CHAPTER TWENTY–TWO PRESENT DAY #2
“Then come with me,” says a brusque, irritated male voice. My eyes fly open. Elias Talbot. “She needs professional care. She’s probably got a serious concussion.”
“I can take of her myself,” Jesse answers. I almost smile. Always so stubborn. “Besides, the thing doesn’t care if I’m in the room, too. I’m an exception.”
A long pause. “The ‘thing’? I thought you said it was a curse.”
A shiver races down my aching body at the ice in Mr. Talbot’s voice. “You’ve got a girl bleeding in your room right now. The damn high school homecoming queen. Do you understand the danger you’ve put her in? As soon as you realized she had a problem, you should’ve alerted me.”
“I didn’t need your help.”
“Clearly,” Mr. Talbot seethes.
“Dad—”
“No! This isn’t your job, Jesse. You’re going to get yourself killed protecting the neighbor’s daughter. We’ve given up too much for you to treat your life so carelessly.”
When Jesse speaks, it’s quiet. Almost inaudible.
Craning to listen helps ward away the sleep creeping up on me.
I’m eavesdropping purely for my own health.
“I didn’t ask you to give anything up. You and Mom made a choice.
All my life you’ve been making my choices for me, and I’ve let you.
Mom decided she would rather I be born without a soul than not born at all.
You decided we would live in this nowhere town and try to fit in with people I can barely stand.
But you can’t convince me to trust anyone else to protect Mina Mansour. Not this time. Not her.”
“Ah, so that’s it. You think helping her will earn you your soul.”
“It’s not about that anymore.”
What?
Mr. Talbot sighs. “What is so special about this girl?”
I prepare for Jesse’s glib remarks on my dance prowess or the unstable social hierarchy at Canyon High.
“Do you remember when we moved to Ward? No one in town would talk to us. They were afraid, and rumors followed us everywhere. But our second week here, I looked out my window, and I saw Mina mumbling under her breath outside our fence. She was holding a tray of homemade baklava and trying to figure out how to open the latch without putting down the tray.” Jesse’s soft laugh is music to my ears.
“Eventually, she just used her nose to push the latch up. Anyone else would have given up or just put the tray down. She didn’t stop until she was at our door, baklava in tow. And when she knocked, I didn’t answer.”
He was in the house? I remember the day clearly. Nosing the latch open like an overeager puppy and tiptoeing up the dodgy porch steps. Rocking on my heels as the doorbell echoed inside the house.
“Why not?” Mr. Talbot asks, grudgingly curious.
The words seem heavy on Jesse’s tongue, reluctant to hit the open air.
“Because. Because she’s the kind of person who tries to talk to the loneliest person at a party.
She cares so much it should be a crime. I knew the second I opened that door, the second I let myself accept any of her kindness, she would be done for.
She wouldn’t give up on me or put herself first—she would hold on even if I pushed her away, even if I completely broke her. ”
I turn my cheek into the pillow, tears dripping from my nose. The girl Jesse’s talking about is gone. He only let himself get close to me once I was already broken, once there was nothing left to damage.
“You don’t break people, Jesse. I raised you better,” Mr. Talbot says, in a hard tone that brooks no argument.
This time, Jesse’s laugh is cold, spreading through me like morning frost. “You did. That’s the problem.”
The door creaking open punctuates Jesse’s statement, and he closes it before I can catch a glimpse of Mr. Talbot.
We stare at each other. Jesse tips his head back, exposing the long column of his throat. “Any chance you didn’t hear that?”
“It was really good baklava,” I say. “I ground the pistachios myself. You missed out.”
An old sadness flits over Jesse’s features. “I know.”
He straightens, the moment gone before I even realized it was there. “We should get you home. Your dad will freak out if he notices you’re gone.”
Panic cannons through me, whiting out my mind. “No! No, please, let me stay. Don’t leave me alone again.” I start to cry in earnest.
“Whoa, hey. You can stay. Of course you can stay. I’ll text one of your friends to call your dad and tell him you’re spending the night with her. Sound good?”
I sniff. “Okay. Text Lucia. Baba likes her best.” She always patiently listens to his rants about the flaws in higher education.
“Done,” Jesse says, tapping out the keys on my phone. “You’re good to go. I’ll monitor you throughout the night, but try to stay awake for just a little longer.”
The long day comes crashing down on me. Staying conscious becomes a feat of epic proportions.
Dimly aware of Jesse rummaging in his closet, I peel open one eye when he strips off his bloody shirt, revealing miles of smooth skin.
Without the obstruction of clothes, a tattoo I’ve only caught glimpses of reveals itself fully for the first time.
Small black and white flowers blooming from an elegant stem trace the curve of his bicep.
“An orchid,” Jesse says in response to my shameless staring. “Dad says it was my mom’s favorite.”
“Pretty.”
Though I’ve never been to Europe, I imagine the slopes and divots of Jesse’s body resemble the statues housed in the world’s grandest museums. It suddenly seems like a crying shame that Jesse hides his beauty behind aggressive T-shirts and a beaten leather jacket.
When he moves to his dresser, still shirtless, I press a curious hand to his bare stomach.
Jesse freezes. I trace the taut line leading from his abdomen to his waistband. His skin feels soft, delicate velvet overlaying hard muscle. Before I reach the groove of his hip, a firm hand closes around my wrist.
“You are incredibly concussed,” Jesse remarks flatly. I wiggle in Jesse’s hold, aiming to map out the sinuous motions of his back, starting from the sharp points of his shoulder blades.
“Nuh-uh.”
To my disappointment, Jesse tugs a shirt over his chest. He flashes a smile a touch too sour to be sincere. “Lose the head injury, and I’ll let you touch whatever you want.”
I flop back against the bed, scooting to make room for Jesse. At his hesitation, I pat the empty space. “No, you won’t,” I say, despondent. “You’re afraid you’ll break me.”
He lays down stiffly, keeping a good foot of space between us.
“I’m stronger than I seem, you know.”
Jesse’s head turns on the pillow. “I don’t think you’re weak. That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, running his fingers to the furrow between his brows. “Hey, weren’t you telling me about the dress you bought?”
I brighten instantly. “Was I? Oh, it’s so lovely. Out of my budget, though. Baba will be mad, but maybe they can bury me in it. Kill two birds with one stone.”
Aghast, Jesse says, “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
I describe the dress to Jesse in excruciating detail.
Excruciating because I know the reality: Most guys simply don’t want to hear a detailed breakdown of sequins versus flared sleeves.
Alex would politely chime in with an “Oh wow!” every now and then, but I had no doubt he was mentally planning out his gym schedule.
Jesse, on the other hand, couldn’t be paid to be patronizing.
He’s been bluntly honest since the moment I met him.
The fact that he doesn’t say a word while I go on and on about a prom dress confirms my fears.
He’s afraid I’m a goner.
I force myself to settle in the moment. Curl my toes in the fuzz of Jesse’s black comforter.
Listen to the ticking clock until it syncs with the rain pattering against his window.
Even the bruises, throbbing beneath my skin, ground me.
I’m clutching at the present the way a child holds on to blades of grass.
Watching as who I am permanently transforms into who I was. Who I will never be again.
“Why didn’t you like me?” I ask. A flash of lightning through the window illuminates the wall of newspaper clippings and photos on Jesse’s wall. The headlines on the mortuary computer flash through my mind, and I look away. “I mean, before all this started. Why didn’t you like me?”
“Who says I didn’t like you?”
I scrunch my face in disbelief, wincing when the action pulls at the wounds in my temple.
Jesse props his back against the headboard. The same restless, anxious energy from the train vibrates around him. I’ve learned to recognize it as Jesse carving out a window in the walls he carries inside himself. Small, easy to brick over. But a window, nonetheless.
“I don’t know how to explain it. Do you remember freshman year, when it started to rain during lunch?
Serious rain, practically Ward Wailer levels.
Everyone was running for cover and screaming.
You, being a menace to society and all, climbed on top of the lunch table and laughed.
And because you’re Mina Mansour, everyone stopped running.
They started climbing on lunch tables, too.
Dancing and cheering.” Jesse glances at me, and his inscrutable features waver with something almost …
soft. “You bake desserts that take hours for strangers you’ve known for minutes.
All your friends would defend you to the death, and you would do the same for them.
You tear up when you see burned French toast in the trash, ‘cause it means a lot to you that your dad tried so hard to make it. It’s not that I didn’t like you, Mansour.
” Jesse tips his head against the wall, fixing his attention on a mustard water stain. “I just didn’t get you.”
I trace a paisley pattern onto the bedsheet. “And now?”
“Huh?”
“Do you get me now?” I can’t bring myself to look up.
At some point, Jesse’s good opinion of me stopped being a trophy I could add to my collection.
Jesse has seen me unravel. Seen me furious and broken and hopeless.
His opinion of me won’t be based off a shiny veneer.
It’ll be based on the real me. The real Mina, whoever she is.
Two fingers coax my chin up, bringing my gaze to Jesse’s. A small smile curves his lips. “Even less.”
I pinch the nearest body part I can reach. Jesse yelps, prying my hand away from his thigh. He dissolves into laughter, and the pressure in my chest eases a little. “See? A few weeks ago, I never would’ve thought you’re the kind of girl with crab pincers for fingers.”
Jesse settles into bed, drawing the cover over his waist. He reaches for the light and stops short.
“It’s okay,” I murmur. “You can turn it off.”
Night envelops the room. Jesse turns on his side, facing me. I fold my hands under my head, grateful the bruise on my temple and thigh are on the same side of my body. I can’t turn over, but at least I don’t have to lie flat on my back.
Movement rustles from Jesse’s side. He draws a pillow into the space between us. I ignore a spark of hurt. He’s just being thoughtful. A divider pillow is way less awkward than waking up tangled around each other.
“How about me?” comes the quiet, intense question just as I’m settling into sleep. “What did you think about me?”
For one mean, petty second, I almost say, I didn’t. It’s not the truth, but the words would cut Jesse too quickly for him to see the lie in them.
“You scared me.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. His chest rises and falls, and I find myself slowing my breath to match his.
“Do I still scare you?”
I lay my fingers on the pillow between us. I hate this pillow, I decide. Why does he think we need it? As though I need a pillow to stay away from Jesse. As though I might reach out to him otherwise, do something silly like rest my head on his chest and curl myself like a quotation mark around him.
Jesse is still waiting for an answer.
“Even more,” I whisper.
A dark shape watches me from the ceiling.
To my right, Jesse sleeps. His even breaths dissolve in the deep, drowning silence. A lock of black hair lies over his temple.
The shape scuttles out of view. I keep watching Jesse, ignoring the pulse pounding in my ears. Half of me wants him to wake up and switch the light on. Watch him rake a hand through his tousled hair and squint irritably at the ceiling.
The other half wants him to stay as still and quiet as possible.
I can sense it behind me. Staring. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. My pains fade, replaced by a clarity only visceral fear can induce. A primordial instinct warns me against turning around and looking at the shadow.
Baba used to talk about common beliefs of the supernatural when he taught World Mythology. For instance, hunters never stalk their prey after sunset. When the night takes hold, the rules change. The balance of power between prey and predator disappears.
And there are hours of the night where the lines between realities become blurred. Where some believe time itself thins, becoming little more than a thread looping through the eye of God’s needle.
The knot in my gut, the cold sweat on my palms. Familiar warnings. They happened in the villa every night, right before the animals began to screech.
I can feel the shadow breathing against my hair.
It wants me to turn around.
The clock on Jesse’s wall ticks loudly. It won’t leave until I face it. Until I let myself see.
With a shaky hand, I smooth the lock of hair away from Jesse’s forehead.
“I can be brave, too,” I say to the pillow between us.
Drawing away, I turn to face the cavernous darkness behind me.
“Don’t take her! Safa, give her back!” it screams in my mother’s voice, and time weaves through the needle.