Page 76 of Torn

“Not yet,” she quips, pushing the anthology into the shelf and whirling toward him, her arms twining around his neck. “I caught you first.”

Their foreheads press. Their mouths fold into a gentle kiss.

Andrew’s arms encircle the crescent of her waist as he whispers something against her mouth, something that makes her chuckle.

Anger’s breath stalls. An overhead light spills onto him, rinsing him of this daze.

What has he done? Why has he done this?

Love. No, Lily. Her name is Lily now.

Lily and Andrew strap their arms around each other while they peruse the shelves, then he shakes her tenderly. “I have something to show you.”

“You always do,” she says.

Hand-in-hand, she abandons the aisle with him. But just before they leave, she pauses. Glancing over her shoulder, her blind eyes search the empty space, questing for that brief sensation, that silent voice. Then she offers a slight grin of farewell.

Anger processes the spot where she’d been standing. He considers tailing them, because he can still surrender. He still has a chance to answer her: Who is he?

Who is he to her? Who is she to him?

He can tell her more, if that’s what he wants, if he’s a moron. This is his selfish, suicidal opportunity.

Have we met before?

Malice’s question to Wonder. It’s the sort of inquiry that Love would echo if she could fully see Anger. Have they met? Do they know each other?

It has been a curse for him, a blessing for her. But which is more important?

Merry would know the answer.

Merry…Merry…Merry.

The rafters dispatch an excess of light. Suddenly, the library’s glow has a neon tinge to it, like a bad omen. He inhales vanilla sweetness and suffers a hyperawareness, a presence wrought of anguish and disillusion.

More than any storm, this combination petrifies him. And just then, he knows.

He vaults around, spotting Malice watching him, Wonder watching him.

Merry watching him.

She’s wearing a fluffy dress painted in a watercolor of roses and lavenders, with her zany sneakers crushing the floor, her skateboard beside her feet. Her sparkler eyes rivet on him, her lips part, and her chin hangs loose. Her face constricts, and it doesn’t take scent or sound or texture to glean what she’s going through. Because he knows what it feels like.

She’s been here for a while.

She saw him with Love. She heard him with Love.

A look tightens her face, one that he’s never encountered before. It’s the jumbled look of betrayal. Worse, of disenchantment.

Panicked, he strides toward her. “Merry—”

His bow slams against his chest. Strangled in her fist, the weapon’s impact forces him to scuttle backward.

Merry glares at him. “You dropped this.”

And then she jumps onto the skateboard and flees. He stands there, caught between one action and another, one choice and another.

Go after Love? Or go after Merry?

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