Page 87 of Mate
“What if Earth was modeled after a giant parsley leaf? What if Humans pissed moondust? What if— ”
His fingers trap my chin. Tilt my head back, hitching my breath. Once again, I have no choice but to meet his eyes. “What then, Serena?”
I can’t bring myself to say,I think we both know, but he hears it anyway, because his nod is there, barely perceptible. This time, when the pressure swells behind my eyes, I let the tears flow. I feel them splash down on my collarbones. Dampen the tips of my hair.
“Anything that’s going to happen to you,” he promises, voice honest and pitched low in the swish of the breeze, “is going to be over my dead body.”
I laugh softly, because . . . what else can I do? I follow him with my eyes as he opens the passenger door for me. Since this is an opportunity, one of few I have left, instead of sliding inside Iwrap my arms around his torso, fisting the flannel at his hip. My face presses into his side. I inhale the scent of him, wondering if anything else this good has ever existed, and ask, “Can I say something really, really selfish?”
I feel his assent. I think he might want to know everything that’s in my head. I think he could shake every thought I’ve ever had out of my skull, rummage through them for years, and still not be bored.
I think that in a parsley-shaped world, he and I would have had some fun.
“If today was my last day, I’d be happy to have spent it with you.”
Koen cups the back of my head. I lean into the soft press of his lips against my brow. He says nothing, barely breathes, but his hands don’t let go of me for a long, long time.
CHAPTER 22
He easily resigned himself to a lifetime without her, but . . .
Simply put, he is unwilling to contemplate a universe in which she no longer exists.
THAT NIGHT KOEN HAS A PACK MEETING AT THE CABIN.
I get out of the shower, quickly put on leggings and one of his shirts (which I sniff for over a minute, with inappropriate enthusiasm). I’m about to move to the living room andnotmind my own business, when my phone lights up with a call. From someone who usually prefers a string of twelve multi-paragraph texts over a one-minute chat.
“What’s up, Bleetch?” I ask, terrified that Koen might have gone behind my back and told Misery about my situation.
I will stab him, I vow.I will chop him into pieces and sell him at a wet market. For pennies.
“Not much.” A beat. “First question: Are you alone?”
“You mean, existentially, or . . .”
“Is there someone around you?”
“No. Why?”
“Second question: Are you in the right headspace to receive information that could possibly hurt you?”
My heart drops. “Misery, if— ”
“No, I’m serious. I talked to Lowe about the Northwest, and it’sbad.”
“How bad?”
“Badbad. Like . . .Our lives, bad.”
“Whoa.”
“Yeah. I feel way less special, knowing that there’s all this trauma waffling about.”
I sit on the edge of the mattress. “Is this about the cult I might be related to?”
“Koen told you about it?” She sounds surprised. “Lowe said he probably wouldn’t.”
“Some of it. Yesterday something weird happened.” Understatement of the week. Prepare the wall plaque. “A guy came at me and started yelling thesaurus prophecies.”
