“But I want you to know.” Still sitting on the stool, I turn to face him. He’s sprawled on one of the beanbag chairs, looking at me intently, and I can see how blue his eyes are even from a couple of yards away. Maybe I’m only seeing it because I actuallyknowhow blue his eyes are.
“I know. I know who you are, Rayne Bellamy.”
My breath catches. I have no idea what my heart is doing, whether it’s beating too fast or not at all. It’s possible that the whole world has stopped for a second.
“How?” I stammer, feeling dizzy,
“Your name is unique. I’ve read the articles. I’ve seen pictures of you. Your purple hair is pretty distinctive. And your Insta name is Mockingbird. You told your father about us. He said his daughtershowed him our YouTube video. You wrote to me just a few days before he did. Looking back, I wonder how it could have taken me so long to figure it out.”
I stare at him in a daze. He’s right. There were many clues, and taken together, they paint a pretty clear picture of me.
“I’m sorry, I should have told you sooner.” My voice is strained. I’m so overwhelmed I don’t know what to do with myself. He knows. “Does that change anything?”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t have to. If I were you, I probably wouldn’t have told me either. After all, we hardly knew each other.”
“But I didn’t even tell you after we got to know each other.”
“You’re still the same person.”
“Am I?” I ask, trembling. How can he make this so easy for me?
A crooked smile appears on his face. “Yes. It doesn’t matter if I call you Birdy or Rayne. You’re the same. We’re friends, and I’m sorry about what happened. I’m so sorry.”
Blinking, I avoid his gaze, unable to utter a word. I’m going to start crying, I’m sure of it.
“Rayne?” His eyes are so, so blue. And worried.
My heart tightens, and there it is again, that black hole in my chest. The pain that claws at my insides and takes my breath away.
“How are you?” he asks me.
Chapter 11
Easton
Fix You—Coldplay
She laughs nervously, and the sound makes my stomach tense. I don’t like how lost she sounds.
“You’re going for the hard questions, huh?” She’s wearing her bracelets and rings again, now anxiously twisting the two rings on her left hand.
“We never bothered with small talk before,” I reply calmly, wondering if I should have just asked her a harmless question instead. But what would have been the right question? There aren’t any. We haven’t spoken to each other for too long, and we know each other too well to dance around the hard stuff.
“I know.” She sighs softly, pushing a strand of her purple hair behind her ear. Her hair is loose and cascading over her shoulders, not like the tight bun it was in this morning. She seems more like herself without the perfect hairstyle and tight leotard. I can tell she seems to feel much more at home in her oversized hoodie andloose jeans. She moves differently. Less uptight. Less controlled. Not as insecure.
“Ask me something else,” she pleads, and I agree because I would do anything for her. I can’t help it.
“How long have you been in Boston?”
One of her eyebrows goes up, incredulity written all over her face. I shrug. I’m probably just as overwhelmed by the whole situation as she is.
She sighs again and her shoulders slump, then she looks away. “Just under six months.” Her voice is barely audible and she holds her breath, as if she doesn’t know how I’ll react.
But I don’t even know myself. Six months. We’ve been living in the same city for six months, and she didn’t say a word.
“You’re pissed off, aren’t you?”
She sounds so helpless that I want to get up and put my arms around her. But I stay where I am and shake my head. “No, I’m not.”
