Page 58
Because in this version of the events, I’m inside when the fire starts. In reality, we were away on our senior trip, pretending to be normal teenagers with uncomplicated pasts. But my brain drops me into the middle of the fire every time like I’m supposed to be there, suffering the same way our foster parents did before they died.
The gray veil curls along the ceiling, gaining momentum. I notice it too late, lost in my thoughts. By the time I open the bedroom door, the hallway air is thick with smoke. With every inhale, the suffocating blaze crawls into my lungs.
“Eli?” I call out, my voice echoing strangely around the space. “You here?”
No answer.
“Jax?”
Nothing.
My feet move before my brain catches up, bare soles slapping against the stained carpet as I run toward the living room. Panic rises in my chest, pressing into my ribs. Flames follow my hurried steps and lick along the walls, trying to catch me before I make it to my brothers. Heat blasts into me from behind, forcing me to stagger, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
“Eli!” I shout, my throat burning. “Jax!”
A part of me knows they’re not here. But in this fabricated memory they always are, waiting for me to find them. Too bad they never stay in the same place. I push down the hallway, trying doors one by one. The first opens to nothing but haze. The second room is empty with a single doll on the floor. The third door slams against the wall as I shove it open and there’s still no one there.
Fuck, where are they?
A loud pop sounds in the distance and I keep moving. “Where are you?” I choke, coughing as my lungs seize. My eyes water and everything blurs. The air tastes of ash and panic fills my airways.
A sound cuts through the roar. For a second I imagine Eli’s laugh. Then Jax tells someone to move faster and the words echo in the space.
“I’m here!” I shout, turning toward the voices. “I’m coming, just—”
A crack splits the air. Then another. The living room ceiling gives in and part of it collapses with a deafening crash. Furnace-like air prickles across my skin and I squeeze my eyes shut in agony. I reach forward without seeing, arm outstretched in front of me, hoping to catch my friends.
“I’m here,” I rasp. “I’m here, I’m—”
I jerk upright, the terrified scream tearing out of my throat before I can stop it. My chest heaves and lungs burn as if I inhaled smoke. Sweat clings to my skin, soaking the sheet beneath me. My heart pounds so hard it might crack a rib if I don’t calm down. For a second I don’t know where I am. Then Tilly starts crying; the sharp, startled wail slices straight through the haze.
Reality snaps back into place in jagged pieces—bedroom, Brooklyn, baby.
“Fuck,” I rasp and turn on the lamp on my nightstand.
Tilly’s in the crib beside my bed, face scrunched and red, fists flailing as she shrieks in outrage at being dragged out of sleep. Guilt slams into me hard enough to make my stomach twist.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur as I lift her. “I’m sorry, Tills. Uncle Ollie’s here. You’re okay. We’re okay.”
Her crying doesn’t stop right away, but the sound softens as I rock her against my chest. I sway, trying to steady my breathing so she doesn’t feel how badly I’m shaking. My pulse is still racing and my hands aren’t steady. The nightmare has wrapped around me like smoke.
The bedroom door opens and Peyton appears, hair messy from sleep, her glasses slightly crooked on her nose. She takes in the scene in one quick sweep: me sitting on the edge of the bed with Tilly in my arms, both of us wide awake.
“Are you okay? I heard someone screaming.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
Her eyes narrow and I look at Tilly instead of letting her see my panic. She’s still fussing, her small body warm against mine. I focus on the steady rise and fall of her breathing.
“Just a nightmare,” I mutter to no one.
Peyton steps closer. “Can I take her for a minute?”
I hesitate, then nod and pass Tilly over. She settles the baby against her shoulder with practiced ease, whispering soft words under her breath. Tilly quiets almost instantly and her fingers curl into the fabric of Peyton’s shirt. Traitor.
Her gaze flicks back to me. “You’re shaking.”
“I’ll live.”
