“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?”
Toraf nods thoughtfully. Then he says, “Imagine how Emma must feel then.”
“What?”
“Think about it. The humans followed you around a building and it made you uncomfortable. You followed Emma across the big land. Then Rachel makes sure you have every class with her. Then when she tries to get away, you chase her. Seems to me you’re scaring her off.”
“Kind of like what you’re doing to Rayna.”
“Huh. Didn’t think of that.”
“Idiot,” Galen mutters. But there is some truth to Toraf’s observation. Maybe Emma feels smothered. And she’s obviously still mourning Chloe. Maybe he has to take it slow with Emma. If he can earn her trust, maybe she’ll open up to him about her gift, about her past. But the question is, how much time does she need? Grom’s reluctance to mate will be overruled by his obligation to produce an heir. And that heir needs to come from Emma.
Toraf nudges him from his thoughts. “You know whose advice I need?” He nods toward the gigantic house behind them. “Rachel’s.”
“Actually, you don’t,” Galen says, standing. He reaches a hand down to help his friend.
“Why’s that?”
“Rachel’s expertise lies more along the lines of communication. You won’t need to worry about communication when Rayna finds out you’re already mated.”
“We’re what?” They both turn to Rayna who has stopped mid-stride in the sand. The emotions on her face change from surprise to full-blown murderous rage.
“You’re gonna pay a special price for that, minnow!” Toraf calls before he hits the water.
Galen grins as Rayna slices through the waves in bloodthirsty pursuit. Then he heads for the house to talk to Rachel.
7
I PICK up the compact and smear porcelain all over my face. The pressure makes me wince and sends a shooting pain to my eye sockets. At least I don’t have a bruise. Bruises—and zits—show up especially well on white skin. I glide on some sheer lip gloss and pucker in front of the mirror. Then wipe it off. Who am I kidding? That sticky stuff will bother me all day. The mascara tube mocks me from the sink in the bathroom, daring me to put some on. I accept the challenge—I’m not in any danger of crying today. I seize the tube, giving my lashes two good swipes. Funny how a little sleep, a little makeup, and a lot of contemplation can make you feel like a different person—a stronger version of yourself.
Mom wants me to stay out of school for one more day. But that’s not going to happen. I spent all of yesterday in bed, alternating between crying and sleeping. Finally, at midnight, the waterworks stopped and my brain started working. This is what I decided:
Chloe is gone. She is never coming back. And the way I’ve been acting would hurt her. For at least an hour, I switch places with her in my mind—I am dead and Chloe is alive. How would she handle it? She would cry. She would be sad. She would miss me. But she wouldn’t stop living. She would let people comfort her. She would sleep in her own room and smile at the memories as she drifted to sleep. And she would probably punch Galen Forza. Which brings me to what else I decided:
Galen Forza is a jerk. The details are hazy, but I’m pretty sure he had something to do with my accident Monday. Also, he’s a bit weird. Staring habit aside, he keeps popping up everywhere. Every time he does, I handle it with the grace of a rhino on stilts. So I’m switching my schedule as soon as I get to school. There is no good reason I should humiliate myself for seven periods a day.
I smile with satisfaction at my plan as I pull up a chair at the table. Mom serves me garbage eggs again today, and this time I eat them. I even ask for seconds. She sets a glass of milk on the table for us to share. I accidentally guzzle it all. I don’t even glance at Dad’s place setting. Or Chloe’s.
“You must be feeling better, then,” Mom says. “But I wish you’d just stay home one more day. We could have a girls’ day, you and me. Rent some chick flicks, eat chocolate and drink diet soda, exchange some small-town gossip. Whataya say?”
I laugh, which makes my head throb as if my brain is trying to escape. When she puts it like that, staying home is tempting and not just because of the chocolate. Watching Mom try to act girlie would be entertainment in itself. Our last attempt at a girls’ day started with a pedicure and ended with a monster-truck rally. That was five years ago. And so was her last pedicure.
Still, I’ve already decided that today starts the rest of my normal life. Dragging a comforter and half gallon of ice cream to the couch feels like a cop-out, and risking another monster-truck rally is about as appealing as growing a third nostril. Picking up my dishes and walking them to the sink, I say, “Actually, I really want to go to school. Change of scenery, you know? How about a rain check?”
She smiles, but I know it’s not real because it doesn’t crinkle her eyes. “Sure. Some other time.”
I nod and grab my car keys. Before I flip the light on in the garage, she’s behind me, tugging on my backpack.
“You want to go to school? Fine. But you’re not driving. Give me the key.”
“I’m okay, Mom, really. I’ll see you tonight.” I plant a quick kiss on her cheek and turn to the door again.
“That’s nice. Give it to me.” She holds out her hand.
I clench the key in my fist. “You practically shoved that car down my throat Monday, and now you’re taking the key. What did I do?”