Lizzie calls me twice over the next couple of hours, leaving messages I’m too petty to listen to. I cannot believe she’s friends with Kellan’s girlfriend. I cannot believe she hangs out with Kellan and his awful, gorgeous girlfriend. I’m angry with Graham, too, even though I know he’s more clueless than Lizzie.

  Caleb tries to remind me that, for all Lizzie knows, I am only Connected to Jonah, that to everyone I am nothing to Kellan save a friend and his future sister-in-law. But this explanation isn’t enough for me to pick up the phone.

  I smash and rebuild a vase my mother gifted me (when I was nine, an age where vases are inappropriate and unwanted as gifts) repeatedly, each time harder than the last. I keep hoping that the smashing will take the misery away, but it doesn’t.

  I have never felt so alone in my life.

  My parents don’t want me.

  Jonah is far away.

  And Kellan . . . Kellan has a girlfriend.

  I struggle to breathe. I choke and gasp, and Caleb threatens to come to Annar immediately. A full-blown panic attack takes hold and I curl in a ball on the ground, wanting to breathe, wanting to stop crying, wanting to do anything at all but wallow in this misery.

  How can anyone want a Connection? How can anyone ever want this? It’s a curse. A fucking curse. What a joke. Fate is a sick, sick bastard.

  But I focus long enough to tell Caleb to stay put, because even though he’s in my head, I don’t want anyone seeing me like this. Even him.

  He frets silently, sending me thoughts of love. While they’re appreciated, they’re nothing compared to the fact that someone I love, someone I’m Connected to, is with someone other than me.

  And it’s ridiculous. I’m aware of this. I chose Jonah, and when that choice was made, it meant I had to let Kellan go. He’s free to do whatever he wants, with whomever, Sophie included. But knowing he’s got the choice and seeing it in action are two different beasts entirely.

  When the attack passes and I can breathe a little better, I take a handful of ibuprofen to quell the lingering headache. Then I try to call Jonah. It sounds silly, but just hearing his voice will make me feel better. But there is no answer, even though I call three straight times in a row. I leave a message on the third try: I miss you.

  Cora is a no go, too. I’m desperate enough to call Callie, only to get her voicemail. I don’t leave either girl a message. I crawl into some cashmere jammies my mom gave me for this last birthday, ones that shocked me because I actually liked them, and end up on the couch finally bawling as I watch one of the worst movies on TV that I could possibly be watching. It’s about star-crossed lovers, who met as young orphans, who never manage to get together, no matter what. Caleb frets some more, threatens to come out again, but I keep telling him no.

  I’m here for you, he promises fiercely. I will never leave you.

  And I cry at that, too, because it does make me feel better.

  The movie is almost over, and I’ve probably got fifteen tissues on the table from crying so much. The girl is dying, and her love, married now for several years to someone else, risks everything to be by her side in the end.

  I throw a crumpled soggy tissue at them. Stupid people! Why do they think star-crossed is a good thing? MORONS.

  There’s a knock on the door, and I figure it’s finally Cora, because it’s late and Raul’s out on a mission, too, so she’s most likely bored and curious as to why I’ve called so much tonight. And since she’s a sucker for these sorts of movies, too, I figure I have the perfect excuse for why I look like a wreck.

  Only, when I open the door, I see it’s not Cora, it’s Kellan. I’m horrified he’s caught me like this, even though he took front row at another of my meltdowns last year. I can’t deal with him feeling all this in me, so I throw an all-encompassing shield up.

  “Are you okay?”

  I point behind me. “This movie, it’s . . . sad, because . . . someone’s dying.” He should accept this, because he’s watched enough movies with me to know tears are not uncommon.

  I get a look at him now, a good look. Kellan doesn’t look like his normal self, either. His hair is disheveled, and he’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt with shorts and doesn’t look remotely like he is going to a party. Or come from one. Or been anywhere near one.

  “Do you want to come in?” I ask, and when he nods, I step aside so he can do so. We go into my living room and I shut off the TV, just as the guy is weeping over his dead lover’s body. I motion to the set and say, “Death, uh . . . you know, sadness and all.”

  I’m a rambling idiot and am well aware of it.

  I make an attempt to collect the crumpled tissues to throw away while Kellan sits down in the chair opposite the couch. “So,” I ask, trying to sound cheery, “Why are you here?” And then, realizing that’s rude, I clarify, “I thought you were going out tonight. Where’s your girlfriend?”

  He closes his eyes and rubs at a spot in-between his eyes. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “But, she said—”

  He opens his eyes, surprised. “Said?”

  “We uh . . . talked, or rather . . . she talked . . . when you answered your phone.”

  He leans forward, arms against his legs, eyes once more closed, and whispers what sounds like, “Fucking kill me now.” I am a statue until he says, “What did she tell you?”

  I drag my knees up and hug them to my chest. “Just that you two are dating, and serious, and that she’s . . .” Planning on being my sister. I have to take a breath before saying, “In love with you, that she’s never felt this way before.” And that she thinks she’ll be my sister.

  He’s the statue now. “I thought you were going out tonight,” I repeat stupidly, when the silence turns painful.

  “No,” he says quietly. “I got called into work earlier.”

  I look at the clock—it’s only ten o’clock, the night still young. “You could probably still go to the party and meet up with . . . Sophie.” I try not to choke on her name. “I bet it would be a nice surprise for her.”

  “I don’t think so, C,” he says, finally looking back at me. He tugs on an earlobe. “I talked to Jonah a little while ago. He wanted me to tell you that he was sorry he couldn’t call tonight—the situation’s more complicated than he thought it’d be. He’s thinking of you, though.”

  I nearly cut off the circulation in my knees, my grip is so tight. “Oh. Thanks.”

  “He also told me what went down with your parents.”

  I look off to the side and shrug. I don’t know if I can talk about that, even with Kellan.

  “I can’t tell what you’re feeling, C. There’s no . . .” He sighs, frustrated. “Why am I not able to tell what you’re feeling?”

  I shrug again.

  I feel his eyes bore into me, and I know I ought to open myself up to him, but I can’t let him sense all of the nasty jealousy in me. He deals with enough crap from me. He does not need this.

  “He’s worried about you.”

  “I’m fine,” I insist. Not because it’s true, but because I hope it will be soon.

  He chooses his next words carefully. “That stuff Sophie told you . . . well, it’s only her opinion. She doesn’t speak for me.”

  Uh, okay?

  “Do you want to watch a movie?” He stands up. “Let’s watch a movie. Something that’s not sad.” And then he disappears into his brother’s apartment for several minutes.

  When he comes back, he has a comedy, one that’s both his and Jonah’s favorite. We watch the movie in silence, and even though it’s ridiculously funny, neither of us laughs much.

  The truth is, I’m barely paying attention to the movie because I’m so focused on the person sitting across from me. He’s lounging in the chair, legs spread out in front of him, but it’s not done in relaxation. Actually, he’s stiff, the knuckles of one hand stretched tight across the chair arm. And he keeps pulling at his hair, so much so I worry he might rip it out.

  What did he mean when he said all the things that Sophie had told me were only her opinion?

  Don’t go there, Caleb warns.

  I know exactly why not, but I still ask the question.

  You two have spent months building a legitimate way to be in each other’s lives.

  He’s mine, I tell Caleb, and it’s done in a way that’s fierce and bittersweet at the same time. The pain over this is so overwhelming that I nearly drown in it. I don’t understand why Fate did this to me, how it could link me to two people and then make it so I would have all these feelings and wantings but never the ability to do anything about them.

  But you two have, Caleb reasons. In high school, and then in the cave.

  I finally admit, to him, and to me, it’s simply not enough.

  Caleb is shocked into silence.

  I spend the next half an hour remembering a lot of things about Kellan. Things that I shouldn’t let myself remember, things that, if we are truly just friends, should no longer bear importance in my heart.

  I think about how it felt to have his hand in mine, and how he’d unconsciously rub his thumb up and down my skin in an intimate way. I think about how his hair would tickle me when he’d press down on me, and we’d kiss so much that I’d be delirious. I think about how, when I was falling apart, he risked his own heart to make sure I was okay.

  Caleb orders me to stop thinking about these things, but I can’t, because this person, this man who has inspired so much in me since the moment we met, is sitting across from me. An ache pounds through my body, one that I shouldn’t let myself feel.

  Jonah trusts you, Caleb throws out. He trusts you two to be around each other. Don’t do this, Chloe.

  I abruptly stand up. “Do you want a drink? Water? Tea? Hot chocolate?”

  But I do not wait for his answer before fleeing.

  I am pouring honey into my tea when Kellan appears in the kitchen. “Why can’t I sense your feelings?”

  I freeze momentarily while stirring the honey. “I don’t know—”

  “Yes you do,” he says quietly. “Why can’t I feel you?”

  I grip the cup in an effort to hide my shaking hands. He takes a step closer to me and I must be suicidal, or flat-out tired, because I murmur, “I learned how to block my emotions from . . .” I’m about to say him, and Jonah, too, but I chicken out. “People.”

  “From people.”

  “Yeah,” I say softly, staring at my tea.

  “And by people, you mean—”

  “People,” I finish for him. And then I nod.

  “Does Jonah know about this?”

  I shake my head. Sip my tea.

  “Don’t . . . please don’t think you have to do that around me.” He’s so close now that we’re practically touching. “I hate not being able to gauge how you are.”

  “It’s better this way,” I whisper, but he shakes his head no.

  “Please,” he murmurs. “Just let me in.”

  I focus on his hand resting against the counter, and of all the lovely things that hand is capable of doing to me. And then, despite Caleb telling me not to, I slowly drop the shield around me.

  I’m left vulnerable and open and ashamed that he can now sense everything in me that shouldn’t be there.

  We stand in the kitchen in silence for a few minutes, me sipping my tea, him staring at the counter next to us. “So,” I say, because I can’t stand it anymore, “Sophie, huh?”

  He sighs heavily. “It’s not like you think.”

  “You looked happy.” I’m chewing on glass. “When I first saw you two at the restaurant. Before you saw me.”

  It’s not an accusation.

  He grapples for something to say, but is unable to actually string a series of cohesive words together. “I’m . . . it’s like this, I mean . . . she’s . . .” He pulls at his hair again. “I never actually thought you’d ever meet Sophie.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s . . .” He leans back against the counter, and his hands move up and down, from the tile to his hair to his legs, like they don’t know where they ought to be. “She’s nobody.”

  I don’t think anyone who’d ever seen, let alone met Sophie, could ever claim that. “She’s somebody that obviously makes you happy.”

  He stares over my shoulder, at the fridge. “Do you know why I’m not at that party tonight?”

  “Because of work?”

  Kellan presses his palms against his forehead, as if he’s trying to push out a headache. “Today wasn’t supposed to happen.” It’s obvious he’s exhausted. “Sophie is . . .” His hands drop and he looks at me, really looks at me. “I didn’t expect to have to talk to you about this, but I guess, in light of what’s happened . . .” He takes the cup out of my hand and sets it on the counter. “Seeing other girls—that’s always been a distraction to help me deal with all of this shit. It’s ridiculously superficial, and that’s the way I prefer it.”

  “But,” I begin, and he shakes his head, not finished. His fingers brush up against mine on the counter, so soft, but enough to generate enough electricity to power the entire building. “What you’re feeling, all of this mess of jealousy and anger and pain and sadness . . .”

  I close my eyes, shamed that he knows it all.

  “All of this,” he continues, his fingers now overlapping mine, “is what I feel every single time I see you with my brother.”

  I slam, headfirst, into a well-deserved wall of guilt.

  “Sometimes,” he adds, “it’s hard to even breathe.”

  I stare up at him.

  “Sophie is the latest distraction. She’s nice, funny, sexy, intelligent—I mean, she’s pretty much everything anyone would want when they’re looking for a girlfriend. And yeah, I’ve been seeing her for awhile, because . . . because she’s been a pretty good distraction.” He laughs bitterly. “That makes me sound like such an asshole, doesn’t it?”

  I didn’t think I could dislike Sophie Greenfield more, but I do now. Even still, I say, as sincerely as I can, “That’s good. I mean, if she’s all those things to you—”

  “You told me tonight that she’s in love with me.” He sighs. “And I can’t . . . I guess my selfishness can only go so far.”

  My throat is dry and sticky at the same time. “What do you mean?”

  “It isn’t fair to let Sophie feel that way. I honestly believed until today that she was on the same page as me.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I was very clear with her from the beginning. I don’t want anything more from her than superficiality.”

  I patently ignore what superficiality is a placeholder for. “If she’s all those things to you, and she says she’s never been happier with someone than she feels with you, then why—”

  “You know why it’s not fair, C. I can never, ever remotely feel even the tiniest bit of that towards her.”

  The terrible impulse to both cry and celebrate rings throughout me. “She loves you,” I say, trying my best to be selfless.

  “I don’t care,” he says quietly.

  “You were happy with her. I saw it.”

  “No,” he says. “It was an act, and you know it.”

  I swallow hard. “I shouldn’t have come over. If I were smart, I would’ve walked away instead of sitting down, and you’d be at the party with her right now, having fun.”

  “But you did sit down.”

  “I’m sorry, it was . . .” I clear my throat. “I wasn’t thinking.” Which is always my problem when it comes to Kellan.

  Even though just our fingers are touching, and really, just a few, I can feel him everywhere in me when he asks, “Why did you?”

  I whisper, “Honestly?”

  He nods, and Caleb yells at me to stop talking immediately, but it feels right all of a sudden to share all this with Kellan after he’s shared so much with me tonight. “Because . . . I was jealous, and —I mean, I knew you dated. I thought I was okay with it. I guess I was, pre-her. And then she told me she lo—how she felt, that you’ve been dating for awhile. I’d always been told that you never stick with anyone, so I just . . .”

  His fingers slide between mine and we drift even closer, which seems impossible. He lifts our joined hands up and very, very gently kisses my fingers. A buzz takes over my trembling body.

  “I know,” I continue, my voice cracking, “that I really have no place to say these things—”

  “Yes you do,” he says softly.

  “I . . . I. . .” Hate that you were with her, I want to say, but Caleb’s warning me if I do, I’ll be crossing a line I might not be able to come back from. So I switch to, “If . . . if she makes you happy . . .”

  He shakes his head.

  But I keep going. “If you . . .” I try not to gag. “Enjoy dating her, then—”

  He leans down and murmurs in my ear, “Is it wrong of me to feel so pleased with your jealousy?”

  Yes. No. “I do want you happy.”

  “I know,” he says. “I want you to be happy, too.”

  “I think I need to go back into my little bubble where I don’t know that you connect to other women—”

  He chuckles quietly. “You’re not listening to me. I haven’t connected with her. I’m only Connected to you.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “She’s nobody to me. It sounds horrible to say it like that, but it’s the truth. And . . . you don’t have to worry. I won’t be seeing her again.”

  “If you like her,” I say, trying for the selfless thing once more, even though it goes against everything in me, “you should—”

  He squeezes my hand. “I’m probably the biggest masochist in all the worlds to admit this, but this,”—his free hand traces a line between us—“whatever it is we have, are to each other, is . . .” He takes a deep breath, exhales a rueful laugh. “I will always take it over anything else with anyone else.”

  I don’t know if I’m even breathing anymore.

  He lets go of my hand; the heels of his palms press against his eyes for a long moment. When his hands lower, there’s a vulnerability in his eyes I haven’t seen in a long time, not since the cave. “Gods, I’m such an asshole to even contemplate telling you this. But here’s the truth—you are my everything, Chloe. Sophie is . . . irrelevant. So are any of the other girls I know. There’s only you. You’re the only one I’ll ever see. The only one I’ll ever want.”

 

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