Girl Lost (5 page)

"Gwendolyn is free to go when she wishes," Peter says stiffly. His gaze flicks between us.

"Is this the guy?" Orchid demands. "The one from Lit?"

I flush, hating that he knows I've mentioned him to my roommate.

Her scowl, if anything, becomes more severe. "Leave her the hell alone."

"I will, if that is what the lady wishes."

That draws Orchid up sharply. I know why--it's so strangely worded. Who the hell talks like that?

"Let's go, Gwen," Orchid says, and I follow her. I can't stay in this too small room any longer. I glance back at Peter before James nudges me out the door. My heart twists.

He looks like a memory, hurt and lonely as I turn away from him.

We don't stay long after that. Rather, I don't. I call a cab and catch a ride back to campus. Orchid and James stayed. She was furious, spitting curses and chasing away every random guy that approached me. It was exhausting to watch, and I could feel Peter's gaze on me as I tried to dance. It didn't make for a relaxing evening, and the crowd was making me anxious, so I didn't even bother to pretend to enjoy it. I made my apologies and cut out.

Why did I agree to meet with him? It's a bad idea. Already, I'm trying to figure out how to get out of the meeting. How I can gracefully decline. Except, if it gets him to back off—even temporarily—isn't it worth the discomfort of one meeting?

In the quiet of my room, I strip out of the corset dress and slip into one of the undershirts I stole from Micah. Then I curl in my bed and listen to the rain that is just beginning to fall and drift into sleep.

I’m at Aunt Jane's home, a huge mausoleum of a thing. It's been a year, today, since they plucked me off the boat in the middle of the ocean, and it's the first time I've been out of that hellhole of an institute—Brecken Ridge is more aptly called Broken Rich by the patients, and I hate it. No one listens there. They medicate—they are damn good at that. But they don't listen, and in the fog of medicine, it's hard to tell what is real. If the Boy is real or just a product of my broken mind. I cling to what I know. The boat is real, my parents are dead. I am alone, all that Micah has.

It feels wrong to miss the island. But I do. And I'm so tired of the pills and the pitying looks and Aunt Jane's sharp voice telling me everything I believe is a lie. I shudder. I don't believe her. I can't believe her.

But it's been three months since I’ve seen him. Since they changed my medicine and the whole world became a fog. I can barely remember anything from those months, but I remember that he was not in them.

Is being drugged out of your mind better than being insane? During times like this, I find myself wishing I had died too, on that godforsaken boat in the middle of nowhere.

I eye the bottle of pills. Aunt Jane doesn't realize I haven't been taking them—I quit the morning I got here and realized she didn't check.

"Pixie girl?"

His voice is softly cautious. I twist to look. The Boy never changes—he is the eternal child, always the same. Always a smiling, mischievous presence in the back of my world.

Except today, his face is creased with worry. It's an odd expression for him, something that registers dimly.

"What are you doing, pixie girl?"

I lean into him. He's warm against me, a stark contrast to the cool tiles I'm crouched on.

"I missed you," I murmur.

He sighs, a brush of the wind. The Boy, in my mind, will always be associated with the elements: his voice like the rains on the water, his sigh a gentle breeze threatening something heavier. His anger is like tidal waves and lightning and flash fires—destructive and mindless.

But this, now, is the gentle warmth of spring, the fresh promise of a new world.

"I always miss you, Gwendy. I'm sorry I've been away."

"Is something wrong on the island?"

He shakes his head. "No. And you needn't worry. I'm here now. And I'll always be here, when you really need me."

"I needed you in Brecken Ridge."

He nods. "I know."

It's unspoken that he was there. Something in me—an instinct that I have ignored in the name of sanity—tells me that he was never far. That he will never be far, so long as I continue to want him.

The Boy won't leave me. Not voluntarily. He wild only go if I order him away. And as bad for me as he is, I can't bring myself to do that.

After class on Wednesday, I linger in my seat as the classroom clears. A few of the guys I recognize from the club wait at the front of the lecture hall, but Peter dismisses them with a jerk of his head and they grudgingly disperse.

And we're left alone, with only my too short breath and pounding heart as a soundtrack for this meeting.

I am here to convince him to leave me alone. That I don't want him in my life.

And he is here to convince me of the opposite. I can see it in the determined gleam of his eyes and the way he leans forward, over the desk. Into my space.

I look at anything but him.

“Come on,” Peter says abruptly, standing. His chair screeches as it scraps across the tile. I look at him blankly, and he nods. “Let’s go. I’m not having this conversation in a deserted lecture hall.”

“This isn’t a chance to get me to go out with you, Peter,” I say, and he jerks a little. “It’s me trying to get you to leave me alone.”

“And you can—in a coffee house or the juice bar. We’re not doing it here.”

I swallow hard, but he’s already standing and hooking his bookbag onto his shoulder. He looks at me expectantly, and I huff a sigh. “Fine. But I’m not staying.”

“You can leave anytime you want, Gwen,” he says.

I flinch at the nickname, but don’t comment or correct him. Instead, I follow him through the dark lecture hall and outside.

I expect him to lead me to Bitter Brick, the largest café on campus. But he doesn’t. Instead, he leads the way to the student center, down into the basement. There is a small food court there, in the center of the bookstore, game room, and media rooms. There are a few study corrals, and off to one side, an art room with jarringly bright lights.

I know it’s a popular place for the rest of the student body, but I couldn’t care less about the student life center. I study in my room, and eat in the caf, and try to avoid people aside from my brother and Orchid. Even James is someone I would have happily ignored, if he hadn’t latched on to Orchid like a drowning squid.

One of the food stalls is a soft serve ice cream shop.

Which is fucking ridiculous. Who the hell puts an ice cream shop on a college campus?

And who the hell takes a girl to get soft serve when he’s trying to talk her into not cutting him out of her life? Peter’s face is relaxed—like I’m not about to sit down and explain all the reasons he needs to leave me alone.

He steps up to the counter and says—before I can argue or give my input—, “I need your triple scoop split, with double the cherries and hold the pineapple—let’s do raspberry instead.”

The girl rings up his order, and he pays her then catches my hand and pulls me to an empty table.

“Why are we getting ice cream?” I ask, staring at him.

He shrugs, a smile teasing the edges of his lips. “Why not?”

I bite down on my lip—that’s not an answer. But it doesn’t matter. I need to explain to him I’m not staying.

“Look,” I say, taking a deep breath.

“Can I go first?” he asks. I hesitate. “You want to tell me all the reasons why we’re an awful idea, and I get that. I understand and respect that you have reservations. But I want you to hear why I think you should be open to being with me.”

“I don’t know you, Peter,” I say softly.

Something in his gaze shifts, and he smiles, a dark expression that makes me shiver. “Don’t you, Gwen?”

I sit back and nod. “Fine. Tell me why I shouldn’t run.”

“I’ve watched you. Not in a creeper sense”—he grins when my eyes widen—“but in a ‘there’s Gwen, and I can’t think of anything else’ sense. I’ll see you, sometimes. In the morning, especially. You row, with some guy.”

“Micah,” I murmur. His eyes widen briefly and then he nods.

“I see you, and I can’t think of anything else. I’ve tried. But you fascinate me. You smile—you see these people around you, and I can see you interact with them, even as you keep yourself separated from them. You are a gorgeous girl, Gwendolyn, and I won’t even bother to deny that some of it stems from that. But you’re different. You try not to show it, but you can’t help it sometimes.”

“I’m awkward, and you’re attracted to that?” I say flatly.

He grins and nods. “I am.”

God. He’s insane.

“I don’t want to marry you, Gwen. I just want to be friends and see where things go.”

“You really don’t need to be nice to me just because you feel bad for the awkward girl.”

The girl at the counter rings a bell and calls Peter’s name. He looks away, his mouth compressing into a thin, annoyed line. I watch him stand and retrieve our ice cream, thanking the girl quietly before he carries the massive sugary concoction to our table.

He drops into the bench across from me and scoots a spoon toward me. Warily, I take it as he takes a bite of ice cream.

Here's the thing about Peter: he has absolutely no regard for societal norms. The constant surveillance during Lit should have clued me in, but the innocent excitement and joy in his eyes as he contemplates the ice cream isn't normal. College frat boys don't get excited over ice cream. They get excited over kegs and wet t-shirt contests.

"Who are you?" I blurt out. Peter's gaze snaps up to mine, startled and wary.

"I'm Peter Agreus. Another freshman in your Lit class. I just want to have a conversation."

I shake my head. "You want more than that."

He shrugs. Takes another bite of ice cream and grins at me, his eyes sparkling with challenge and amusement. "So tell me. Why is us being friends a bad idea?"

I've thought about this. I've planned how to respond—telling him the truth isn't really an option.

"I'm here to learn," I start, "not date."

Across from me, Peter goes very still. He carefully lowers his spoon, and I notice, inanely, that there is still ice cream on it, melting and sliding down the curved metal. "Bullshit," he says softly.

I jerk back in my chair, and he gives me a scathing glare, his green eyes glittering. I inhale sharply—when he is angry, it is hard to remember that Peter isn't the Boy. That he's separate and different.

Which might be why I say what I say next.

"Have you ever known someone you know is bad for you? Someone that even though you might want to get to know them, everything in you says it's a bad idea and that you'll only end up hurt?"

"I'm not going to hurt you," he says.

I shake my head. "You already have, Peter. Just looking at you hurts."

He looks stunned. "Why?"

I hesitate for a moment. This is my fresh start. But Peter is persistent. He won't be put off by half-formed fake excuses.

Which leaves the truth.

"When I was twelve, I was in an accident. For a long time, I didn't know what was real and what wasn't. I spent most of the years since then in a mental institute." A look of horror and anger drifts over his face, and I hurry to add, "It wasn't a bad place. It was comforting, at times. I was happy there."

Something I can't name flickers over his face. "But I worked hard to put my life back together. And part of that is avoiding things that trigger those feelings of being lost."

"How do I do that?"

I swallow hard. "There was a Boy. My doctors say I created him—a defense mechanism when the accident happened. He wasn't real."

My face is hot. I can't quite believe I'm saying this to Peter, of all people. I don't talk about the Boy to anyone. I don't even like talking about him to Micah.

"I'm the boy."

I gasp, startled, my eyes swinging up to find Peter. It sounds, for a moment, like a confession, until I realize he's asking me. I shake my head. "You just look like him. It's eerie how much. And it makes it difficult to remember what is true and what is not."

"So instead of fighting, you'll run away from the possibility."

I stiffen. That feels like an accusation.

"I've fought to be where I am," I snap. "You don't get to sit there and decide that it isn't enough. Fuck you, Peter."

He flinches, but I’m done. I’m done with his smirk and his fucking ice cream, and his dismissal of the life I’ve fought tooth and nail to create. I slide out of the booth and head for the exit. Behind me, I hear him huff in aggravation and then his footsteps hurrying after me.

He catches me halfway across the student center. It’s happily deserted—even if it weren’t, I wouldn’t have tolerated the way he reaches out and grabs me by the arm.

Like he has the right to touch me. I snap around and shove him, hard.

“Leave me alone, Peter!” I snarl. “I don’t want you around me. I don’t want to deal with fighting memories.”