“You could start a fire with the heat between you two.”
“You’re mistaking bitter animosity for heartfelt affection.”
Shoes: gray chucks
Pants: chacoal tweed.
Shirt: slim cut, untucked, thing and pinstriped dress shirt. Super skinny tie, knotted loose around his open collar, exposing the shadow of a screen-printed t-shirt beneath it.
Days unshaven: somewhere between three and five
Half-smile: treacherous.
Eyes: blue and infinite.
Hair: a beautiful, beautiful mess.
My eyes swept the room, and finally landed on the bedside table, on the roses. They were fresh, unwilted. I wondered when Rachel brought them.
“Did she visit?”
My mother’s face darkened. “Who?”
“Rachel.”
My father made a strange noise and even my mother, my practiced, perfect mother, looked uncomfortable.
“No,” my mother said. “Those are from her parents.”
Something about the way she said it made me shiver. “So she didn’t visit.” I said softly.
“No.”
I was cold, so cold, but I started to sweat. “Did she call?”
“No, Mara.”
Her answer made me want to scream. I held out my arm instead. “Give me your phone. I want to call her.”
My mother tried to smile and failed miserably. “Let’s talk about this later, okay? You need to rest.”
“I want to call her now.” My voice was close to cracking. I was close to cracking.
My father could tell. “She was with you, Mara. Claire and Jude, too.”
The Evolution of Mara Dyer, by the one and only Michelle Hodkin.
“He will die before his time with you by his side, unless you let him go. Fate or chance? Coincidence or destiny? I cannot say.”
My name is not Mara Dyer, but my lawyer told me I had to choose something. A pseudonym. A nom de plume.
