Layla said.
She waited for us all to stare at her.
More silence settled in while we chewed, sighed, and generally brooded.
Eventually, Brady grumbled,
She elbowed him hard.
Brady snapped.
Softly, I inserted myself between them.
When no one said otherwise, I added,
Griffin asked, rubbing his hand nervously along my thigh.
I grabbed his hand, squeezed it. I included the others with a sweeping look.
I held up my palm, the skin at its center marred by a paper-thin scar every one of us still wore. Our superior healing, it seemed, didn’t erase marks from when we were ten, long before we were ever shocked back to life, our immortality kicking in.
Griffin, Hunt, Layla, and Brady also held up their palms, faces out. Layla’s was smeared with Russian dressing, Brady’s with marinara sauce from his meatball sub. They were similar in more ways than they liked to admit.
the four of them repeated.
Then Layla reached for our hands.
Brady said.
Layla examined her hand, wiped it clean, then smirked when she noticed the streak of marinara on his.
she told him.
he asked.
She demonstrated by running her palm across the tip of her nose.
When he copied her, she busted out laughing.
It was almost possible to believe the Fischer House party had never happened, that we were normal high school seniors with higher-than-average intelligence and an uncommonly close friendship.
After Brady cleaned his hand and his face, and smacked Layla on the arm, and after she smacked him back, we piled our hands together in the center of the table.
Brady said.
Griffin said.
Layla tried, but then winced.
Yeah, I didn’t believe it either.
Griffin insisted anyway.
I said.
