Lia flounced back into the house. I thought of the scars Michael would have once he’d healed, thought of the kiss, the fact that he’d almost died for me—and then I thought of Dean.
Dean, who hadn’t forgiven himself for not being able to pull the trigger.
Dean, whose father was as much of a monster as my aunt.
Weeks ago, Lia had told me that every person in this house was fundamentally screwed up to the depths of our dark and shadowy souls. We all had our crosses to bear. We saw things that other people didn’t—things that people our age should never have to see.
Dean would never just be a boy. He’d always be the serial killer’s son. Michael would always be the person who’d put a round of bullets in my aunt. And part of me would never leave my mother’s blood-soaked dressing room, just like another part would always be at the safe house, with Lacey and her knife.
We would never be like other people.
“I don’t know what the back door did to you,” an amused voice told me, “but I’m sure it’s really, truly sorry.”
Michael was supposed to be using a wheelchair, but he was already trying to maneuver on crutches—an impossible feat, considering a bullet had also been lodged in his shoulder.
“I’m not glaring at the back door,” I said.
Michael raised one eyebrow, higher and higher until I caved.
“Fine,” I said. “I might have been glaring at the back door. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Like you didn’t want to talk about that kiss?” Michael’s voice was light, but this was the first time either of us had brought up that moment in my bedroom.
“Michael—”
“Don’t.” He stopped me. “If I hadn’t been so jealous of Dean, I wouldn’t have bought your little story for a second. Even as it was, I didn’t buy it for much longer than that.”
“You came after me,” I said.
“I’ll always come after you,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that made the words seem like more of a joke than a promise.
Something told me it was both.
“But you and Redding have something. I don’t know what it is. I don’t blame you for it.” On crutches, he couldn’t lean toward me. He couldn’t reach out and brush the hair out of my face. But something about the curve of his lips was more intimate than any touch. “A lot has happened. You have a lot to figure out. I can be a patient man, Colorado. A devastatingly handsome, roguishly scarred, heartbreakingly courageous, patient man.”
I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t bite back a smile.
“So take whatever time you need. Figure out how you feel. Figure out if Dean makes you feel the way I do, if he’ll ever let you in, and if you want him to, because the next time my lips touch yours, the next time your hands are buried in my hair—the only person you’re going to be thinking about is me.”
I stood there, looking at Michael and wondering how it was possible that I could instinctively understand other people—their personalities, their beliefs, their desires—but that when it came to what I wanted, I was just like anyone else, muddled and confused and stumbling through.
I didn’t know what it meant that my aunt had been a killer, or how I felt about the fact that she was dead.
I didn’t know who had killed my mother, or what losing her and never getting any closure had done to me. I didn’t know if I was capable of really letting someone else in. I didn’t know if I could fall in love.
I didn’t know what I wanted or who I wanted to be with.
But standing there, looking at Michael, the one thing I did know, the way I always knew things about other people, was that sooner or later, as a part of this program—a part of this team—I was going to find out.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jennifer Lynn Barnes is the author of a dozen novels for young adults. She has advanced degrees in psychology, psychiatry, and cognitive science and recently completed her Ph.D. at Yale University.
She is now a professor of psychology.
You can find her online at www.jenniferlynnbarnes.com and www.jenniferlynnbarnes.tumblr.com