Page 37 of The Obsession

For the next few moments, there was no sound but the roar of blood in my ears, my heart pounding, pounding, a mad beast. Then, his eyes wide with sincerity, Logan took my hand and squeezed it.

“I’m sorry I had to do that, Dee, but I need you to know I’m serious about this. I’m serious about us.”

All I could do was gape at him. Everything had blurred into fuzz behind him—the shoppers streaming in and out, the cars driving past, the sounds and the smells, it all felt unreal. Logan was the only thing that was clear-edged and sharp, and though he spoke quietly, his words were so solid that they were almost physical.

“I want you to give us a chance. A real chance,” he continued. “Come on, Dee, we deserve this, you know? We’re going to be so, so good, I swear.”

Every cell in my body writhed with revulsion. He was delusional, completely and utterly. I wanted to spit in his face and tell him to go to hell. But I couldn’t do it to Mom, it would destroy her.

Patience.

Pa was always telling me to be patient, to work my way out of problems slowly, patiently.

I saw myself at NUS, walking across campus in the sticky tropical heat, surrounded by students speaking Singlish. A place where no one knew who I was, the bodies I’d left behind, the secrets I’d buried. There was hope. I had to suck it up and pretend to be Logan’s girlfriend for the rest of high school. That wasn’t so bad. I was planning on applying to NUS, anyway. That meant I’d only have to keep up this charade for another year or so, and then I’d be out of here. It was a familiar goal, one I’d kept turning to whenever Brandon’s fists found their way onto my body. It felt like returning to an old friend. College, where I would finally be free.

I closed my eyes and said, “All right. Fine.”

I could do this. I could be patient for a year in exchange for a lifetime of freedom.

Chapter Twelve

Logan

Joy has a particular flavor to it—liquid gold, like honey champagne. It bubbled through my veins when Delilah finally saw sense in what I was proposing and agreed to give us a go. I wanted to pull her close and kiss her, but no, I’d already promised I wouldn’t make her do anything she didn’t want to do, and I was a man of my word.

“This calls for a celebration,” I said.

“No parties,” Delilah said, rather snappishly, I thought, but I let it slide.

“I wasn’t going to suggest a party.” She wasn’t ready to go to parties with me, which was fine. Parties were so impersonal. “I’m going to cook for you and your mom.”

She goggled at me. “Why?”

“Would you rather we go to Freddy’s instead?”

Freddy’s was the local diner. It used to be your typical diner—metal and faux leather booths, greasy burgers and soggy fries, ’50s music. But it was recently bought by some wealthy hipster and now it was all gentrified. The booths were ripped out and switched to boxy wooden chairs, the walls were bare brick, the menu was written on a giant chalkboard behind the bar, and the drinks came in mason jars. The place became an overnight sensation. Every other Draycott kid had been in there and taken a selfie under the naked light bulbs and hashtagged the pictures with #freddysdraycott. We were bound to run into people we knew.

Delilah gave me a death glare. “No, I would not.” She took a deep breath and unclenched her fists. “Fine, you can cook for me and my mom. But you are leaving right after dinner. I have a ton of homework.”

“Deal,” I said and held out my hand for her.

She glared at it like it was a poisonous snake waiting to strike. I cocked my head to one side and raised an eyebrow. She shuddered as she put her hand on top of mine, which made me laugh again. Who would have known Delilah would have such a taste for theatrics? Honestly, I would probably be slightly disappointed if she wasn’t fighting me so hard. I loved scrappy, feisty Delilah.

“You know, if you supposedly care for me, you shouldn’t enjoy my suffering,” she said as we walked inside the store.

“I’m not. I’m just laughing at how stubborn you are.”

Delilah snatched her hand out of mine and grabbed a basket before I could comment. “Sorry, can’t hold hands because basket,” she said, waving it around with both hands.

“I’ll carry that.” I caught one of the handles and held tight when she predictably tried to yank it back.

“Fine.” She reached for another basket, but I stopped her.

“We only need one.”

We stood there glaring at each other, neither one of us willing to let go of the basket, until someone cleared his throat. It was an elderly man.

“You kids mind getting out of the way?” he asked.

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