He stared at her. Could you give an existential crisis a deadline? “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about going to therapy.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. His dad would love that. Dad believed that “real” men took action and didn’t waste time talking about feelings. Ironically, Coach Ackerman didn’t realizehewas likely the reason his son needed therapy in the first place.
“Two months? Three?”
That dark, molten feeling in Jason’s belly started to rise. The storm was returning, and he stubbornly tried to shove it down. “This isn’t a negotiation. This is my future. My mental health.”
Tiffany rolled her eyes. “I get it. You’re getting cold feet. We’vebeen together forever and the logical next step is marriage, and you’re probably wondering if you should’ve sowed your wild oats while you had the chance.”
“No! That’s not it.” A white-hot pain spiked between his temples. He felt like he was treading water, his head barely above the surface. He wanted to scream, like he had the day they’d last broken up. He’d yelled the way Dad might have raged at him or Mom. That booming voice might as well have been the voice of God—a furious Old Testament god full of fire and brimstone and dire decrees. A tone of voice that said,Fear me.It had come out of nowhere and had scared Jason more than it had scared Tiffany.
If he married Tiffany, he was going to become his dad.
Jason’s fingers curled as he fought the urge to lash out. It wasn’t Tiffany’s fault his sense of self was falling apart. He had to stay calm and sensible. Like Patrick.
Jason smiled ruefully at the thought of Patrick, again feeling guilty he’d picked a fight with him. Patrick was the best of their merry little band of horror fans. It was astounding how stoically he carried on after what had happened to his sister. Jason needed to ask how he’d rebuilt his life after Clare’s death, and take notes.
“I see. You just don’t want me anymore. I’m not good enough for you.” Tiffany’s pout rudely interrupted Jason’s thoughts. He recognized that look. That was his cue to say,No, of course not,and assure her how wonderful she was. They’d followed this script many times before.
“Tiff—” He halted, which forced her to stop walking, too. His shoulders sagged with the weight of the truth. “You’re perfect. But not for me. Not for the person I’m becoming. Or I think I always was. I wish you’d see that.”
She opened her mouth to protest. He cut her off with a hand gesture, too tired to argue and feed her craving for drama. “This is your opportunity to start fresh, too. I’m sure your perfect match is out there.”
As if on cue, a twig cracked in the darkness ahead of them.
18
Carrie
Carrie hurtled down the cabin’s driveway, so keyed up she was afraid she’d do something rash, like blindly strike out at the next friend she ran into. The stress hormones might lead her to make terrible mistakes. Her heart raced from the encounter with Freddy, his blood-spattered T-shirt having put all her nerves on high alert. No one would believe her if she said he was dressing up like the Slasher to terrorize them. She barely believed it herself. And yet—
Maybe Freddy hadn’t actually done anything to Mikey. That was more believable. The costume could be Freddy’s idea of a prank. Or he’d wanted to resurrect theSlashershadow cast one last time. A performanceen plein air.And Carrie, the Final Girl, had played right into his hands.
She had to laugh. So far, she was doing an excellent job of shedding the good girl persona and moving towardSlasher’s inevitable conclusion. Would Saint Carrie run through the woods with abread knife, her clothes muddy, hair plastered to her scalp with cold sweat? She was certain she’d find mystery cuts and bruises all over her body tomorrow morning, badges of her transformation.
She pressed on. Trees towered over her head, like dark and threatening sentinels of the woods. Pulse hammering, she tried to reframe her surroundings, the way her therapist had taught her to reframe her situation. Shadows weren’t scary. They were welcome harbors that would shelter her during this wild, unpredictable night. She was probably safer in the forest than in the cabin.
She tried to convince herself the noises weren’t eerie, either. The same sounds graced her meditation app. Peacefully singing crickets, serene bird calls, the patter of rainwater dripping off branches, the restrained anger of a man’s voice—
The man spoke again, and Carrie felt a twinge deep within her belly. She recognized the voice. She heard it often in her dreams. Jason. But who was he talking to?
“You’re perfect,” he said.
He was talking to Tiffany, obviously. The words sliced through Carrie like a cold knife. Even though she had to admit that beautiful and confident blonde Tiffany was, by small-town middle-class standards, perfect.
“But not for me,” he added.
A ray of hope brightened Carrie’s mood. If Jason had no intention of reconciling with Tiffany, Carrie could definitely get him alone later and try to resolve the events of four years ago. She could finally get the apology she longed for. She crept forward, hoping to gauge Tiffany’s reaction.
A twig cracked under her foot. Jason stepped in front of Tiffany, who’d frozen like a deer in headlights. Carrie felt a wave of hurt and resentment. Ever the gentleman, ready to protect a lady.
Just not Carrie, when it had mattered.
You’re no lady,Mama spat in her head.Ladies don’t take nasty photos to get a boy’s attention.
The old shame washed over her again, even as Carrie told thevoice in her head to be quiet. Maybe she wasn’t a lady, but that didn’t give Mama or anyone the right to treat her like she didn’t have feelings. If there was one thing she’d learned from therapy, it was that her feelings were valid.
“Who’s there?” Jason said.
Drat. Her eavesdropping had been busted. “It’s just me,” Carrie said in a small voice.
