Never (Never, #1) (72)

“Daphne,” Rye calls as I scurry out of the tavern, definitely not crying, because why would I be crying? Rye reaches over and wipes my face. He looks sorry for me. “Not your week.”

I sniff a laugh that sounds a bit like a cry, but to reiterate, I’m definitely not crying.

“Want me to walk you back?” He nods his head to my side of the island.

I nod once, but I can’t meet his eyes. “Please.”

When I get home, it’s getting dark, and I take a few moments to myself, breathe in the cool, damp air, feel the ground beneath my feet, tell myself I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.

This is what I came here for. Peter is who I came here for.

I might have lost sight of that for a second—tricked, let’s call it, actually. I was tricked, and it’ll be my secret, and I won’t think about fires and snow the same way ever again.

I take a big breath to steady myself and wipe away the last dregs of tears that don’t belong here anymore when Rune zips in, hovering in front of me.

She chimes.

“I’m fine.” I shake my head. “I’m just going to head inside.”

She chimes and I stare at her, confused. Then she grabs my hair and pulls it away from the tree house.

“Ow!” I stare at her. “What are you doing? No, it wasn’t Peter. No. No, truly, it wasn’t. Well, if you must know, it was Jamison.”

She chimes again.

“No!” I shake my head at her. “Nothing happened I don’t li—” I give her a tight smile. “I—” I breathe out and swallow. I won’t keep crying over him. “I can’t talk about this, Rune. I—please let me just go inside.”

I move past her and walk into the house, and the boys are sitting around the table.

Peter grins up at me happily and walks over, kissing me a lot and more than I deserve, considering things I shall no longer be considering.

“Girl.” He smiles. “I was wondering where you were.”

“Were you?” I smile, relieved and delighted.

“I have a new boy for us.”

I look at him, confused. “What?”

Peter points to a child I’ve never seen before. “This is…” Peter trails off, trying to remember, and I backflip over and around everything Jamison fucking Hook said about Peter.

“Holden.” Kinley smiles, proud of himself for remembering.

He’s young. About ten, maybe? Eleven at very best. Really golden hair, big brown eyes. He gives me a hopeful, nervous smile.

“Hi.” I smile at him as surely as I can. “Holden, I’m Daphne.”

When he doesn’t say anything immediately, Percival elbows him.

“I know.” He nods a lot. “And you are not my mother.”

I flash him an uncertain smile. “Right.”

“Nor my girlfriend,” he adds.

I nod again. “Also true.”

“She is my girlfriend though,” Peter announces, and I look over at him, surprised.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I wouldn’t like you to be anyone else’s girlfriend, so you have to be mine.”

“Okay.” I nod, squashing away a smile.

And then I notice something. I look around over my shoulder.

“Where’s Brodie?”

“Hm?” Peter asks, shoveling food into his mouth, and Kinley and Percival look over at Peter, waiting.

“Where is Brodie?” I sit on my hands, feeling a little bit concerned.

“Oh.” Peter shrugs. “He got lost at sea today.”

“What?” I yell.

Peter throws his head back, laughing, but I’m just staring at him, worried.

“I’m joking, Wendy.” He grins.

I don’t correct him.

“Where is he, Peter?” I ask clearly. “Really.”

Peter takes a drink and then has a bite of his bread roll.

“He found his brother.” Peter flashes me a quick smile. “And they lived happily ever after.”





* * *



* The table girl.





CHAPTER

ELEVEN


Thoughts are like helium balloons—someone said that to me once. They drift into your mind, and you can choose to grab the string—hold on to the thought tightly, think of it, dwell on it, mull it over—or you can let it go.

Neverland, in general, is a place where balloons of thought drift by frequently and easily, but were I to be entirely forthcoming, I’d be remiss not to admit that anytime the Jamison balloon drifts into my consciousness, I not only grab it by its string, but sometimes I leap into the air to reach for it and yank it down close to my face so I can look at it properly.

“Peter.” I sit down next to him, his brown legs dangling over one of the balcony nets, hands cupped together with a little blue bird sitting in them, staring at it intensely.

“Yes, girl?” he says without looking at me.

“You know that place in the sky where you can go—” I pause, trying to think how to say it without arousing potential suspicion. “The place…with the baggage?”

He nods, still not looking away from the bird, who’s staring back at him just as intensely.