Her serious gaze settles on my eyes and stays there. Maybe she sees the desperation I’m feeling, or the sadness. Or maybe there’s nothing in my eyes; they’re supposed to be the window to the soul, and I’m pretty sure my soul died off a long time ago.
Whatever she sees, it makes her tears stop. Then she raises her hands and signs, “Then you don’t have to leave. Not as long as you keep caring about me. Because you do care, even if you hate to admit it.”
Her gaze flicks back to my lips, and for a moment, I think she’s waiting for me to respond. But then she throws herself into my arms and kisses me.
Finally. That’s the only word running through my head as I kiss her back. Maybe not the most romantic sentiment, but I can’t help it. All those times we’ve kissed, she’s felt so hesitant. Now she’s just as desperate as I am, and her lips are sweet and incredible.
When she pulls away, we’re both breathing hard. Ali reaches up and wipes away the last of her tears. I kiss her forehead and brush my fingertip over the hesitant smile on her lips, relieved to see it back.
“I have to get over to Killer’s,” she signs, taking a step toward the door.
I let out a small breath of relief. Ali seems to sense that I can only handle so many emotions at once. As good as it feels to get all this off my chest, I’m glad she’s not going to draw out this conversation any longer. I need time to process my muddled thoughts.
“Yeah,” I sign back uncertainly. “He’ll worry if you’re late.”
She pulls away from me, and just as she’s about to walk out of the kitchen, she says, “I’ll wait for you. You can be a jerk, but I also really believe you care about people. And if you can do that, then I think you have more good in you than bad. So I’ll wait for you to figure out how to love.”
With that said, she grabs her duffle bag off the couch and walks out of the RV, not even giving me a chance to respond.
I don’t think I could have come up with one, anyway.
28
ALI
KILLER AND I stay up until three in the morning, watching a grand total of eight Doctor Who episodes. Killer has most of the episodes memorized line for line, and he waves his hands around as he acts along with David Tennant and the rest of the cast. Unfortunately, I’m right next to him on the couch, so I keep having to dodge his flails when he gets too excited. Fortunately, I’m deaf, so I don’t have to hear his attempts at mimicking the voices.
When the eighth episode ends, and Killer’s caffeine high has officially worn off, I tell him he should have been an actor. He grimaces and says, “But then I would have had to kiss girls.” He smiles sheepishly. “No offense, darling.”
I laugh and let my head fall back against the cushion, my gaze roaming around the room. Killer and Arrow’s RV is different from Jace’s. Some of it’s technically the same—there are the band posters, the bright colors, the comfy couches. But there’s no denying it’s totally different. It feels . . . alive. Like it’s been lived in so much, it’s actually absorbed some of that life. It practically radiates the message Happy Couple Lives Here. There are pictures all over of Killer and Arrow together, some of them with the rest of the band.
Next to the couch is a picture I keep studying. It must have been taken when the band had just started; they all look impossibly young, and they’re standing in front of less-than-professional music equipment. In the photo, Killer wears a shirt that says, KEEP CALM AND DON’T BLINK, a pair of jeans that look designer brand, and that dorky grin of his. So he’s been a Doctor Who fan and fashion aficionado since the very beginning of the band—it’s not at all surprising, and neither is the trademark smile.
Arrow stands behind him, his arms wrapped around Killer’s waist and a sheepish smile on his face. Jon is missing from the picture, except for his thumb. At least I’m assuming that’s what the pinkish-tan splotch is in the corner.
As interesting and cute as the picture is, it makes me sad. Because standing next to Arrow and Killer is Jace. His arm is in a sling, and he has a black eye that just makes his glare at the camera look all the more severe. Jace’s good arm clutches an electric guitar—it’s beaten up and scratched all over, but polished to an impossible shine. He holds onto it like he’ll simply dissolve into a pile of dead dust if he ever lets go.
Something taps my arm, startling me back to the present. I turn to Killer, but his eyes are on the picture and his lips turned down in a frown. I’ve never seen him look so serious and sorrowful, and it’s such a drastic contrast to his usual expression that I want to look away from him.
Killer nods to my new smartphone in my lap, which he’s been texting me on all evening so I don’t have to focus on reading his lips. There’s a new message on my screen: He’s never been happy, you know. My fingers hover over the keyboard, not sure how to respond, but then Killer taps out another message before I get the chance. You’ve seen his scar?