Chapter 22 #2
“Fine,” Bree huffs at the thought of doing actual work at her place of employment.
It’s sort of an affront to why she actually shows up at this place.
“But when I’m married to a dangerous biker and our kids have the coolest names ever, don’t come crying to me about your boring, safe relationships—or your boring baby names either. ”
Bree’s kids will definitely have names that are anything but boring, but it still doesn’t have anything to do with Mr. Felony-Waiting-to-Happen over there.
She bounces off toward the kitchen, leaving Logan and me standing near the lanes where the sounds of strikes and spares startle us to this grim new reality every three seconds.
“Razor Blade McManic?” Logan asks.
“Apparently, leather and rebellion are very attractive scents,” I explain. “And evidently, bad boys are having a moment.”
“Great. And here I thought being mysteriously dangerous was my thing.”
“Your thing was lying about being a Count and making me cry in bathrooms.”
“That was character development. Very different from whatever Razor’s got going on.”
“Right. Because nothing says, boyfriend material, like making a girl question her entire reality.”
“It worked on you, didn’t it?”
“Only because I had a weakness for drama and danger.”
“Lucky for me, you never outgrew it.”
Before I can respond, Gage appears from the direction of the arcade, having navigated through the technological torture chamber without going blind.
His expression is serious in a way that immediately puts me on edge, and judging by the storm clouds gathering in his cobalt eyes, my night is about to get a whole lot worse.
But newsflash: Things aren’t going to get any easier for him either.
“I need to talk with the two of you,” he says without preamble.
“Ooh, a threesome!” Brielle calls out from behind the food counter. “Tell me when and where, and I’ll record it. I know how to get all the right angles.”
“Bree,” Logan warns, but she’s already disappeared into the kitchen, probably to continue her dangerous fantasies about scary men with even scarier names.
Gage nods toward one of the picnic-style tables scattered throughout the bowling area. “Privately.”
My stomach does that thing where it tries to tie itself into a pretzel because Gage only gets this serious when something is catastrophically wrong. And considering our track record—faction wars, cursed jewelry, multiple deaths and resurrections—catastrophically wrong is basically our brand.
Logan and I follow him past the lanes, where the overhead lights cast everything in that specific bowling alley glow—the one that’s supposed to feel nostalgic and comforting, but tonight just makes everyone look like they’re extras in a low-budget horror movie about possessed bowling shoes.
We settle onto the wooden benches, and Gage looks between Logan and me with an expression that lets us know he’s about to solve a math problem that’s going to make someone cry.
“I know what’s going on,” he says with a frown.
Logan and I exchange a look that probably screams guilty in neon letters to anyone with working eyeballs. We promised each other that Gage wouldn’t find out about our little time-traveling field trip, and now we’re both doing the mental math on who screwed up.
My money is on Logan. He has that I-accidentally-said-something-while-showing-off energy. Although knowing me, I probably blurted it out during a jealous rage and then immediately forgot about it. We’re both disasters, just on different fonts.
“What do you mean by you know what’s going on?” I ask, going for innocent and probably achieving girl who definitely didn’t just travel back from the future to wreck everything.
“I know you guys aren’t into the plan anymore,” Gage continues. “Not in the way I thought you would be. Look, I’ll do my part to help deflect the Fems, but Skyla, I can’t pretend to date you. It’s not in me.”
A small rush of relief hits me. He’s talking about faction politics, not light driving. But why does this suddenly feel ten times more dangerous?
I shoot Logan a look. We need to tell him the truth.
He’ll understand. In fact, I don’t know why we didn’t to begin with.
I know we’re trying to protect him from all the gory details that the future has to offer, but maybe we don’t have to highlight the fact he’s going to go full Demetri on us and sprout sooted wings and breath fire all over our lives before he marries Chloe and shits on every good thing we had.
“The two of you are just going to have to keep away from one another,” he continues, and there’s something in his voice that makes my chest tight. “The Counts will get the point eventually.”
It’s true, the Counts want Logan and me dead, and they certainly don’t want us dating and mating and producing some super race of pure Celestra.
Gage was the deflection. We were supposed to fake date, but then we decided to really date until Logan and I could defeat the Counts—and kiss him without feeling one iota of guilt.
It was all so very twisted, but in our teenage minds, it made perfect sense.
Also, that baseball bat in Gage’s pants totally approved.
Gage winces as if what he’s about to say next physically hurts. “And I think maybe I should expand my horizons.”
“Expand your horizons?” Logan’s brows hike right off his forehead as if this were the last thing he expected.
You can count me in on that shocked and confused list, too.
“Meaning?” I ask, and unless this involves pottery or the chess club, I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
Gage shrugs, but there’s nothing casual about the gesture. “Meaning I should probably try to get my mind off of you. I’m going to see other girls.”
The words land exactly where he intended them to—a shot to the heart.
“Other girls?” I squawk. “Like whom? Like Bree?” Okay, so that might be the best-case scenario.
She would so not fall in love with him, but she might offer him a tutorial on everything he needs to know in bed.
That way, by the time he circles back to me, he’ll be a pro.
Not that he wasn’t already. Plus, Bree treats boys like library books—checks them out, enjoys them for a bit, then returns them exactly where she found them.
A moment of silence thumps by, and I get the feeling my boobalicious bestie isn’t going to factor into this new equation—which sucks.
Gage glowers at the bowling lanes as if they’ve personally offended him. “No, I don’t know. Chloe’s been coming after me pretty hard lately. Maybe I’ll start there.”
I gasp so hard, I nearly suck in a bowling ball.
The thought of Gage with Chloe makes my blood pressure spike in ways that are probably far less safer than anything Demetri has planned for my family. My entire body is revolting.
“No way,” I tell him, then promptly let approximately fifty or so expletives fly. “We’re talking about a monster who weaponizes affection and thinks emotional manipulation is foreplay. She’ll chew you up and spit you out just to prove she can.”
Okay, fine. So we all know she’s not spitting and quitting when it comes to the dark-haired Oliver.
She’s going to swallow and savor every last drop.
But I’ll never point that out. Besides, right about now, I look like the spitter and quitter in Gage’s eyes.
He already thinks I’m running a one-woman Oliver collection agency, trying to catch ’em all like they’re limited edition Pokémon cards.
I’m not sure what that makes Marshall—the bonus card that comes with its own prehensile tongue?
Gage turns to Logan. “Look, I need to take off and clear my head. Maybe spend some time talking to Nev. I miss that guy.” He casts a hooded glance my way, and I hope that means he misses me, too.
But then again, he might be giving me the side-eye because at this moment in time, I happen to be the owner of that dark-winged creature.
Nev would be Nevermore, AKA Heathcliff O’Hare, the love of Ezrina’s life—both of whom were cast apart and cursed centuries ago.
At this point in time, Ezrina is busy hustling for the Counts, and Heathcliff’s soul is stuck in a raven nicknamed Nevermore.
Gage actually gifted Nev to me a while back, thus the fact that he’s missing him.
And honestly, I’ve yet to see Nev on this, my extended stay light drive, so I’m sort of missing him, too.
Gage stands, looking down at both of us with an expression that’s equal parts hurt and determination. “I’m starting to miss a lot of people.”
And just like that, he’s gone, leaving Logan and me sitting at a picnic table surrounded by the sounds of strikes, spares, and teenage drama that might as well be happening on another planet.
We’re basically the world’s saddest supernatural support group—population, two time travelers who just broke their friend’s heart with the exact same script as the first time, because apparently, we’re not creative enough to find new ways to ruin lives.
“That was fun,” Logan says after a moment.
“He’s going to date Chloe,” I hiss, the words coming out flat and horrified.
“Chloe, Logan. Chloe Freaking Bishop! The girl who probably stays up at night honing her manipulation techniques in the mirror. The girl whose life goal it is to swallow Gage Oliver in three hasty bites and then regurgitate him so she can do it again and again.”
“Skyla—”
“And it’s my fault,” I seethe. “All of this is my fault. I’m here screwing up everyone’s timeline, making Drake turn into some leather-wearing wannabe rebel, convincing Kate not to go on a ski trip, only to land Bree in a casket instead, and now Gage is going to throw himself at the most toxic person in our class because I can’t figure out how to please my celestial mother and stave off Demetri without destroying everything.
And have I mentioned my mom and Tad have all but blinked poor Misty out of the picture?
My mother doesn’t want any more kids. She said so herself this morning!
Everything is going way the hell off the rails, Logan.
This has never happened on a light drive before.
We can’t just change things. Remember? And I don’t even know what that means anymore because it certainly doesn’t feel true. ”
He presses his lips tight. “Oddly enough, I think we might be changing things.”
The panic building in my chest is enough to stop every beating heart in the vicinity.
Everything is falling apart, and I’m the reason why.
Sure, Logan is equally guilty here, but since it’s my mother who orchestrated this whole temporal disaster, I feel like I’m wearing the captain’s hat on this sinking ship.
Logan reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Something needs to be done.”
“And do you know what that is?” I ask, looking into his eyes and seeing my own desperation reflected back at me.
He gives a slow blink. “Screw the anchor. We need to get back to Whitehorse, to a future we belong in. This little experiment is over.”
“Agree. Let’s go.”
We close our eyes and reach with all our might for that familiar sensation that light driving brings, the feeling of slipping between moments and finding our way to a brand spanking new reality—not necessarily a better one, either.
I concentrate on Whitehorse, on our children, on the life we’re supposed to be living, the takeout I’m going to call in with a vengeance once I’m snuggled up on my nice comfy sofa.
And horrifyingly enough, nothing happens. Nada, zero, zilch.
We try again, both of us practically vibrating with the effort of trying to rip through whatever cosmic duct tape is keeping us stuck in teenage purgatory. And I have a feeling that duct tape’s name is Candace Messenger.
Still nothing. We might as well be trying to walk through concrete.
“Logan,” I hiss, opening my eyes to find him staring at me with the same dawning horror that’s currently eating me alive.
“We’re stuck,” he says, like saying it out loud might make it less true.
“We need Candace,” I say, the words tasting like celestial battery acid in my mouth. “Like, yesterday.”
Because being trapped in the past while everyone’s futures unravel like a cheap sweater? That’s not just terrifying—it’s the kind of cosmic disaster that ends with everyone we love either never existing or wishing they didn’t.