But right now, after what I just found out about my mother, I wish I had.
I’m sitting in the dark, staring at his email. Five minutes ago, I was lying in the dark, waiting for sleep to steal my thoughts about Declan and Rev and what might be happening to them tonight, and then my phone lit up.
Now my heart is pounding and I’m wide awake.
The green dot still appears beside his name. He chatted with me once. Could I do the same?
CG: Do you want to talk about it?
I wait, but he doesn’t respond.
Adrenaline is still kicking along in my veins. I don’t know what to do.
“Come on,” I whisper.
I wish I had a way to call him. I wish I knew of another way to get in touch with him.
CG: I know you’re still online. Please let me know you’re OK.
Nothing.
CG: You’re really worrying me. We don’t have to talk, but please let me know you’re there.
You’re there. Because I can’t type, Please let me know you’re alive.
Nothing.
I glance at my clock. It’s half past ten, and Dad’s in bed, but I don’t know what else to do. I’ll have to wake him up.
I throw my blankets back, and the phone lights up.
TD: I’m here. Sorry. Was brushing my teeth.
CG: I want to punch you.
TD: ???
CG: I was really worried.
TD: I’m not having a good night.
CG: Do you want to talk about it?
TD: No.
Well. I don’t know what to do with that.
My phone lights up again.
TD: My mom is pregnant.
CG: I sense that “Congratulations” isn’t the right thing to say.
TD: She’s four months pregnant. They’ve known for four months and they haven’t told me.
CG: Maybe not that long. You can’t tell right away.
TD: Fine. But they didn’t find out today.
CG: Is she happy?
TD: I have no idea. I found out by accident. They weren’t even going to tell me.
CG: They would have had to tell you eventually.
TD: Is this supposed to be making me feel better?
CG: I’m sorry. I’ve had a weird night, too.
TD: Why? What’s going on with you?
CG: We don’t have to talk about me. I wanted to make sure you were okay.
TD: I’m fine. I don’t want to talk about it. Why was your night weird?
CG: I don’t know if I want to talk about it, either.
TD: Why not?
Because it feels odd to talk to him about Declan. Which is ridiculous. But at the same time, it’s not. It feels like talking to one crush about another, which seems to border a line of betrayal. At the same time, The Dark is anonymous, and I feel like he understands me in a way no one else has. It feels odd not to talk about Declan.
This whole thing is odd.
Odd and addictive. I bite at my lip and type slowly.
CG: Remember when I was telling you about Declan Murphy?
TD: Yes.
I hesitate, staring at the screen. I’d been thinking Rev could be The Dark, but when I met his parents, I realized that didn’t fit at all. But Declan . . .
My phone flashes.
TD: Are you still there?
CG: You never told me if you know Declan or not. I’m just now realizing you have a lot of similarities.
TD: What kind of similarities?
CG: You both have stepfathers that you don’t get along with. You know your way around a car, and so does he.
TD: Way to crack the case, Sherlock. Half the guys in our school have stepfathers they don’t get along with, and there are at least sixty kids in the senior class alone who take some variety of auto shop.
CG: You share an attitude, too, I see.
TD: Quit beating around the bush. Do you want me to tell you who I am?
I stop breathing. Do I?
I try to reexamine every interaction with Declan through this new lens. None of it fits cleanly. It’s all square pegs and round holes. He showed up after Homecoming, so maybe that works out—but why wouldn’t he admit who he was? Why keep up this charade?
And The Dark knows how difficult photography is for me. Tonight, in Rev’s basement, Declan seemed genuinely shocked when I told him that taking the yearbook picture affected me, too. The Dark has never mentioned any trouble with the law or probation or any kind of community service, but I know Declan is court ordered to do something after what he did last spring. I don’t even know all the details of his case, I realize, not any more than what he told me in the car. And I’ve never heard Declan mention a sister—and Rev hasn’t, either. There’s enough pain in The Dark’s words that I know she weighs heavily on his heart.
Then again, I don’t think I’ve mentioned my mother to Declan.
All that aside, do I want to know who The Dark is?
If he’s Declan Murphy, is that a good thing? I can’t even lie to myself about the flickers of attraction in Rev’s basement earlier—and then the flickers of anger and irritation and exasperation and worry.
I can still hear the rasp in his voice. You’re all right.
I put my head down on my pillow. Oh, if this is Declan Murphy, what would that mean? My heart flutters wildly, and I don’t even bother to tamp it down.
Then another thought tamps it down for me.
If this isn’t Declan Murphy, what would that mean?
My phone lights up.
TD: I sense a hesitation.
I giggle. It’s been almost five minutes since the last message.
CG: You must be psychic. We could probably ditch the phones.
TD: I actually thought maybe you’d fallen asleep.
CG: Still here.
TD: You didn’t answer my question.
CG: I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to know who you are.
TD: Fair enough.
CG: Do you want to talk about your mom?
TD: No.
CG: Do you want me to let you go to sleep?
TD: No.
CG: Do you want to keep talking?
TD: Yes.
I smile and blush and nestle down under my blankets.
He sends another message.
TD: Tell me about your night with Declan Murphy.
I hesitate. Am I talking about Declan to Declan?
My head hurts. I type.
CG: There’s not much to tell. Mr. Gerardi asked me to shoot the Fall Festival last week, so I did. One of the pictures captured Declan and his friend on one side of the shot and some cheerleaders doing a routine on the other side.