“What kind of food are you gonna serve here?” I ask.
Chase’s dad brightens a little. “Oh, Italian food. Y’know. Hearty stuff. Comfort food. A lot of pasta. Steaks. All of the stuff I love to c—”
“Your son gonna help you out here?”
He frowns. For the first time, he looks a little suspicious of this stranger who’s randomly just followed him into his restaurant. “My son?” he says. “You know Jonah?”
“Not really. We’ve met a couple of times. I thought I saw him in the street earlier. He has that ’Subi Evo, right?”
Chase’s dad looks me up and down, tipping his head to one side. “Yeah. It used to be mine, but I gave it to him so he has something to drive here when he visits. It’s in storage right now. As far as I know, Jonah’s back in San Diego. He would have told me if he was planning on coming. Must have been someone else.”
“Yeah.” I smile at him, tight-lipped. “Must have been.” I make a show of looking around the half-finished restaurant. “Good luck with the grand opening. I’m sure it’s gonna be an awesome place.”
The exit’s only ten feet away. I’m nearly out of the door and in the clear, but then—
“Hey. I know this is gonna sound weird, but…I think I saw you on the back of a bus yesterday.”
I close my eyes, violently cursing the day I ever became a model, then I turn around, faking yet another smile. “Hmm?”
“Yeah. I think it was an ad for jeans. The guy looked just like you. Same—” He points at the angel and the demon on my neck. “Same tattoos and everything. Am I going crazy or was that…?” He points at me.
Urgh.
This is not the way this conversation was supposed to go.
“It’s an old campaign. The driver, Jim…he thinks it’s funny to leave it on the back of the number 69.”
“Oh, yeah, I know Jim.” Chase’s dad laughs. “He drove the school bus when I went to elementary school down the road. He’s a grumpy old shit.”
I force out a dry laugh, and it feels like I’m chewing rocks. “Listen. If, by any chance, you do see Jonah today, can you let him know that I dropped by to say hello? It’d make me really happy if he knew I was thinking about him.”
Thinking about ripping his fingernails off one at a time.
Thinking about smashing his kneecaps.
Thinking about slitting his fucking throat.
Chase’s dad smiles in a pleased, genuine way. He looks like a kind man. A tired man, with too many problems resting on his shoulders. Bastard looks like he needs a vacation. “That’s really nice. I honestly didn’t know he knew anyone here. I’ve only just moved back to town, and—” He trails off, his thoughts clear on his face as he thinks about this. “Wait. How do you know Jonah? He’s barely spent any time at all here over the years.”
Stiff as a board, I nod, reluctant to say these next words. “I know him through Presley actually. She’s my…well, we’re…” I blow deep down my nose, “…friends.”
Mr. Witton frowns. “You’re friends with Presley?” He doesn’t sound disapproving, per se. Perhaps a little shocked?
“Yeah.” God, Chase would love this—to be here and witness me admitting this out loud? That I do think of her as a friend? She’d die laughing. The truth is that she’s way more than a friend to me and the both of us know it. Knowing something and being ready to own it are very different things, though.
Mr. Witton doesn’t know what to do with himself. He takes out his cell phone, checking the screen, then sets it down. He puts his hands on his hips, shifting from one foot to the other, staring at his shoes as he thinks. After what feels like an age, he looks up at me, deadly serious when he says, “You mean it? You’re really her friend?”
I nod, silent.
“She…has she told you about…being in the hospital?”
Fuck. This is getting way too heavy. “I know that she was sick, and they kept her in for a week or so.”
“Do you know…” His forehead creases. “…why?”
“No.” I’m glad I don’t have to lie about this to him; I really don’t know why Chase did what she did. I didn’t even care in the beginning. I tried to make myself not care, but that’s become hard. As of this morning, my efforts in that area have officially been rendered useless. I do fucking care, and I am dead set on finding out why she hurt herself now. There’s something wrong about the situation, the whole thing fucking stinks, and I don’t like it one bit.
Mr. Witton nods sadly. “Well. I’ve been worried sick about her. If you could just…” He sighs, like he’s just given up.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “I’ll look after her. I promise.”
36
PAX
* * *
She’s sleeping when I get back, curled up into a little ball. I take a photo of her, suspending the lens directly over her where she lies, tucked into the fetal position, and I know innately that it will be my favorite photo of all time; it could come out blurry as hell and super under exposed and I’ll never take a better one.
I turn on the TV and load up Call of Duty; I connect the sound to my headphones, so the rattle of gunfire won’t wake Chase, but then I sit on the sofa underneath the window with the headphones hanging around my neck, just…watching her.
I told Jacobi recently that there’s nothing creepier than watching someone while they sleep, and there really isn’t. I feel like a grade A asshole loser as I perch on the edge of my seat, elbows on my knees, chin in my palms, hands covering my mouth…fucking panicking.
I saw this happening.
I fucking felt it.
I told myself it wasn’t real. That I could outrun it. Escape it.
I told myself that I wouldn’t fall victim to the same bullshit human condition as my friends, but damn.
I’ve been such a stupid cunt.
Arrogant.
To think I was bigger than this.
FUCK.
Chase stirs in my bed, and I jump, grabbing up the controller next to me, hammering at the buttons like I’ve been playing the entire time. When Chase sits up, her cheeks turn a bright shade of crimson at the sight of me. “Shit. I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to pass out.”
I make a show of taking off the headphones, even though I heard her perfectly fine. I’m such a prick. “Huh?”
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” she repeats.
“I told you to.” I shrug it off, like it’s no big deal that she just slept in my bed, where no other girl has ever slept. “Want a ride back up to the academy?” I am the very picture of nonchalance.
She yawns. “Please.”
While she’s getting changed back into her own clothes, I wrap the burrito I made for her earlier—the one she took one bite out of—in a piece of kitchen paper and put it in the microwave. She doesn’t say anything when I gruffly hand it to her by the front door. She eats it in silence as I her drive her up the mountain. Chase has the sense not to say anything about the weird tension that hangs between us now, but I know she can feel it. I can fucking feel it. Something has changed between us, and I’m not ready for it. I don’t want it. I’d do anything to make things go back to the way they were before break, when I didn’t even remember nearly fucking her in the forest the night of the last Riot House party. But this isn’t something that can be undone. Something you can give back. Bombs don’t unexplode.