I meet his gaze, determined to hold it for as long as I can. Sensing he's responsible for Damen's behavior, Miles's and Haven's defection, and the entire school living in harmony and peace —but lacking the evidence needed to prove it.
I mean, to everyone else he's a hero, a true Che Guevara, a lunch time revolutionary.
But to me he's a threat.
"So I assume you made it home safely?" he asks, chugging his soda though his eyes are on me.
I glance at Miles, watching as he says something to Craig that makes them both laugh, then I move on to Haven, seeing her lean toward Honor, whispering into her ear.
But I don't look at Damen.
I refuse to watch him gaze into Stacia's eyes, place his hand on her knee, and tease her with his very best smile as his fingers creep along her thigh ...
I saw plenty of that already in English. Besides, I'm pretty sure that whatever they're up to is just foreplay —the first tentative step toward the kind of horrible things I saw in Stacia's head. The vision that freaked me so bad I took down a whole rack of bras in my panic. And yet, by the time I got myself upright and settled again, I was sure she'd done it on purpose, never considered it to be some kind of prophecy. And even though I still think she created it just out of spite, and that their being together now is merely a coincidence, I have to admit it's pretty disturbing to see it played out.
But even though I refuse to watch it, I still try to listen —hoping to hear something pertinent, some vital information exchange. But just as I focus my attention and try to tune in, I'm met by a big wall of sound —all of those voices and thoughts merging together, making it impossible to distinguish any particular one.
"You know, Friday night?" Roman continues, his long fingers tapping the sides of his soda can, refusing to budge from this line of questioning, even though I refuse to participate. "When I found you alone? I have to tell you, Ever, I felt awful leaving you like that, but then again, you insisted."
I glance at him, uninterested in playing this game but thinking that if I just answer his question, then maybe he'll leave. "I made it home just fine. Thanks for your concern."
He smiles, the grin that probably makes a million hearts swoon —but only chills mine. Then he leans in and says, "Aw, now look at that, you're being sarcastic, aren't you?"
I shrug and gaze down at my apple, rolling it back and forth across the table.
"I just wish you'd tell me what I've done to make you hate me so much. I'm sure there's got to be some kind of peaceful solution, some way to remedy tills."
I press my lips together and stare at my apple, rolling it along on its side as I push it hard against the table, feeling its flesh soften and give as the skin starts to break.
"Let me take you to dinner," he says, his blue eyes focused on mine. "What do you say? A right and proper date. Just the two of us. I'll get the car detailed, buy some new clothes, make a reservation somewhere swank —a good time guaranteed!"
I shake my head and roll my eyes, the only response I plan to give.
But Roman's undaunted, refusing to fold. "Aw, come on, Ever. Give a bloke a chance to change your mind.
You can opt out at anytime, scout's honor. Hell, we'll even make up a safe word. You know, if at any time you decide things have strayed too far from your comfort level, you just shout out the safe word, all activity will cease, and neither of us will ever speak of it again." He pushes his soda aside and slides his hands toward mine, the tips of his fingers creeping so close, I yank mine away. "Come on, give a little, will ya? How can you say no to an offer like that?"
His voice is deep and persuasive, his gaze right on mine, but I just continue rolling my apple, watching the flesh burst free of the skin.
"I promise it'll be nothing like those rubbish dates that wanker Damen probably takes you on. For one thing, I'd never leave a girl as gorgeous as you to fend for herself in a parking lot." He looks at me, a smile playing at his lips when he says, "Well, I suppose I did leave a gorgeous girl like you to fend for herself, but only because I was honoring your request. See? I've already proven I'm at your service, willing to jump at your every command."
"What's with you?" I finally say, peering into those blue eyes without flinching or looking away. Wishing he'd just give it a rest and rejoin the only other lunch table in tills school, the one where everybody's welcome but me. "I mean, does everyone have to like you? Is that it? And if so, don't you think that's just a tad insecure?"
He laughs. And I mean, a genuine, thigh-slapping laugh. And when he finally calms down, he shakes his head and says, "Well no, not everyone. Though I do have to admit, it is usually the case." He leans toward me, his face mere inches from mine. "What can I say?
I'm a likable guy. Most people find me quite charming."
I shake my head and look away, tired of being toyed with and eager to put an end to this game. "Well, I'm sorry to break it to you, but I'm afraid you're going to have to count me among the rare few who aren't the least bit charmed by you. But please, do us both a favor and try not to view it as a challenge and set out to change my mind. Why don't you just go rejoin your table and leave me alone. I mean, why bring everyone together if you don't plan to enjoy all the fun?"
He looks at me, smiling and shaking his head as he slides off the bench, his eyes right on mine when he says, "Ever, you are mad hot. Seriously. And if I didn't know better, I'd think you were purposely trying to drive me insane."
I roll my eyes and look away.
"But, not wanting to wear out my welcome and recognizing the signs of a bloke being told to sod off, I think I'll just —" He jabs his thumb toward the table where the whole school is sitting. "Though, of course, if you change your mind and want to come join me, I'm sure I can convince them to make room." I shake my head and motion for him to go, my throat hot and tight, unable to speak, knowing that despite all appearances, I haven't won this one—in fact, I'm not even close.
"Oh, and I thought you might want these," he says, placing my shoes on the table, as though my strappy, faux snakeskin wedges are some kind of peace offering. "But don't worry, no need to thank me." He laughs, glancing over his shoulder to say, "You might want to take it easy on that apple though, you're giving it quite the beating."
I squeeze tighter, watching as he heads straight for Haven, trails a finger down the length of her neck and presses his lips to her ear. Causing me to grip the apple so hard it explodes in my hand —its sticky wet juice slipping down the length of my fingers and onto my wrist—as Roman looks over and laughs.
CHAPTER 19
When I get to art, I head straight for the supply closet, slip into my smock, gather my supplies, and am just heading back into the room when I see Damen standing in the doorway, wearing a strange look on his face. A look that, while it may be strange, also fills me with hope, as his eyes are sort of vacant, his jaw slack, and he seems lost and unsure, like he might need my help.
Knowing I need to seize the moment while it's standing there slack jawed before me, I lean toward him, gently touching his arm as I say, "Damen?" My voice shaky, scratchy, as though it's the first time I've used it all day. "Damen, honey, are you okay?" My eyes graze over him, fighting the urge to press my lips hard against his.
He looks at me with a Hash of recognition that's soon joined by kindness, longing, and love. And as my fingers strain toward his cheek, my eyes fill with tears, seeing his reddish brown aura fade and knowing he's mine once again —
And then:
"Ay mate, move along, move along, you're holdin' up the flow of traffic 'ere."
And just like that, the old Damen's gone, and the new Damen's back.
He pushes past me, his aura flaring, his thoughts repulsed by my touch. Then I press against the wall, cringing as Roman follows behind, accidentally brushing his body against mine.
"Sorry 'bout that, luv." He smiles, his face leering.
I close my eyes and grasp the wall for support. My head swaying as the euphoric swirl of his bright sunshiny aura —his intense, expansive, optimistic energy —washes right through me. Infusing my mind with images so hopeful, so friendly, so innocuous, they fill me with shame —shame for all my suspicions —shame for being so unkind—
And yet —there's something not quite right about it.
Something off in the rhythm. Most minds are a jumble of beats, a rush of words, a swirl of pictures, a cacophony of sounds all tumbling together like the most disjointed jazz. But Roman's mind is orderly, organized, with one thought flowing cleanly into the next. Making it sound forced, unnatural, like a prerecorded script —
"By the looks of you, darlin', it seems that was almost as good for you as it was for me. You sure you won't change your mind about that date?" His chilled breath presses my cheek, his lips so close I fear he might try to kiss me. And just as I'm about to push him away, Damen walks past us and says, "Dude, seriously, what're you doing? That spaz is not worth your time."
That spaz is not worth your time that spaz is not worth your time that spaz is not worth your time that spaz is not worth your time that spaz is not worth your time that spaz is not — "Ever? Have you grown?"
I look up to find Sabine standing next to me, handing me a freshly rinsed bowl that's meant for the dishwasher. And it's only after I blink a few times that I remember it's my job to put it there.
"Sorry, what?" I ask, my fingers gripping the soapy wet porcelain as I ease it onto the rack. Unable to think about anything but Damen, and the hurtful words I use to torture myself with, by replaying them again and again.
"You look like you've grown. In fact, I'm sure of it.
Aren't those the jeans I just bought you?"
I gaze down at my feet, startled to find several inches of ankle exposed. Which is even more bizarre when I remember how just this morning the hems dragged on the floor. "Um —maybe," I lie, knowing that we both know they are.