start to grin like a sappy idiot.
Benson likes me.
Me!
He always did.
It’s a tiny spark of goodness in a world that has become so confusing lately that I feel like I’ve forgotten what to do with good news.
But, of course, my eyes choose that moment to catch sight of the ChapStick on the floor. “Benson!” I gasp, my hands tightening and probably hurting his fingers. “They’re gone!”
There’s only one lonely tube of ChapStick lying innocently on the carpet.
My face turns back to Benson and I resist the urge to grab the front of his shirt and shake him. “You saw them, right? I’m not imagining this. There were six, right?” My voice is getting high and loud and Benson rubs his hands up and down my arms as he shushes me.
“Yes, I saw them. They were there.” His eyes are wide again, his jaw set as he and I both stare at the carpet where the tubes all landed, as if they’ll suddenly appear again.
Our heads jerk up as Marie’s voice fills the library via the PA system. “The library will be closing in five minutes. Please bring your books to the front for checkout. The library will be closing in five minutes.”
“I have to go. I told Reese I’d be right back.”
Benson’s jaw is clenched so tightly I want to run my finger along it, make him relax. But after a second he says, “We need to talk about this. Tomorrow.”
“You work tomorrow afternoon. Should we just meet—”
“Not here,” Benson says firmly. “Maybe my place?”
My place—a pleasant ripple travels down my spine at the thought. But when Benson leans down to pick up the remaining ChapStick, I’m completely sober again.
“I’ll call in sick if I have to,” Benson says, running his hands through his hair and looking off into the distance. “I can figure this out,” he says softly. Then he turns and carefully takes my hand. “We can figure this out.”
I nod, feeding off his confidence. Mine is gone.
“Here,” he says, handing me a random book. “Go check this out. That way Marie won’t ask questions.”
“Okay.” I hold the book to my chest and start to walk away, then turn and look at him, desperate to kiss him again.
He leans ever so slightly forward.
But somehow, it’s just not right. Without the passion of the frantic moment, it’s like there’s a barrier we can’t cross. I settle for squeezing his hand before slipping wordlessly around the corner. I force myself not to look back, as if the entire world didn’t just turn upside down behind that row of dusty old books.
It’s only when I’m easing the car out of the library parking lot that I realize I never told Benson about Quinn. That I’ve hardly thought about Quinn since the moment Benson’s lips touched mine.
CHAPTER NINE
“So have you seen him again? Your mysterious, um, guy?”
No pretense, no greeting, no small talk. Elizabeth just jumps right in.
“Briefly,” I reply, and the words are out of my mouth before I remember it was in my aunt and uncle’s yard again. Will she tell Reese and Jay? Will she force me to call the police? She should. At least I think she should. My mind is still a frazzle of delight and confusion about Benson. About Quinn. Little details like when and where don’t seem to register.
“In public?”
I nod instantly, hoping she doesn’t sense the lie, the betrayal.
“So, then,” Elizabeth begins, and she’s speaking slowly, like she’s trying to decide what to say next—giving herself those extra few seconds to make up her mind, “what is it exactly that’s attracting you to him? I mean, I’m assuming I can conclude that you’re attracted,” she says with a shade of a laugh, tapping her pen absently against her notepad.
I force myself to leave Benson behind—to focus on Quinn. Just for a few minutes. “I—I don’t know exactly. He …” I pause, but then the feelings tumble from my lips before I even know what I’m saying. “He makes me feel like a whole new person. I know that doesn’t really make sense, but that’s how it is. He makes me happy that I … exist. At all.” I sound so lame. But even though I recognize that, the emotions pile up further—the ache inside me that I don’t realize is even there until he makes it go away, the way he seems to detach me from the ground, freeing me so I can fly.
I gulp. Where is this all coming from? I’ve only exchanged a handful of words with him and literally just made out with Benson yesterday.
It’s almost like I’m two people—one who can’t stop thinking of Benson … one who can’t stop thinking of Quinn. I’m quiet for a long time—minutes, I think—as Elizabeth looks at me intently, twirling her pen. Am I in love with them both? Or am I just exhibiting symptoms of that “socially inappropriate behavior” my neurologists are always going on about?
“Tavia,” Elizabeth says after a while, setting her legal pad and ballpoint pen on the brown coffee table in front of me, “I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me. From the facts you’ve shared, I feel like I should be concerned for your safety. But you don’t seem to share that concern. Is there something you’d like to tell me about this guy?”
“He’s kind of different,” I say, stalling for time.
“Is he good-looking?” Elizabeth asks with one eyebrow raised and a girlish lilt to her voice. I can’t help but smile, and maybe blush a little, as I think of his silky blond hair, his pale green eyes.
That perfect physique.
Now I’m getting warm.
I describe him to Elizabeth in general terms: tall, blond, kinda tan. But those parts don’t add up to him. He’s more. Infinitely more. My fingers trace the edges of the table, pulling the pen and legal pad closer. “He has this look to his eyes,” I say, and I barely watch my own fingers as they shape the planes of his face—those dramatic angles that are so unique to Quinn.
I’m halfway done with the rough sketch before I realize I’m drawing.
I’m drawing.
My hands begin to tremble so hard I can’t put the pen back on the paper without making wavy lines. I came here thinking about Benson and now I’m drawing Quinn. Drawing, for the first time since the accident, and—
I slam the pen down on the table.
“Tavia.” Elizabeth’s voice is so quiet my ears barely hear her, but my mind latches onto her words like a lifeline, holding tight to stave off the panic that’s threatening to crush me. “It’s okay. It’s just a sketch. A tool to let me know what you saw.”
I
