Where am I? She swept her eyes around the room, spotted a tumble of chairs and desks. Books on the floor. And this boy on a stool . . . Who is he? Her gaze shot to the sleeping bag puddled at her waist. Sleeping bag, on the floor . . . What am I doing here?
Dark. She remembered that. Dreaming—yeah, that was right. And then she’d snapped awake. Tea. She’d made tea for . . . for this boy because she wanted company.
Who is he? Why can’t I remember? A lance of fear stabbed her chest, and she began to tremble. I must be sick. Her forehead was wet. Why couldn’t she remember?
“Hey.” A white shimmer sailed from the dark, and his hand touched her shoulder. The voice said something more, but it was all so much gibberish and black sound.
What’s wrong with me? The words were all locked up somewhere. Nothing made sense: not where she was or why, or even the shadowy figure of the boy looming over her. Who is he?
Then: Who am I?
“Lena?” The boy gave her a little shake. “Are you okay?” Whatever grabbed her suddenly let go. “Yeah,” she said in a breathy little gasp. “I’m . . . I’m okay.” She put a hand to her temple. Her head throbbed. “I’m not feeling very well.”
“You haven’t been eating,” the boy said. “You really need to get some sleep, too.”
Chris, it’s Chris; what’s wrong with you? Then the last half hour suddenly rushed back like pent-up water released from a dam. Embarrassment washed through in a hot flood that heated her skin. God, why did I do that? I’ve never told anyone about Karl. What’s the matter with me?
“Yeah.” Tears burned, and she bit her lip to stopper a sob. “Sorry.”
“No problem. Just go to sleep.” Kneeling, he pulled the bag up around her chin. “Come on. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
Her throat clenched. “C-Chris?”
“Hey, hey.” He gave her shoulder an awkward pat. “Don’t cry.”
“I’m . . .” She gulped. Felt the wet rolling down her cheeks. “I’m scared.”
“Hey,” he said again, and then he stopped talking and just let her hang on while she hiccupped into his shirt.
“S-sorry,” she said, finally. She dragged a hand over her swollen eyes. “I-I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” His hand cupped the back of her neck, and she let her head rest on his shoulder with a grateful sigh. “We’re all scared,” he said.
Not like me. You’re not losing yourself. A weird thought that she didn’t understand but felt, somehow, was exactly right. She didn’t want to let go of him either. This was a bubble in time that was no more than a gasp and as fragile as the thinnest, most perfect glass. I’m real; right now, I’m here and I’m me. She was afraid to move or speak, because then time would start up again and the moment would be gone, forever. Maybe her, too. For the first time in weeks, she was real; there was no other word that described how she felt, as if his arms not only held but defined her, gave her limits, kept her from falling apart, blasting to bits. She heard the steady thump of his heart, and his scent was . . . indescribable.
It’s Chris. Pressing closer, she breathed him in. This is the smell of Chris, and he is real and so is this, so am I.
Before she could stop herself—what a lie; she didn’t want to stop—she was reaching up. Her trembling fingers feathered his neck and she heard him suck in a small, startled gasp.
“Lena, I—” he said. “We—”
“Please, please, please,” she whispered. Her body was shuddering, humming, warming. She brushed her lips over his skin, felt the hard throb of his pulse against her mouth, tasted the salt tang on her tongue. At her touch, he made a sound that was very far back, deep in his throat; she felt the sudden shock of it in his chest, the tremor rippling through his body like a bomb. She put a hand behind his neck, pulled his mouth to hers, and then they were kissing, and kept kissing, and his lips were warm and tasted of sweet oranges, and she focused on that, gave herself over to the feel of his mouth and his hands in her hair, the scorch of his fingers over her cheeks, her neck. She was tingling, all over, greedy for his taste, moaning into his mouth, and they were breathing in one another, and then he was saying her name and she needed that almost more than breath.
Yes, this is real and I’m Lena, I am Lena, I’m—
“Lena.” He pulled away, panting a little. “No. I can’t. I’m sorry. We shouldn’t. This isn’t me.”
But it is me. “Yes, it is,” she said. Her voice broke. “Please don’t, please don’t.”
“Lena.” He sounded out of breath. His hands tightened on her arms. “This isn’t right.”
“It is.” She heard the plea and didn’t care. “Chris, it doesn’t have to mean anything more than what it is. It’s not wrong.”
“Lena, I just . . . I can’t. This isn’t me,” he said again.
“You love her.” Her voice was used up and flat as paper, and she let her hands fall away. An enormous sense of defeat washed through like black water that might just sweep her out to sea, or drown her. Same difference.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I think so. I care about you, I do, but—”
“Great.” She gave a broken laugh. “What every girl needs to hear.”
He was quiet for a moment. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair? Hey, news flash: life isn’t fair.” She heard the cruel cut in her voice, but she’d take anger over fear any day. “Nothing’s fair.”
“I know that. But I don’t have to make things worse. That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t do what’s right.”
“So now I’m wrong?”
“No. I’m saying I can’t let Alex go just yet. If I’m going to, you know, be with you or anyone, it has to be you, not who I wish you were.”
She couldn’t believe this. “So what? Who cares? What about what I need? Don’t I count for something?”
“Lena, you do, but—”
“But what?” she spat. “I’m not good enough? I’m not her? Have you stopped to think, for five seconds, how I feel? We are going to die out here, and you’re worried about being faithful to a dead girl?”
“Lena.” His voice had dropped to something low and dangerous. “Don’t.”