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What are Eden’s honey eyes doing here in this random girl’s face, on the deck of Spencer’s damned boat? Why won’t they stop looking at me?
“Isaiah?” Suddenly Skye is here too, stepping in front of Jude, looking me in the eyes. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Don’t know.” Jude sounds panicked. “He was fine a second ago.”
“Look at me,” Skye commands. I can barely open my eyes. My legs have turned to jelly. “Are you really this exhausted?” I can barely nod. “Ok, let’s get you below.”
Immediately, there’s a bustle of activity. Uniformed staff appears out of nowhere, and I lose sight of her eyes. The haze takes longer to leave me, and when I finally emerge from it, I’m in bed, my clothes neatly folded on the bedside table. The boat is barely rocking and there’s absolute quiet suffocating me.
Then I remember what happened, what I saw, and I bolt upright.
No.Just no.
Is the girl who fainted—who almost died—at my concert, right here on the boat?
The girl who caused me to lose my footing on stage, to nearly faint myself?
The girl whose eyes look likehers.
The girl I saw just once from the stage, but that one glance was enough to block me creatively for four months?
Is that girl here?
What is she doing here? I don’t know what kind of freak coincidence this is, or if Spencer felt bad for her because she almost died during my concert and decided to hire her on his boat or whatever. He does have a ton of charities involving underprivileged youth. But this youth better get her underprivileged ass away from my three weeks of rehearsals.
I get up, barefoot, and stumble down the hall to Jude’s room. I half-crash, half open his door, and tumble inside. He’s got headphones on, playing his guitar. He looks so tranquil and happy, I want to strangle him.
I’m drowning.
“She can’t be here,” my mouth says before my idiot brain can register what I’m doing.
“Isaiah?” Jude looks up, his face twisted in worry. No, he doesn’t look worried: he looks scared. He should be.
“She can’t stay here,” I repeat, more forcefully.
“The girl? She is the poet Skye hired for the tour. He said he talked to you about it.”
I shut my eyes, the blood draining from my face.
This cannot be happening.
It simply can’t.
I remember the minute I locked eyes with her both at my concert and a few minutes ago. A jolt of electricity runs through me. Both times she just stood there, looking at me, like a goddamn statue. Like a memory. Like revenge.
She can’t harm you, I tell myself firmly.Ghosts don’t exist. Memories aren’t real. Memories can’t kill you.
Oh but they can. I should know.
“No,” I say, straightening up to my full height. “This is… no.”
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m running up the ladder, shoeless and shirtless, until I hear the boom of Skye’s baritone in one of the living areas. I follow it. He’s seated at the table with some of my PR team members, and the girl is there too. She is replying to something one of them asked her, her voice soft and hushed.
Ignoring everyone, I walk inside the room and reach her seat. I place a hand on the back of her chair. She looks up, her face a white mask of shock and fear.
Freckles stand out on her nose.
I tower over her, just like I towered over… No.No. No.The memories are already flooding back, dragging me under. It takes effort to breathe.
