Except for Jackson, who’s never kissed me, but who’s held me in his arms and made me wish he’d kiss me.
The second that thought surfaces, I squish it like a bug. Thinking like that will only win me trouble and heartbreak. Jackson Tate is as dangerous as they come, and I’m more of a careful sort of girl.
“Just the basic textbook concepts, okay?” I add when Dad keeps staring at me.
He nods and starts eating again.
“So, how about this warm weather?” I ask, and launch into a pretty one-sided discussion of the sun and blue sky. Every once in a while, Dad adds a word or two, but I can see he’s still thinking about our last topic. After a few minutes, I jump up and clear the plates and have a genuine reason to turn my back to him as I stack the washer and scrub the pots. By the time I’m done, he’s settled in front of the TV and I can escape to my room.
“Going up to do homework,” I mumble.
I close the door behind me, sink back against it, and breathe a sigh of relief. The day’s almost done. Tomorrow has to be better. Tears sting my eyes at the thought. How many times have I told myself that? How many times have I forced myself out of bed in the morning, trying to believe that this is the day everything will be fine?
Hasn’t happened yet. Well, except for moments in the game. If I’m honest, there are times that I do feel normal there. And how messed up is that? The only time I feel really okay is when I’m in an alternate reality fighting aliens. That’s just wrong on any level.
Except, maybe it isn’t. Maybe I feel like I’m okay in the game because I’m doing something bigger than me. My sadness, my loss, they seem small compared to an alien invasion. Jackson seems to think we’re saving the world. Four teenagers, saving the world. I roll my eyes. Right.
I drag on an old T-shirt and flannels and haul out my math homework. I wish I could talk to Jackson. I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose, avoiding me so he doesn’t have to answer questions.
I laugh out loud. Of course he’s doing it on purpose. He knows where I live. He knows when I run. All he’d have had to do was show up and run with me this morning. We could have talked. He could have explained. The fact that he hasn’t done that tells me all I need to know.
Turning my attention to my math homework, I try to get it done. It takes forever because my concentration isn’t the best. I’m tired. No surprise there. I didn’t sleep well last night. I dreamed of Jackson’s eyes and the shells and the dead girl that Jackson killed, even though she was already dead. Just trying to get my head around that makes me dizzy. I’m exhausted, and by ten o’clock, I’m fighting to keep my eyes open. I’m in the place between awake and asleep when I hear a weird tapping. A couple of minutes later, there it is again, a light tapping from . . . there. The window.
A shiver chases up my spine.
And the sound comes again.
Wary, I cross to the window and peer out. My heart slams hard against my ribs.
Dark clothes, dark shades, pale hair gleaming in the moonlight, Jackson Tate’s outside my window, sitting cross-legged on the porch roof.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I SHOVE THE WINDOW OPEN. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I WHISPER the words too fast, stunned and alarmed and secretly thrilled that he’s here.
“Visiting.”
“Now?” I shake my head. “How did you get up here?”
“Climbed.”
I stare at him, at a loss. Should I go out to him? Ask him to come in to me? I look frantically up and down the street to make certain no neighbors are out there watching. I don’t see anyone, not right now, but that doesn’t mean someone won’t come out any second.
“Get in here,” I order in a whisper as I step back from the window. “Take off your shoes. And be quiet.”
The next thing I know, Jackson’s inside my bedroom, less than a foot away from me. I leave the window open just in case he needs to make a quick exit, but pull the curtain halfway to shield him from street view.
“My shoes?” He looks baffled.
“No shoes in the house. My mom had this thing about that.”
“How about we pretend this is the front hall and I just stay in this spot and not move? Okay if I keep my shoes on then? I don’t love the idea of having to dive out your window barefoot if your dad comes in.”
The image of that makes me feel ill. I can just picture Jackson diving out the window, his shoes staying behind like beacons of my transgression. “Fine. Keep them on. But don’t move.”
“You sure? I’ll take them off if it’s a big deal.” He sounds both amused and sincere.
I strain my ears, trying to hear if the TV’s still on downstairs. If not, it means Dad’s already gone to bed. I can’t hear anything, but what if he’s up here and not yet asleep?