It’s the first time she’s actually used the word “die.” The first time she’s actually acknowledged what happened to my parents by name. The fact that she has makes it so much easier to say, “Thank you,” and mean it, even as I remember that Jaxon didn’t shy away from it, either. He might have been a jackass all the way around, but he called my parents’ death what it was. And didn’t treat me like I was going to shatter under the weight of one harsh word.
Maybe that’s why I’m still thinking about him when I should be writing him off for the jerk he is.
She nods, watching me out of worried eyes that only make me feel worse.
“I should probably get unpacked.” I look down at my suitcases with distaste. It feels like I just packed them. The last thing I want to do is empty them right now. Not when my electric-pink bed is calling me like a beacon.
“I can totally help with that.” She points at a door across the room. “Why don’t you go take a shower and get into your pajamas? I’ll check on the soup my dad said he sent up. Then you can eat, take some Advil, and get some rest. Hopefully, when you wake up, you’ll be better acclimated to the altitude.”
“That sounds…” I really do feel crappy, and a shower sounds amazing. As does sleep, considering I’ve been so nervous about the move that I haven’t gotten much in the last week or so.
“Perfect, right?” She fills in the blank.
“It really does, yeah.”
“Good.” She walks to her closet and pulls out a couple extra towels. “If you want to hop in the shower, I’ll get you some warm soup and hopefully, in half an hour, this whole day will feel a lot better.”
“Thanks, Macy.” I turn to look at her. “I mean it.”
A grin splits her face and lights up her eyes. “You’re welcome.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m out of the shower and dressed in my favorite pair of pajamas—a Harry Styles T-shirt from his first solo tour and a pair of blue fleece pants with white and yellow daisies all over them—only to find Macy dancing around the room to “Watermelon Sugar.”
Talk about kismet.
Macy oohs and aahs over the concert tee—as she should—but other than that, she pretty much leaves me alone. Except to make sure I drink an entire thirty-two-ounce bottle of water and take the Advil she left on my nightstand.
There’s a bowl of chicken noodle soup on my nightstand, too, but right now I don’t have the energy to eat. Instead, I climb into bed and pull the hot-pink covers over my head.
The last thing I think about before drifting off to sleep is that—despite everything—tonight is the first time I’ve taken a shower without struggling not to cry since my parents died.
6
No, I Really
Don’t Want to
Build a Snowman
I wake up slowly, head fuzzy and body as heavy as stone. It takes me a second to remember where I am—Alaska—and that the light snores that fill the room belong to Macy and not Heather, whose room I crashed in for the last three weeks.
I sit up, trying to ignore the unfamiliar howls and roars—and even the occasional animalistic scream—in the distance. It’s enough to freak anyone out, let alone a girl born and raised in the city, but I comfort myself by remembering there’s a giant castle wall between me and all the animals making those noises…
Still, if I’m being honest, it isn’t the utter foreignness of this place that has my brain racing overtime. Yes, being in Alaska is bizarre on what feels like every level. But once I banish thoughts of my old life, it isn’t Alaska that woke me up at—I glance at the clock—3:23 in the morning. And it’s not Alaska that’s keeping me awake.
It’s him.
Jaxon Vega.
I don’t know anything more about him than I did when he left me standing in the hallway, angry and confused and hurting more than I want to admit—except that he’s the most popular guy at Katmere Academy. And that he’s angsty, which…no kidding. I didn’t exactly need a crystal ball to guess that.
But seriously, nothing Macy told me matters, because I’ve decided I don’t want to know any more about him.
More, I don’t want to know him.
Yet when I close my eyes, I can still see him so perfectly. His clenched jaw. The thin scar that runs the length of his face. The black ice of his eyes that lets me see for a second—just a second—that he knows as much about pain as I do. Maybe more.
It’s that pain I think of most as I sit here in the dark. That pain that makes me worry for him when I shouldn’t give a damn one way or the other.