“I am real. This”—he put his other hand over the first—“is real. You see me interacting with other people all day long, don’t you? I talk to people; I affect things in the world. I cause things to happen. I am real.”
“But—but what if this whole place”—I had to suck in air again—“what if everything is inside my head? East Shoal and Scarlet and this bridge and you—what if you’re not real because nothing is real?”
“If nothing’s real, then what does it matter?” he said. “You live here. Doesn’t that make it real enough?”
Chapter Fifty
Miles and I sat under Red Witch Bridge until darkness settled in for good around us. My parents hadn’t come looking for me—I guess they knew I wouldn’t go far. Or they had amazing faith in Miles’s ability to find me. Or maybe they didn’t want to face either of us.
At the house, the kitchen light was still on. I stopped in the backyard, taking a long minute to search the area. It seemed stupid now, but I couldn’t stop myself. I turned slowly on the spot. House, door, street, woods.
We went in through the front door. I closed it loud enough to make sure my parents knew we were back. I didn’t want another confrontation. I didn’t want Miles and my mother going at each other’s throats again.
I did another perimeter check in my room, opened one of my photo albums on the dresser.
It was all Charlie. Charlie smiling, Charlie playing chess, Charlie asleep with her violin tucked under her arm.
I showed Miles the album. “What do you see?”
He flipped through a few pages. “Furniture. Your backyard. Your kitchen. The street. What should I see?”
I took the album back from him, closed it, and set it on the dresser. No medicine would ever be strong enough for this.
Miles glanced at the clock on my nightstand. It was almost one in the morning.
“Will your dad be angry?” I asked.
“Probably. He gets angry about everything.”
Over his shoulder I got a glimpse of white and red; Bloody Miles stood in the corner, grinning at me with his stained teeth.
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Do . . . um . . . do you have to go?”
“Are you okay?” He brushed my arm. I opened my eyes.
“I’m fine. I’m good.” I turned toward the bed and the window.
Charlie stood outside, a horrible sad grimace on her face. All sixteen black chess pieces stuck out of her mouth like finely carved tumors. I gasped and jumped; Miles’s arms came around me.
“What do you see?”
“Charlie’s at the window. And . . . and you’re in the corner.”
“Me?”
I nodded. “From Celia’s bonfire. Please don’t ask.”
“I can stay.”
I nodded. I pushed open his arms and walked to the closet, opening the door in Bloody Miles’s face. I peeled my shirt and jeans off and put on my pajamas.
Miles sat on the edge of the bed and took off his shoes.
“Your parents?” he asked.
“We’re not doing anything.” Besides, they might not be real.
“I think your mom hates me,” he said.
“I kind of hate her,” I said, realizing with a jolt that I meant it. “She needed to hear that. Thank you for telling her.”
I closed the closet door. Bloody Miles’s foul breath fanned over my ear and cheek. I pulled away from him and slid past Miles, into the bed. He lay down and slung an arm over my waist. I didn’t know how to position myself: facing away from him, Charlie stared at me through the window. Facing him, Bloody Miles loomed overhead. I turned to the pillow, eyes shut.
This wasn’t real. They weren’t real.
Miles pressed up against me and buried his face in my hair. He could say he didn’t understand emotions all he wanted, but sometimes it felt like he understood them better than anyone else I knew.
The hard ridge of his glasses pressed into my temple. I liked the pressure. It reminded me that he was there.
“Miles?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t go away.”
“I won’t.”
Chapter Fifty-one
Morning sunlight crept into the room, lighting up my artifacts and the freckles on Miles’s face. The sheets were tangled around us. One of his hands was curled in my shirt, warm against my stomach, and the other was tucked beneath his chin. The rise of his body blocked most of the room, so I had to peek slowly over him to check the surroundings.
Bloody Miles was gone.
So was Charlie.
I stopped the thought as soon as I noticed it creeping up on me and allowed it to get no farther than that: Charlie was gone. No amount of hoping or wishing would bring her back. Not really.
The door opened a crack. My mother. I met her eye, expecting her to barge in, to yell at us, to put me under house arrest for lying to her yesterday, for running out so late, for letting Miles sleep in my room. But she didn’t.
She nodded and turned away.
Miles sighed. His glasses were askew on his nose. I didn’t want to wake him up, but I also didn’t want to be alone. I kissed his cheekbone. He sighed again. I huffed and said, “Miles.”
He grunted, cracking his eyes open.
“Morning,” I said.