“Feeling much better now,” I say. I don’t look at him as I start toward the house. “We should go in.”
“Wait, Lena.” He reaches out and grabs my wrist. I guess grabs isn’t really the right word. More like wipes sweat on. But I stop anyway, though I still can’t bring myself to meet his eyes. Instead I keep my eyes locked on the front door, noticing for the first time that the screen has three large holes in it, near the upper right corner. No wonder the house has been full of insects this summer. Grace found a ladybug in our bedroom the other day. She brought it to me, cupped in her tiny palm. I helped her carry it downstairs and release it outside.
I feel an overwhelming rush of sadness, unrelated to Alex or Brian or any of that. I’m just struck with a sense of time passing so quickly, rushing forward. One day I’ll wake up and my whole life will be behind me, and it will seem to have gone as quickly as a dream.
“I didn’t mean for you to hear what I said before,” he says. I wonder if his mom made him say this. The words seem to require a tremendous effort on his part. “It was rude.”
As if I haven’t already been completely humiliated—now he has to apologize for calling me ugly. My cheeks feel like they’re going to melt off, they’re so hot.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, trying to extricate my wrist from his hand. Surprisingly, he won’t let me go—even though technically he shouldn’t be touching me at all.
“What I meant was—” His mouth works up and down for a second. He won’t meet my eyes. He keeps scanning the street behind me, his eyes darting back and forth, like a cat watching a bird. “What I meant was, you looked happier in the pictures.”
This is a surprise, and for a second I can’t think of a response. “I don’t seem happy now?” I splutter out, and then feel even more embarrassed. It’s so weird to be having this conversation with a stranger, knowing he won’t be a stranger for very much longer.
But he doesn’t seem freaked out by the question. He just shakes his head. “I know you aren’t,” he says. He drops my wrist, but I don’t feel as desperate to go inside anymore. He’s still staring off at the street behind me, and I sneak a closer look at his face. I guess he could be kind of good-looking. Not nearly so gorgeous as Alex, obviously—he’s super pale and slightly feminine-looking, with a full, round mouth and a small, tapered nose—but his eyes are a clear, pale blue, like a morning sky, and he has a nice strong jawline. And now I start to feel guilty. He must know I’m unhappy because I’ve been paired with him. It’s not his fault I’ve changed—seen the light or contracted the deliria, depending on who you ask. Maybe both.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s not you. I’m just—I’m just scared about the procedure, that’s all.” I think of how many nights I used to fantasize about stretching out on the operating table, waiting for the anesthesia to turn the world to fog, waiting to wake up renewed. Now I’ll be waking up to a world without Alex: I’ll be waking up into the fog, everything gray and blurry and unrecognizable.
Brian is looking at me, finally, with an expression I can’t identify at first. Then I realize: pity. He feels sorry for me. He starts speaking all in a rush. “Listen, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but before my procedure I was like you.” His eyes click back to the street. The wheezing has stopped. He speaks clearly, but low, so Carol and his mom can’t hear through the open window. “I didn’t—I wasn’t ready.” He licks his lips, drops his voice to a whisper. “There was a girl I used to see sometimes at the park. She babysat for her cousins, used to bring them to the playground there. I was captain of the fencing team in high school—that’s where we practiced.”
You would be captain of the frigging fencing team, I think. But I don’t say this out loud; I can tell he’s trying to be nice.
“Anyway, we used to talk sometimes. Nothing happened,” he qualifies quickly. “Just a few conversations, here and there. She had a pretty smile. And I felt . . .” He trails off.
Wonder and fear sweep through me. He’s trying to tell me that we’re alike. He somehow knows about Alex—not about Alex specifically, but about someone. “Wait a second.” My mind is churning. “Are you trying to say that before the procedure you were . . . you got sick?”
“I’m just saying I understand.” His eyes flick to mine for barely a fraction of a second, but that’s all I need. I’m positive now. He knows I’ve been infected. I’m both relieved and terrified—if he can see it, other people will see it too.