To love brings death.
It should fill me with sadness.
Instead, all I feel is anger.
“You think this is an actual curse?” I spin around, indignant. But he’s not in the doorway anymore. He’s standing right behind me, close enough to see exactly what conclusion he hasdrawn. I let out a hollow laugh. “You? The cynic? The skeptic? Suddenly now, you’re a believer?”
He jerks his hand toward the wall. “Are you not?”
“Of course I am. I’ve always been a believer. You, on the other hand, have white-knuckled logic like your life depends on it, even when it was completely illogical to do so. But now,now, you want to believe in curses?”
“I don’twantto believe in anything.”
I shake my head.
“But the evidence is pretty overwhelming.” For a moment, he closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he won’t meet mine. He simply walks to his door, his face as guarded as it was the first time we met. “I really think you should go.”
37
THE GEMSTONES
Dry leaves skitter across the shingles as I climb out of Twig’s bedroom window. The roof outside is flat and large enough to sit comfortably. I shake out the flannel blanket I brought from inside and sit down cross-legged with a small stack of books and a thermos of cider while Twig moves to the telescope mounted on its tripod.
“It’s supposed to be somewhere near Cygnus,” he mutters. Last night he couldn’t find the comet. Tonight, he’s determined.
Across the street, a motion-activated skeleton cackles in the fog, its red eyes glowing as Mr. Takahashi rolls his garbage bin to the curb. Above, the sky is clear—a spray of stars and a thin sliver of moon.
Inside, I’m a mess.
The parade is tomorrow.
Dress rehearsals for the ball were tonight. I was supposed to spend the evening in Jude’s presence. Some of it, in his arms. Instead, I spent it at the fairgrounds, finishing up floats I no longer care about, doing what I’ve done for the past two days. Working through the evidence in my mind.
I hate that it makes sense.
I hate that Jude is shutting me out.
I throw my head back. “I wish I never would have lifted the false bottom of that stupid drawer.”
Out loud, the comment is very random. In my head, it followed a logical train of thought. Thankfully, Twig has known me long enough by now to keep up.
He adjusts his telescope with practiced care. “If death is involved, isn’t it better to know?”
“I’m not going to die.”
“You’ve become a skeptic?”
A growl rumbles in my chest. Because no, I’m not a skeptic. Unlike Jude, my belief system hasn’t taken a jarring about-face. “I just wish he would talk to me.”
“Can you really blame him, though? The guy believes loving you will?—”
“He doesn’t love me.”
Twig casts a doubtful look over his shoulder. “I mean, I’ve never exactly conducted a field study on love, but I’d say he was at least in the preliminary stages.”
A flush blooms in my cheeks. I think about the way he looked at me on the ballroom floor at ourlast rehearsal. Then later, at the fairgrounds. An innocent touch here. A playful swipe of paint there. The thinnest sliver of space between our arms on the car ride home.
Maybe I was in the preliminary stages, too.
