The Hearts We Sold(81)

She lunged to her feet, rushed toward the void.

James. She was not sure if she thought his name or spoke it aloud, but—

The void imploded.

The world was saved.

A girl got her heart back.

And lost it in the same moment.





THIRTY-EIGHT


T he second time James Lancer lost his heart, it was in Portland.

His two-year contract was up. The Daemon came to his apartment, a heart in hand.

But James would not let him put it back in. He accepted the heart, shoved it in his backpack.

Because he had discovered his own Rumpelstiltskin clause.

He knew how to outwit a fairy tale. All it would cost was one heart, one life.

Which was really nothing at all, to him.

He took his heart into the void, and when the moment was right, he gave it to the girl to whom it already belonged.

As for the girl, Dee sat on the floor of the ruined mall, back to the wall, damp and numb, silent and hurting more than she could ever remember. She distantly felt Riley’s hands on her, trying to rouse her. Riley was speaking all the while, senseless words that blurred together.

But Dee couldn’t hear what Riley said. All she could hear was the pulse of a heartbeat loud in her ears.





THIRTY-NINE


T ime passed in fits and starts.

Dee barely noticed; she moved through the world in a daze. The only part of her that felt real was the too-loud thumping in her chest. The rest of her body felt numb, as if she’d been held under cold water too long.

The weeks leading up to finals were a blur. She had a few recollections of that time—mostly of Riley determinedly quizzing her on history dates and English authors. “You saved my life,” she had said, her mouth set in a grim line. “And I am not going to let you flunk out of your ritzy-ass boarding school.” And then she shoved another textbook in Dee’s hands and began making flash cards.

As luck would have it, she did not fail any of her finals. She sleepwalked through essay answers and gave an oral presentation without a single memory of how it went, but apparently Riley had done her work well, because Dee found herself packing up at the end of the year with the knowledge that she hadn’t flunked out.

She wasn’t eating much. Anything she put in her mouth was about as appetizing as raw clay. Going to the dining hall felt like an enormous undertaking. Gremma tried to feed her.

The first morning, Gremma brought a bagel and cream cheese.

It didn’t happen again.

Then Gremma began bringing her soft food—oatmeal and cubed melon pieces, as if grief were some sort of illness. She also took to carrying around little boxes of cereal in her bag, and passing them to Dee at intervals throughout the day.

Riley was still living at the loft apartment. She said she had received paperwork saying that the lease had been put in her name several weeks ago—and it had been paid for two years.

Dee couldn’t be sure, because phone conversations were fuzzy like that, but she thought Riley might have been crying when she said it.

James, thought Dee, and a fresh wave of misery swept through her. He had done his work well, ensuring that Riley would have a place to stay for as long as she needed it. And of course it was just like him to do it without telling anyone—the underhanded bastard.

She snorted out a laugh that dissolved into a sob.

There was no funeral.

According to the Internet, James simply vanished. There was no body to be found anyway. It had been exploded.

Imploded, came Cal’s wry voice. Another ghost living in her brain.

Luckily for Dee, no one had known James well enough to identify his friends. No police came knocking at anyone’s door, and there was no great fuss over his disappearance. Most people thought he’d gone the way of a tortured artist and thrown himself off a bridge.




She barely remembered the chaos of moving out of the dorm, of placing her belongings in boxes and taping them shut. But then she was handing over her dorm key, signing out her name, and striding to the Camaro.

She settled in the backseat, numb and silent, as Gremma revved the engine. “Newport,” she said, “here we come.”

The Newport beach house was situated… well, along the beach. It was two stories, decorated with what Gremma referred to as “vacation house tacky chic.” There were too many seashells and a miniature buoy in the bathroom, and it was designed so all the windows could be opened. A porch led out to the beach; there was a wooden picnic table, several chairs, and a fire pit.

Dee could see how easily this place might become Gremma’s party den—the roof was just sloped enough to sit on comfortably, and there was a fully stocked liquor cabinet in the basement.

Dee took the smaller, upstairs bedroom while Gremma and Riley claimed the master. There was a moment of awkwardness when Dee walked up the stairs; she felt clumsy, out of place, a hanger-on to their romantic summer getaway.

Slowly, though, Dee began to come back to herself. She helped make meals, walked with Riley and Gremma to the local arcade, watched as Gremma played first-person shooter games and tried to win a giant stuffed bear. They made meals together, cobbled together stir-fries and even tried making homemade pizza once.

Gremma’s parents called and informed them they would be visiting at some point. “To check up on me,” said Gremma. “But whatever. They’re cool, we’re cool. And besides, they’ll want to meet the girlfriend.”