Chapter 9
nine
Ash
I’m still sitting in the living room after Dylan’s departure when Aunt Claudette gets home. She enters the room, humming to herself, then jerks to a halt. “Oh! Spirits above, Ash, you scared the bejeezus out of me. What are you doing sitting here in the dark?”
She flicks on a light as I offer a shrug. She eyes me, looking like she wants to say more before setting down her bag and starting toward the kitchen. Banging cabinets echo a few seconds later. “I’m going to make some tea,” she calls. “You want any?”
“I’m good.”
My aunt prattles on about her most recent house call while she preps her tea.
Apparently, she went to see a regular of hers to commune with the woman’s dead brother so she could fill him in on what’s been happening in her life and ask him for advice.
The whole thing sounds gruesome and somewhat exploitative to me, but I don’t say so.
Instead, I let her words wash over me, finding them strangely comforting even if I take offense to the content.
Maybe it’s because they help to distract me from my obsession with Dylan. And that’s honestly what it’s starting to feel like: an obsession. I’d told myself after he made that damn friendship pledge that I had to remain strong and keep my distance at all costs.
Yeah, what a fucking failure that had turned out to be.
Rather than ignoring him, I’d invited him over to name my fucking cat. And the worst part? While I know I should feel guilty, mostly all I feel is a numb sort of relief at finally giving into the urge to spend more time with him.
A vision of Harvey, his face pale and eyes wide with horror as he stumbles away from me, flickers through my head, and I savagely shove it down. No way do I want to relive that horrible night. It’s just one more nightmare I wish I could forget.
I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts that I don’t notice my aunt’s return until she waves a chipped teacup in front of my face. I look up to find her studying me with a concerned frown.
“You sure you’re feeling okay, Ash? You look even paler than usual.”
“I’m fine,” I mumble, staring down at the cat curled in my lap. “Just worn out from school.”
She nods sagely. “Trust me, I can relate. I couldn’t wait to be done with all that nonsense—your mom and me both. Guess you take after us, huh?”
As usual, the mention of Mom sends a shiver of dread through me. Swallowing, I manage a half-hearted shrug.
Thankfully, Aunt Claudette doesn’t press, turning her attention instead to the kitten. “She’s getting so big and strong!”
“I’m pretty sure she’s the same as she was when we brought her home.”
“Not true at all,” my aunt says, scratching under the cat’s chin. “Just look at how much meat proper food has put on her bones. Another couple weeks and she won’t be scrawny anymore. I was thinking maybe Raven for her.”
I tighten my arms almost imperceptibly around the cat. “It’s Onyx.”
Aunt Claudette looks up at me, startled. “Oh. I hadn’t realized you’d already named her.”
A faint blush creeps over my cheeks. “A friend from school came over earlier. He actually came up with it.”
“A friend, huh?” From the way she emphasizes the word with a smirk, I can tell she’s hinting at something more. That’s not the reason my blush deepens, however—or at least, not the only reason.
Finally decided to be my friend?
Shit.
When it becomes clear I’m not going to respond, Aunt Claudette turns her attention back to Onyx. “I like it. Seems appropriate for a survivor like this one. Did you know onyx symbolizes perseverance and determination?”
I shake my head, wondering if Dylan had known. Doubtful. Most likely, he’d just picked the first black rock he could think of that matched the cat’s sleek coat. I’ll have to make sure to tell him tomorrow. Or, you know, whenever I happen to run into him next.
“Of course,” my aunt continues thoughtfully, “some cultures also associate onyx with bad luck, claiming it can sap your energy and lead to bad dreams.” Her voice softens into baby-speak as she strokes the purring kitten.
“But we don’t believe that, do we little one?
No, of course not. You’ll be our good luck charm—I can tell. Ash? Honey, are you all right?”
My head feels light, the world spinning around me as my heart pounds. Bad dreams… Dylan couldn’t have known. It’s a coincidence, that’s all.
“Maybe you should lie down,” Aunt Claudette says, sounding worried.
She scoots back as I stumble to my feet, a displaced Onyx (bad luck) glaring up at me accusingly. “I…I’m going to head up to my room.” My voice sounds like it’s coming from far away, the words strange and foreign to my ears.
My aunt’s frown deepens. “Do you need anything? I’ve got some Tylenol and Sudafed in the bathroom. Or I can go pick up some flu medicine from the pharmacy on Wickermore.”
“No, that’s okay. I just need to lie down.”
Before she can protest further, I snag my backpack and bolt for the stairs, clambering up them and into my room in record time. Shutting and locking the door, I sink onto my bed and squeeze my eyes shut, draping an arm over my face.
It’s fine. Everything is fine. I have plenty of sleeping pills left. I won’t slip up again like I did with Harvey. Dylan doesn’t know anything and never will. Neither does my aunt. The name is a random fluke. Nothing more.
But no matter how many times I repeat the words, my frantic mind won’t accept them.
The room around me fades, replaced by my much larger bedroom at the Ellingtons’ with its antique dresser, walk-in closet, and private bathroom.
Not that any of those luxuries had made me feel any less trapped in a life I’d never asked for.
Maybe that’s why I’d made the colossally stupid decision to invite Harvey over. We’d hooked up a couple times before in my car or at his place, but that night was the first time I’d risked having him over. I’d felt like I was coming out of my skin all week and had been desperate for a release.
Plus, I genuinely liked Harvey. And not just for his ripped abs or the sexy way his blond surfer hair flopped over his face.
He was…maybe not the smartest guy ever, but kind.
Thoughtful. The sort of guy who’d check in on you if you seemed down or make you laugh with his corny jokes.
I’d been closed off from the rest of the world for years by then, and it felt nice to let someone in, even if only through the cracks.
Sort of like Dylan.
The Ellingtons wouldn’t be home until late thanks to some charity event, so I’d convinced myself the risks were minimal.
I’d have Harvey over, enjoy our time together, and then send him on his way with them being none the wiser.
Except sex had turned into snuggling, which turned into him begging me to watch a movie, and somehow, despite knowing the potential costs all the way down to my core, I’d let myself fall asleep.
It shouldn’t be so bad, right—falling asleep next to your pseudo-boyfriend? I mean, sure, it’s not ideal when there’s a decent chance your homophobic grandparents will catch you in the morning. But even that, I might’ve been able to handle.
No, my most egregious mistake that night wasn’t falling asleep snuggled up beside Harvey. It was failing to take my sleeping pills before I did it.
The thing about shared nightmares is they have a way of feeding off each other. Your negative emotions color the other person’s while their darkening thoughts seep into yours in turn. On and on it goes, forging a perverse feedback loop from your interwoven misery and woe.
I don’t know what Harvey saw that night, trapped in an endless nightmare from which he couldn’t escape. But I know what I saw (Mom’s slack, lifeless face, her huddled form lying in a bed streaked with fractured sunlight), and that was horrific enough.
When I finally broke us free the next morning, I awoke to a terrified Harvey wailing at the top of his lungs.
He was paler than I’d ever seen him, his eyes wide and panicked.
I tried to reach for him, but he jerked away like my touch was poison.
Like the thought of being near me another second physically pained him.
That’s how the Ellingtons found us—half-dressed on opposite ends of my bedroom, with him sobbing into his palms.
The whirlwind that followed and ultimately deposited me here on Aunt Claudette’s doorstep is a singular blur for me now—one long stream of suck.
What really haunts me, though, when I lie awake at night waiting for my sleeping pills to kick in, is the look on Harvey’s face as the Ellingtons led him away.
It wasn’t fear or sorrow or confusion I saw there.
It wasn’t even anger. It was a hollow emptiness.
As if I had broken something irreparable within him.
It reminded me of my mom’s face near the end. I never even got the chance to make sure he was okay. That he didn’t do something drastic like Mom did.
Gradually, the memories fade, my panic receding enough for me to wrangle my breathing back under control. Even as the fear fades, however, it leaves a molten lump behind, burning in the center of my chest.
Onyx might not be a bad omen and Dylan almost certainly hadn’t meant anything by the name. But that doesn’t change things. I’m already cursed, bad omen or not. Letting Dylan in will only lead to another person getting hurt.
Clearly, I lack the mental fortitude to stay away from him completely and continue resisting his overtures to become friends. But that doesn’t mean I can let down my walls entirely either. No repeats of Harvey. Just school pals who occasionally hang out together.
Because no matter what Dylan thinks about my aunt’s profession or how interested he is in tarot cards, that’s only because he believes it isn’t real. That it can’t hurt him. If he knew what I can do—what I have done—he wouldn’t be intrigued.
He’d be terrified.