‘I can’t leave my house. I think it’s safe to say the chances of me jumping on a plane to go and watch fireworks are non-existent.’
‘Oh God, no. I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry . . . I wasn’t meaning this year . . . I just meant . . . whenever, one year, any year, you know?’
‘Maybe.’ I stare at my polish-perfect pedicure. It only took me six hours to get it right.
‘We don’t need to put a date on it. Who’s to say this time next year you won’t be globetrotting? Come spring, you could be in Europe.’ My heart smiles; it’s not strong enough to show on my face. ‘But . . . you don’t believe any of that’s possible?’ he ventures carefully.
‘No. I mean, yes. I’m not sure. I know it’s probable . . .’ I pause, don’t know how to finish my sentence without sounding like I’m feeling sorry for myself.
‘But . . .’ he prompts.
I shrug. I’ve no idea how to tell him I feel helpless. That I can’t seem to find the strength or energy to fight myself daily for an infinite amount of time and make the doc’s neural pathways stick. That I’m afraid. That I’m just . . . stuck.
‘You’re brave, did you know that?’
He must have me mistaken for someone else. ‘You have all these fears, your body endures all this pain and heartache, but you keep going. I think that’s really brave.’
I shake my head. My mind is telling me that he’s wrong. Brave is swords and shields. People who are fearless in the face of adversity. Warriors for social justice. Brave is not me. But my heart registers the way he’s looking at me now, and my shoulders straighten. I feel shiny, normal. Something flips over in my stomach and I find myself looking at his lips.
‘I think I see you a little differently than how you see yourself,’ he says.
‘I like how you see me,’ I tell him in a whisper. And then he leans forward, closes the gap between us, and pushes his lips against mine.
My biggest fear comes from a place I’m not expecting, as his breath, warm and sweet like peppermint, fills my mouth. I think about all the stuff I researched, every alien thing that popped up on my computer screen in a petri dish. I wonder if Luke had a drink at the Fall Ball, shared a cup with someone who had a cold sore. I consider how many cheeks his lips touched when he arrived, and then how many more cheeks those lips touched before reaching mine. I even spare a second to remember the boy at Cardinal who’s suffering from a case of glandular fever. But the fear that asserts itself the most is his motive for doing what he’s done.
I spring back like he’s spat acid. Make like a crab across the floor and wipe my mouth on the sleeve of my sweater.
‘Norah. I’m so sorry.’ He reaches out, grabs my hand, and I rip it free from his grasp. ‘Shit,’ he says, clutching his fingers like he’s just been burnt. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. Any of that. I wasn’t thinking. Fuck. I’m so sorry.’
Warmbreathpetridishesbugsbacteriaalienlifeformscoldsoreskissescheekslipsfevermotive. Motive. MOTIVE.
It’s how my head is working as I pull myself to my feet using the banister. Faster and faster, like a malfunctioning merry-go-round. No stopping. No slowing. No breathing. My mouth is numb.
Luke keeps saying Fuck, running his hands through his hair, an I’ve-just-seen-a-car-accident-unfold expression emblazoned on his paling face.
‘How could you do that?’ I ask, tears streaming down my cheeks, words sliced and diced as they fall through chattering teeth.
‘I don’t know,’ Luke says, all flustered, watching the floor as he paces back and forth.
‘You don’t get it,’ I spit. ‘I thought you did, but you don’t.’
‘I do.’ He makes a beeline for me, hands outstretched. My knees are trembling too much to move; the best I can do is flinch. He stops a foot short of my face when he sees my body jerk and plants his hands hard in his pockets. ‘I hate that,’ he says. ‘I hate that I’ve made you feel afraid.’
‘Then why did you? You didn’t have to. Or did you?’ Motive. Talking about flying to New York, buying me a journal for France, sitting here watching the fireworks like a normal couple. He thinks I’m beautiful, smart, funny, but he never actually said not crazy. I wonder if he only stayed at the ball for a few minutes because he felt like I used to watching my Hub feed on a weekend. I wonder if he sighed when he left a roomful of bodies swaying against each other, arms and legs free from scratches, for a girlfriend he can’t even kiss.
He didn’t leave the party because he was bored; he left that party because it was a slap in the face.
My head is having its own ball. Adding things together like this is Cluedo and we’re trying to uncover a killer.
‘No. Norah, please.’
I could breathe life back into the dead with the amount of adrenaline running through me. ‘Is that what this is about? You said you didn’t miss kissing, but you do, don’t you?’ It doesn’t matter what he says. I can’t hear him for the rush of blood in my head. Besides, the answers have already been decided in my mind.