“I’m fine,” I said.
“Uh-huh. That’s why you’re glued to your phone twenty-four-seven and you barely leave your house anymore.”
“I’m recovering from severe trauma and memory loss, remember?” I asked tightly. That was my official story. Yeah, I got one, too. I’d been “found” in the conference room along with the injured and the dead, which only lent credence to my mother’s claims of kidnapping. Jacobs denied it, of course, but Laughlin was too dead to do the same, so most of the blame for my abduction and the mass shooting landed on him.
My weeks of mental and emotional “recovery,” as well as my continuing memory loss, had been officially documented at a facility I’d never seen. Emerson had handed me the paperwork on my way out of his lab. But no one had even bothered to ask for it yet. More of DHS’s influence, I was sure.
Rachel snorted. “Yeah, okay. You’re crazy if you think anyone believes that.”
“Whatever,” I muttered.
“Look, I may not like her, but she did what she had to do. And I’m just…” She made an exasperated noise and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, as if she couldn’t believe the words she was about to say. “I’m just asking, do you think this is what she would have—”
“If you say, ‘Do you think this is what Ariane would have wanted you to do,’ I’m going to walk out and never speak to you again,” I said.
Her mouth fell open before she snapped it closed with a loud click. “Fine. God. Whatever. I’m…trying to be a friend.”
“Well, stop,” I said.
She gathered up her tray and stood. “Fuck you, Zane.” And she sounded shockingly close to tears.
I sighed. “Rachel…” But she was gone before I could apologize. Or explain.
The truth was, I knew Rachel was right. This was absolutely not what Ariane would have wanted for me. In fact, she probably would have been pissed that I was wasting all these opportunities at “normal” experiences.
But I didn’t know how to let go. I didn’t want to. It was like the world had been opened up to this whole other level—aliens, government conspiracies, a hybrid girl who loved french fries and kicked ass—and now I was trying to cram myself back into this one tiny corner of it and pretend that was okay.
I dragged myself through my afternoon classes—playing the role of a still dazed and recovering victim to the hilt, though I had no idea how I was going to manage next semester—and stared out the windows at the snow that had started to fall.
After the last bell, thank God, I was at my locker, slowly gathering my stuff, when my phone buzzed.
My heart immediately jumped, thinking it might be an e-mail. But it was just a text. Quinn. He was going to be later than usual picking me up because of the roads.
Which sucked because everyone else I knew with a car had already bolted, trying to get home before the weather got any worse. So now I’d have to wait.
I put my coat on, hitched my backpack on my shoulders, and slammed my locker shut before heading for the main doors to wait for Quinn.
The entryway was quiet except for the roar of the heaters and the thoughts—just mine, but that was enough—circling loudly in my brain. As much as I’d hated Rachel asking those questions, now I couldn’t seem to shake them from my mind.
How long was I going to wait? There were only so many e-mails I could send. And then what?
How many months? How many years?
As long as it takes, I promised myself.
But at a certain point, I’d have to give up, wouldn’t I? I’d have to admit that she was gone or…dead. That seemed inevitable suddenly.
My breath caught in my chest, and I felt like I couldn’t get enough air, the dry heat pumping too hard from the vents on either side of the entryway.
I pushed through the outer doors, the snow immediately seeping into my shoes and turning my feet to ice. The fresh air burned my lungs, a distraction I welcomed.
I started trudging in the direction Quinn would have to come to get me. Movement was an improvement over standing still. Action helped focus my attention elsewhere. A temporary fix, I knew, but better than nothing.
I hadn’t gotten more than halfway into the parking lot when a clump of snow hit the back of my neck, dripping down under the collar of my coat.
Damn it. I was not in the mood for whatever dumb-ass had decided to pick a fight with me right now.
I turned sharply, furious words on the tip of my tongue, and froze.