Chapter
TWENTY-SIX
Two weeks later
Gabby’s mom was forecasting a mild, snowless spring. Winter had come so fast and furious that year: It was like there was something else in the air, Marty Dove was fond of saying. It’s not that the month of January wasn’t supposed to be cold—it was—
but . . . it was like this cold had no point. It was freezing, without any beautiful, snowcapped reward.
Days came and went. Mostly, Em and Gabby went straight home, doing deep-conditioning treatments, watching crappy rom-coms, and scouring the Urban Outfitters catalog for new wardrobe splurges. They didn’t speak of Zach, who had transferred last week, courtesy of his stepdad’s string-pulling, to the New Hampshire boarding school he used to attend himself.
Better stepping-stone to Yale, he had told the football team.
Em knew it had more to do with his failing math grade than
F U R Y
anything else. But mostly, she was relieved to realize she didn’t care anymore what the real reason was for anything Zach did.
Em spent a few afternoons hanging out with Drea, and she was reading as many of her books as she could get her hands on.
Em’s dreams were filled with dark spaces, cavernous gaps between reality and nightmares that threatened to swallow her whole. In the dreams, she was constantly on the verge of stepping into an angry abyss, one that was reaching inside her even as she teetered above it. Sometimes Chase was there, sometimes JD. Sometimes Ali and Ty and Meg. Sometimes Zach.
She woke up some nights with a scream swelling in her throat.
When she couldn’t sleep, she went to her window and looked outside. She saw shapes—no, she didn’t see them as much as feel them, sense them. The Furies, like the ice, wouldn’t melt. Patches of them were frozen in her memory.
And JD . . . well, that view was just as cold. His blinds had been closed since the night she’d called 911 at the Behemoth. The morning after she saved his life, she woke up to see that the string between their windows had snapped—weighed down, probably, by heavy icicles. He left for school before she even woke up—math-team practice, his mom told hers—and their routes never converged in the hallways. She texted him, sent him chats; his responses, when they came at all, were per-functory.
Em was trying to understand it. She knew the Furies must have somehow made him believe something that wasn’t true . . .
but she didn’t know what. And she couldn’t tell him what had really happened, of course; she’d vowed to keep it all inside. She 327
E L I Z A B E T H M I L E S
could tell he was mad at her—it was the Furies’ fault, she had no doubt. But how could she defend herself? How could she begin to explain? How could she risk putting him in danger again?
Everything in her ached, as she slowly realized that even though she’d gotten him from dying, it didn’t mean she got the old JD back. It was like she’d chosen, by swallowing those pills, to sever their connection. It was unbearable. It was insur-mountable. The few times she caught his gaze, his eyes looked kind but flat. Not full of the feeling they used to hold.
Em knew that the Furies had gotten exactly what they came for after all. She had not defeated them—in fact, she had somehow bound herself to them for life. She didn’t even know how, or what that meant. And in the meantime they’d broken her heart.
But at least JD was alive. And as long as he was living and breathing, he might someday love her again. In this way, it was like Em and the Furies were engaged in an invisible tug-of-war.
At least Em still had a piece of the rope.
Some mornings, as she watched the sun rise, filling in the sky from behind stark branches, she thought about how she could make amends. Tell him what happened—that night and all the nights leading up to it—how she’d felt, knowing finally that she loved him. She could tell him what Drea had told her.
Make him understand. And then . . .
And then what? Her thoughts always shredded apart here, full of longing and hope and uncertainty. Sometimes the frustration was so great that she wondered which was better—to live with love always just out of her grasp, or to know that it was gone forever?
328
F U R Y
Ty’s words reverberated in her head, as they frequently did: I’m warning you—they will bind you to us forever. She didn’t know by what chains she was bound. But she would escape them.
She was going to teach the Furies a lesson about getting what you deserved.
At an elite boarding school in New Hampshire, a boy with sandy hair and a perfect smile walks out of the gym after basketball practice. He furrows his brow with concentration as he composes his text message.
Gotta study tonight, baby. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.
But he doesn’t put his phone into his gym bag. Instead, he types out another text to a different number: Hey cutie, it reads.
Want to meet up tonight? I’ve got some free time.
“What does a girl have to do to get her number in there?”
A silvery voice cuts through the evening air.
He looks up. There’s a girl in front of him, a girl who definitely does not go to his school. He would have noticed her. He would have been all over it weeks ago.
She’s beautiful. Tall. Beach-blond hair, a perky nose, and rosebud lips highlighted by bright red lipstick.
“I’m Zach,” he says, holding out his hand. “Sorry I’m so sweaty—just got out of basketball practice.”
“I know who you are,” the girl responds with a laugh that 329
E L I Z A B E T H M I L E S
sounds like coins falling into a fountain. “I brought this for you.” She extends her hand with a flirtatious smile. She is holding a deep red orchid—delicate yet dramatic.
The boy takes it, surprised by its weight. “A beautiful girl and a beautiful flower? What did I do to deserve this?” He winks.
The girl’s smile broadens slowly as she says, “I think you know.”
330
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you . . .
First and foremost, to Lexa Hillyer and Lauren Oliver for giving me this opportunity and offering brilliant guidance along the way. Lexa, your intelligence and positive attitude are inspirational; Lauren, your vision and drive are unique.
To everyone at Simon Pulse, especially Jennifer Klonsky and Emilia Rhodes, for pouring so much energy and editorial smarts into Fury. To Stephen Barbara and Foundry Literary +
Media for representing me and Paper Lantern Lit with style.
To Jeff Inglis, Peter Kadzis, and Phoenicians past and present for trusting and supporting me through this and many projects.
To my friends in Portland, especially Maggie Carey (and Keith), Christopher Gray, Keagan McDonough, Nicholas Schroeder, Sonya Tomlinson (and Jay), and all you theater people, for boundless warmth and creativity. To Will, who knows why. To Dafna Garber for ten years (and counting) of unexpected best-friendship. To Laura Smith, Laura Schechter, and Jacqueline Novak for letting me write through Fourth of July 2010—my favorite holiday because I spend it with you, my oldest and dearest loves.
To my extended family, all aunts and uncles and cousins and little cousins, for being top-notch cheerleaders. To the memories of John and Marjorie Fulton, John and Eva Mayer, and Rob Vrana. And to my parents, Evelyn and Donald Fulton, for always championing my brain and loving me in your own generous ways.