Page 3 of 72 Hours of You

I walk down the stone porch to the bottom step, my eyes scanning for Jules’s vintage Beetle on the dirt road leading up to Noah’s house. I take another shaky breath in. I glance back at the door. I have to stop thinking about Liam. I’m never this messed up about seeing a Clocker. I mean, it’s never good but after twelve years, it’s pretty hard to get me rattled. Now I’m out here glancing at doors and reminiscing as if I have a choice about any of this. There is no choice. The only thing I can do is keep my eyes on the road and sit here and wait for Jules to come back and take me as far from this party as possible.

I drop my purse and lean down to sit on the last step of the porch.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Jesus Christ!” I yelp, jumping up. There’s someone else out here. On the porch. In the shadows. Like a creepy-ass vampire. My heart starts to pound again.

“Sorry,” the voice says again. The boy attached to the voice steps forward into the moonlight. He’s like, aggressively tall, and he’s got green eyes that have the nerve to look bright even in the darkness, and he’s holding a book. An actual physical book. He looks like a damn angel. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just … I’m pretty sure someone barfed all over that step.”

I glance down at a brownish smear next to my purse. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, taking a sip from his red cup.

“Are you going to stab me?”

“Am I … What?” His eyebrows crinkle.

“You brought a book. To a party. I assume you’re a serial killer.”

He tucks the book under his arm and a sliver of moonlight glints off the plastic cover. Christ, I think it’s a library book. That’s so much worse.

“Oh,” he laughs, “that.” His laugh is so easy, so carefree. Like someone who’s never thought about the second part of the life-and-death equation. “I was just taking a minute.” His green eyes flick back to the house and he takes another slow sip of his drink. “Sometimes crowds can get … crowded.”

“They tend to do that,” I say, sitting down on the second step. I tap my watch again. Forty-six minutes. Where the hell is Jules?

He comes over and sits down next to me. “I’m Peter.”

“Pan?”

“I wish,” he says. “But I’m a pacifist. So the whole pirate-fighting thing is out.” He smiles at me and the openness, the earnestness of his smile is so blinding I have to look away.

Of course he’s a pacifist. Only people who’ve never had to make an actual choice in their life have the luxury of being pacifists. This boy—this Peter Pan—has the energy of someone who’s never had a goldfish die. He’s just so … present. It’s disgusting.

Where did he even come from? I know everyone in this town (everyone knows everyone), and I’ve never seen him before.

“I just transferred here,” he says, as if he can read my mind.

The door behind us opens, the latest Sabrina Carpenter song pouring onto the porch along with the shrieks and laughter of nearly the entire senior class.

Two of my classmates stumble out, hanging on to each other, giggling and darting into the woods to hook up or get high. Or both.

“Seems a little dangerous,” Peter says, his eyes following them into the darkened mass of trees.

“They’ll be fine,” I say. They don’t have any clocks over their heads. Although I know firsthand that death isn’t the only bad thing that can happen to a person.

Peter turns back to me. “You never said what your name was.”

“Tinker Bell,” I say, tapping my phone. No new messages, and I’m now officially under forty-five minutes to Liam’s Zero Hour. Come on, Jules. My leg shakes with excess energy and for a second I almost consider getting up and just sprinting down the road. But I can’t do that out here, not without my reflective gear. That actually is dangerous.

“I don’t know,” Peter says, cocking his head. “You don’t seem sparkly enough to be a Tinker Bell.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road.

“No, I just meant …” Peter trails off, right as the door opens again. I don’t turn around to see who it is this time. I already know.

Pink light spreads across the porch, casting a neon glow over the front yard. My body freezes, the light suffocating me, pinning me to the porch. Metaphorically, that is. Technically, I could still run. Technically, I could do a lot of things that I don’t.

Liam bends down and puts his head next to mine. He’s so close, and the light is so blinding, I have to fight the urge to shield my eyes.