I ignore his deflection. “Why didn’t you tell me you went to school here?”
He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “At first it was just a reflex. I didn’t know how to handle the fact that you were going to cross more than one of my paths, so I kept it to myself.”
“I get that, Wes, I do.” The Archive teaches us to break our lives into pieces and to keep those pieces secret, separate. “But what about later?” I ask, the words barely a whisper. “Is it because of what happened in the garden?”
“No,” he says firmly. “It doesn’t have anything to do with that.”
“Then why?” I snap. “You spent the last few weeks reading me books you already knew because you read them here last year. You watched me stress out about this place, and you never spoke up.”
His mouth twitches playfully. “Would you believe me if I said I just wanted to surprise you?”
I give him a long, hard look. “Well, you succeeded. But I have a hard time believing you lied to me for weeks just to see the look on my face—”
“I didn’t lie,” he says shortly. “You never asked me where I went.”
The words hit like a dull punch. I didn’t ask that specific question, he’s right. But only because Wesley never wants to talk about his life. It’s not that I don’t want to be a part of his; I’ve just grown used to him being a part of mine.
“I told myself,” continues Wes, “that if you asked, I’d tell you. But you didn’t. You made an assumption, and I didn’t correct you.”
“Why not?”
He pulls his hand from his pocket and runs it through his hair. It’s so strange to see it move through his fingers—soft, black, ungelled. I want to touch it myself, but I stifle the urge.
“I don’t know,” he continues. “Maybe I thought if you knew I went here, you’d think differently of me.”
“But why would I judge you for going here?” I ask, gesturing down to my uniform. “I go here, too.”
“Yeah, but you hate it,” he snaps, coming to a stop. “You don’t even know this place and you hate it. You’ve spent weeks dreading it, mocking it.…” I cringe, regretting the time I decided to don a posh accent and do a dramatic reading of a few key passages from the handbook. “But I grew up here. I didn’t choose it, and I can’t help it, but I did. And I was afraid you’d judge me if you knew.” He laughs nervously, his eyes focused on the path instead. “Big surprise, Mac, I care what you think of me.”
I feel the heat spreading across my face as he adds, “But I’m sorry. I knew you were stressed about Hyde, and I could have made it better and I didn’t. I should have told you.”
And he should have. But I think of all the times I kept things from Wes in the beginning, either out of habit or fear, and how it took him nearly dying and the Archive stealing his memories for me to finally tell him the truth. I feel my anger diminishing.
“So you have a preppy schoolboy alter ego,” I say. “Anything else you want to tell me?”
The relief that sweeps across his face is obvious—relief that we’re okay—but he doesn’t miss a beat. “I really hate eggplant.”
“Seriously?” I ask.
“Seriously,” he replies, bouncing a little on his toes. “But I also hate explaining that it’s because of the name and the fact that I grew up thinking it was a plant made of eggs, so instead I just tell people I’m allergic.”
I laugh, and his smile broadens—and just like that, my Wesley is back. Doling out jokes and crooked grins, eyes glittering even without the makeup.
We start off again down the path.
“I’m happy you’re here,” I say under my breath, but he doesn’t seem to hear me. I raise my voice, but instead of repeating myself, I simply ask, “Where are we going?”
He glances back and quirks a brow. “Isn’t it obvious?” he asks. “I’m leading you astray.”
FIVE
A DOZEN STRIDES LATER, the tree-lined path dead-ends at a stone courtyard. It’s raised a few steps off the ground, each of its four corners marked by a pillar. Three students are lounging on the platform, and in the very center of it stands a statue of a man in a hooded cloak.
“It’s the only human sculpture on campus,” explains Wesley, “so it’s probably meant to be Saint Francis, the patron saint of animals. But everyone calls him the Alchemist.”
I can see why. Standing in his shrouds, the statue looks more like a druid than a priest. His elbows are tucked in and his palms are turned up, his head bowed as if focusing on a spell. The mystique is only slightly diminished by the fact that his stone hands are currently holding aloft a pizza box.
“This,” says Wes, gesturing to the platform, “is the Court.”
The students look up at the sound of Wesley’s voice. One of them I’ve already met. Cash is sitting with his legs stretched out on the stairs.
“Mackenzie Bishop,” he calls as we make our way up to the platform. “I will never again make the mistake of calling you a damsel.”
Wesley frowns a little. “You two have met?”
“I tried to save her,” says Cash. “Turned out she didn’t need my help.”
Wesley glances my way and winks. “I think Mac can take care of herself.”
Cash’s smile is surprisingly tight. “You seem awfully friendly toward a girl who just kicked your ass. I take it you know each other?”
“We met over the summer,” Wes answers, climbing the steps. “While you and Saf were off boating in—where was it, Spain? Portugal? I can never keep the Graham family excursions straight.”
It’s brilliant, watching Wesley work other people, twisting the conversation back toward them. Away from himself.
“Don’t be bitter,” says Cash. “You know you’ve got an open invitation.”
Wesley makes a noncommittal sound. “I don’t like boats,” he says, retrieving a slice of pizza from the statue’s outstretched arms, nodding for me to join him.
“The Saint-Marie,” says Cash with a flourish, “isn’t just a boat.”
“So sorry,” says Wes, mimicking the flourish. “I don’t like yachts.”
I can’t tell if they’re joking.
“I see you’ve already begun defacing our poor Alchemist again,” adds Wes, waving the pizza slice at the statue.
“Just be glad Safia hasn’t played dress-up with him,” says a girl’s voice, and my attention shifts to a pair of students sitting on the platform steps: a junior boy sitting cross-legged, and a redheaded senior with her head in his lap.
“Very true,” says Cash as the girl shifts up onto one elbow and looks at me.
“You’ve brought a stray,” she says, but there’s no malice in her voice, and her smile quirks in a teasing way.
“She’s not a stray, Amber,” says the boy she’s been using as a pillow. “She’s a junior.”
He looks up at me then, and my stomach drops. There’s a silver stripe across his uniform, but he looks like he can’t be more than fifteen. He’s small and slim, dark hair curling across his forehead, and between the pair of black-framed glasses perched on his nose and the notes scribbled on the backs of his hands, he looks so much like my brother that it hurts. If Ben had lived—if he had been given five more birthdays—he might have looked just like this.
He looks away and I blink, and the resemblance thins to nearly nothing. Still, it leaves me shaken as I head up the steps and join Wesley by the statue. He grabs a soda from the Alchemist’s feet and gestures toward the other students.
“So you’ve met Cassius,” he says.
“Dear god, please don’t call me that,” says Cash.
“That’s Gavin with the glasses,” continues Wes, “and Amber is in his lap.”