I Am Not Jessica Chen(57)
“I’m afraid you’ll have to,” he says. “Unless that’s why we’re in these mountains? Is this all an elaborate plot to murder me?”
“Don’t expose my plans, please. It took a lot of effort getting you here.”
“Is Jessica in on it too?”
The mention of her name hits me like ice water. I deflate, and the wilderness in the background sharpens into focus again, the sound of sparrows chirping and small creatures scurrying through the thornbushes. Jessica Chen. There’s an unspoken equation here: the three of us versus the two of us. Friends versus something else. Maybe that’s why he brought her up—to remind me that we can’t be anything else. I tug the sleeves of my sweater down over my fingers and walk faster, my eyes trained on the dark blue slope of the mountains ahead, still and silent as a slate sea.
Then a sharp pain tears through my left calf.
I freeze, and the first thing I register isn’t the branch twisting into my skin but Aaron’s expression, his eyes widened slightly, his jaw tight. He’s beside me in an instant, one arm sliding around me to support my weight as I lower myself down onto a boulder.
“Let me see,” he says, and I don’t even think twice about it, just nod. My mind feels fuzzy at the edges; everything stings. He could ask anything of me in that moment, and I’d probably agree.
Very slowly, he wraps his long fingers around my bare ankle, stretching my leg out a little before him, and inspects the wound. I hiss. Blood is flowing from a fresh gash the length of my thumb, the red so vivid I can’t imagine it’s something that could come from my own body. It looks almost artificial, like food dye or acrylic paint.
“You’ll be okay,” he murmurs.
And for some reason, even though I’m bleeding up in the mountains miles away from home and I can barely see the sun anymore, I believe him.
“I should clean this out first, though,” he says.
I flinch. “Wait. What?” My voice rises an octave. “That, um—that sounds really painful. Will it be painful?”
“Only for a bit. It’s better than an infection.”
I manage a weak scoff. “You sound like a doctor already.”
He smiles then, or tries to, but only his lips move. The rest of his features are hard, focused, his eyes burning with a rare intensity. “Maybe hold on to something—that should help. I’ll try to be quick.”
Without thinking, I grab his shoulder, and I feel the surprise flicker between us, the air rippling like water, though we both do our best to hide it. Act like nothing’s happening, when everything is. At least for me. I watch him as he takes out the bottle of water he’s been carrying, unscrews the lid with steady fingers, his movements fast and certain. Then he splashes it over my leg.
The pain is instant. I clench my teeth around a yell, my nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, so tight I know it must be hurting him, but he doesn’t utter a single word of complaint. Instead he’s apologizing, his voice low and hoarse. “Sorry,” he keeps saying, one hand still wrapped firmly around my lower calf. “Sorry, almost done now. It’s going to be fine.”
Through the hazy film of tears, I stare at him, the white of his neck, the intense concentration in his eyes, and it takes me a delayed beat to realize that he’s scared. Maybe even more scared than I am, when I didn’t think he could be scared of anything. My blood quickens in my veins. I imagine reaching out across that cold space and touching his cheek. Just once, gently. I imagine wrapping my arms around him when he’s done, leaning all the way against him, thanking him the way I want to. Nobody else would know, except us and the sky and the trees. At the mere thought of it, I feel a rush of longing so violent it almost strangles me. Will it always be like this? I wonder, squeezing my eyes shut, feeling the places his fingers touch my skin. Is this as close as we’ll ever be?
“Jenna,” he calls, a second or a lifetime later. “Jenna.”
“Jessica.”
Time resets itself, like a dislocated bone. I’m someone else, and someone else’s mom is waving me over.
“Look at this,” my aunt is saying, pointing ahead of us at something in the shrubbery. “Did you see the butterfly? I’ve never seen one with so many colors in its wings before. It was right here.”
That old saying floats across my mind again. To dream of becoming a butterfly. I’ve been busy deliberating why the dream started, but I’m not so sure if I’m ready for the dream to end. Would the butterfly be relieved to turn back into a human? Or would the butterfly miss being able to fly too much?
Thirteen
On our climb back down the mountain, my aunt insists on inviting Aaron over to stay for the rest of the afternoon.
“You must have some tea and fruit after that long hike,” my aunt says. “And I’m sure Jessica would be very happy to spend more time with you.”
I’m slightly horrified by this overt attempt at matchmaking, and it couldn’t have come at a worse time. With the note’s threat looming over my head, the idea of having afternoon tea feels as frivolous and ill-advised as throwing a party while a tsunami is visibly approaching from the shores.
“That’s really okay,” Aaron tries to say, exchanging a pointed look with me, but it’s futile. Once my aunt decides something, even the gods can’t change her mind.