mouth, and take a bite. Sugar explodes across my tongue, making my mouth ache. “You know—” I swallow. “It’s creepy to watch people while they’re sleeping.”
He laughs, one dark eyebrow arching suggestively. “Oh, I’ve done way, way worse.”
“I don’t even wanna know.” Groaning, I slump back into the couch, throwing my arm over my face, covering my eyes. Wren grabs the apple back and continues to eat. Neither of us says anything for a second, but then I’m speaking; I don’t even know that I’m going to until my mouth is opening and the words are coming out. “I’m sorry. Y’know. About the boat.”
“It’s fine.”
I raise my elbow and peek at him out of the corner of my eye. “What do you mean, it’s fine?”
“You really think you’d have been allowed anywhere near that thing if it wasn’t insured for twice it’s fucking value? You probably did my old man a favor. And when have I ever resented an opportunity to piss him off, anyway? You should have seen his fucking face.”
“So what you’re really trying to say is that you’re sorry for punching me on the steps yesterday.”
“No,” he says dryly. “I’m not saying that. You deserved that fair and square. Where were you this morning?”