After he tells me to be careful, I start to lean in for a kiss.

But stop.

I can’t go there—we can’t go there—until I figure this out.

I plod home slowly, rain trickling down my neck from where the wind blows it into my face. The chill wakes me up. Its bite is so sharp it seems to scrape the skin on my cheeks, but it grounds me, reminds me that I’m here. That I’m alive.

It used to only take simple things to do that—the feel of fresh air on my skin, the smell of bread baking, the sound of children laughing.

Now my reminders have to be harsh, and I admit, it frightens me.

My head is spinning. Being betrayed by Reese and Elizabeth was bad enough. The rest is hard to even contemplate.

I can make stuff.

Stuff that disappears in about five minutes.

It’s not so bad, I try to convince myself as I turn up the front walk. I’m breathing. I’m healthy. And that doesn’t seem to be changing. At least not in the very immediate future.

As in, tonight.

But the sight of the house—the place I have, until this afternoon, thought of as my home—brings everything back. Truth is, I’m seeing things that aren’t there, people are both hunting for and hiding me, and, oh yes, the laws of physics apparently no longer apply. Did the brain surgeons do this to me? Is it something I could do before? Am I dying as a result, or is someone trying to kill me?

I don’t even know for certain which side my aunt and uncle are on.

I reach for the doorknob but can’t make myself turn it. Instead I sit on the top step of the porch, barely protected from the downpour, and curl my arms around my knees, pulling them close to my chest. For hours now my mind has been racing. Running around and around the same problems, worries, and suspicions until my brain feels physically tired.

Everything with Quinn and now Benson is tipping me over the edge. I’m not sure I can handle things changing with Benson—even a good change. He’s my rock, the one solid thing in the hurricane of my life.

But the feel of his lips on mine …

I jerk my hand down from where my fingers are gingerly touching my mouth, reliving those minutes. Perfect minutes.

Not now.

I have to figure things out with Quinn first.

Quinn, who I might be in love with.

It sounds crazy, but I’ve never in my life felt an emotion this overpowering. It’s like quicksand, threatening to drag me under the more I try to fight it. He makes me feel like someone I know I’m not—someone who’ll take risks, throw logic out the window, gamble it all for the thrill.

I’ve been a stranger in my own body before, and I don’t like the similarities.

If only it was merely a matter of the heart. But Quinn has answers; I’m sure of it. He knows me. The way he looks at me—as though he hears my inner thoughts, my darkest secrets. Things I don’t know about myself.

A week ago I had a normal crush on Benson. Steady, comfortable Benson. Now I’ve moved on to an intense physical relationship with him even while I’m obsessed with another guy who I can’t find, can’t contact—and yet he makes me feel more alive than I have since my parents died.

It’s too much. Too fast. With both of them.

And where does that leave me?

I stare out at the storm lashing the bushes and trees now as it ramps up its violence; it’s a fitting mirror of my own emotions.

The screen door behind me opens and my spine snaps straight. “Tavia? Is that you?” Reese peers at me down on the steps. “Are you okay?” Her brow is crumpled into the slightest furrow; enough to look concerned, but not fake. You’d think she wasn’t nosing behind my back with my therapist just a few hours ago.

My mouth is dry and sticky and I can’t say anything. Reese drops onto the step beside me. “I’m fine.” I choke out the words, a little surprised when my ears hear my voice and it sounds okay.

But Reese isn’t quite convinced; I guess I’m not as good a liar as her.

“Long day,” I tack on, and smile weakly.

Reese pulls in a breath, as though through a straw, then hesitates. “Where have you been?” she asks, the words coming out in a rush, like it was difficult to say. “You were gone all day.”

She rarely asks. Elizabeth told her not to. No questions when I go out, no bugging me for my whereabouts. I am eighteen, after all. I used to think Elizabeth was protecting me, but now I see it for what it is—a false sense of security to keep me off guard. Not freedom, merely the illusion of it.

Now Reese is breaking the rules. She’s asking.

I try to decide what that means and it only makes my head ache. “With Benson,” I mumble, too tired to think of a lie.

“Did … did you guys have some kind of a fight? You look a little sick. Pale,” she amends.

“I skipped lunch.” Sadly, also true. Maybe I could cope better if my stomach wasn’t getting angry with me. But it’s still roiling and churning despite the pile of mini candy bars I ate with Benson.

Or perhaps because of them.

“Tave,” Reese scolds, rising to her feet. “You can’t skip meals—your body needs the nutrients. You’re still—” Her voice cuts off.

But I practically hear the word as if she shouted it.

Healing.

More than any of the others, Reese has always avoided talking about my injuries. Before this evening I liked that. It made me feel less self-conscious, like she saw me, not a walking mass of stitches and scars.