Places No One Knows (31 page)

“No, it's real. I mean, doesn't it
feel
real?”

But how can I trust a feeling, after all the times I've been with him, in his bed or in the nighttime squalor of his life? “My dreams are the truest thing about me—truer than real life. You're
always
real.”

He smiles. “Then right now, I'm real in the real-life way.”

“How, though? How can you be here?”

He smiles shyly and holds up his phone. Someone has texted him a sepia-filtered picture of the spill wall, complete with Maribeth's hateful graffiti and my terse, painful annotations.

The contact name at the top is “Awesome Pitbull.” The message under the picture says
Merry Christmas, Holt.

For a second, I can only look at it. The shape of my handwriting on the wall appears strangely out of proportion. It's disorienting, like seeing yourself on video, a sudden realization of how you look from some other angle, and I start to laugh.

With my eyes squeezed shut, I lean my forehead against his shoulder and laugh and laugh.
This
is why Autumn. Because she believes in truth, justice, honor among thieves—because she loves him. Because she was always the friend I needed, before I ever even knew I needed a friend.

Marshall takes the phone back, still smiling awkwardly. “When I said I wanted you to pick me, I didn't mean you had to, like…
announce
it. Seriously, this is not what I was asking for.”

“I know.” My words on the wall were necessary, though. The only way to say what I meant.

From the building, the bell sounds, blaring across the parking lot to signal the end of sixth period. I stand shivering in the shade of the dugout.

Marshall takes my hand and pulls me toward the steps. “It's cold. Let's go inside.”

In my rigid former life, I would never walk into school with tears still visible on my face, never advertise the depth of my affections in the locker bay.

As we join the crowd, I lean into Marshall, acutely aware that I'm holding his hand. His fingers are laced with mine, intertwined in an intricate constellation that is as real as the people around us, real as the way my cells love his cells, or the way everyone in the bay keeps shooting us glances.

At my locker, I stand with my hand on the dial, savoring the feeling of Marshall beside me.

He leans down, his breath delicious against my ear. “Is this too weird? Do you need a minute?”

The question is astute and ridiculous. It's something no one else would even think to ask. I just smile and shake my head. Then I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him like I mean it.

My agent, Sarah Davies. In the simplest terms, she is truly a miracle.

My editor, Krista Marino, who patiently and painstakingly took this story apart and helped me put it back together so it looked like the one in my head.

My critique partners and incredible, indelible friends, Maggie Stiefvater and Tessa Gratton—Maggie, for always taking Waverly's side in everything. And Tess, for always taking Marshall's.

Emily Hainsworth, who read the first draft and said, “So, is Waverly actually a sociopath? I mean, it would be fine if she was. But is she?” Because that was a totally legitimate question.

Gia, for lending me all of Autumn's dance moves.

David, who knows what I like, reads what I write, thinks I'm funny, and watches all the horror movies with me.

Syl, we've been talking about this book forever and now I finally wrote it. Thank you for every time we ate chocolate chips and sat on the basement floor at the first house, and then on the porch at the other house, and all those coffee shops. And just for everything. In general. Thank you.

Brenna Yovanoff is the
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Replacement, The Space Between, Paper Valentine,
and
Fiendish.
She lives in Denver with her husband. To learn more about Brenna and her books, visit her online at
brennayovanoff.com
and follow
@brennayovanoff
on Twitter.