Boundless (Unearthly, #3)(14)

I cross my arms over my chest, shiver even though it’s not cold. “Jeffrey,” I say quietly. “We can’t just run away from our problems.”

He flinches, then pushes past me for the door. “It was a mistake coming here,” he mutters, and I wonder, Why did he come here? Why did he want to see me?

“Wait.” I start after him, catch his arm.

“Let go, Clara. I’m done playing games. I’m done with all of it. I’m not going to have anyone else tell me what to do, ever again. I’m going to do what I want.”

“I’m sorry!” I stop, take a breath. “I’m sorry,” I try again, more quietly. “You’re right. It’s not my place to boss you around. I’m not—”

Mom, I think, but the word doesn’t come out. I let go of his arm and take a couple steps back. “I’m sorry,” I say again.

He looks at me hard for a minute like he’s deciding how much to tell me.

“Mom knew,” he says finally. “She knew that I was going to run away.”

I stare at him. “How?”

He scoffs. “She said a little bird told her.”

It sounds exactly like something Mom would say. “She was kind of infuriating, wasn’t she?”

“Yeah. A real know-it-all.” He smiles the raw-hurt kind of smile. It breaks my heart.

“Jeffrey—” I want to tell him about heaven then, about seeing Mom, but he doesn’t let me.

“The point is, she knew,” he says. “She even kind of prepared me for it.”

“But maybe I could—”

“No. I don’t need you messing up my life right now.” He looks embarrassed, like he just caught on to how rude he sounds. “I mean, I have to make it on my own, Clara. All right? But I’m okay. That’s what I came to tell you. You don’t have to worry. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” I murmur, my voice suddenly thick. I clear my throat, get a hold of myself. “Jeffrey—”

“I’ve got to get back,” he says.

I nod like it totally makes sense that he would have somewhere he needs to be at five in the morning. “Do you need money?”

“No,” he says, but he waits while I sprint up to my room to get my wallet, and he takes some when I give it to him.

“If you need anything, call me,” I order him. “I mean it. Call me.”

“Why, so you can boss me around?” he says, but he sounds good-natured about it.

I walk him to the front door. It’s chilly outside. I worry that he’s not wearing a coat. I worry that the forty-two dollars I gave him won’t be enough to keep him safe and fed. I worry that I’ll never see him again.

“Now’s when you let go of my arm,” he says.

I make my fingers release.

“Jeffrey, wait,” I say as he starts to walk away.

He doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t turn back. “I’ll call you, Clara.”

“You’d better,” I yell after him.

He rounds the corner of the building. I wait for all of three seconds before I run after him, but when I get there, he’s gone.

That stupid crow is hanging out at my happiness class, perched on a branch right outside the window, watching me. I’m supposed to be meditating right now, which means I have to sit and look like I’m chilling with the sixty or so students who are spread out in various meditative positions on the floor, letting go of all my worldly thoughts and whatnot, which I can’t do because if I did I’d start glowing like a tanning bed. I’m supposed to have my eyes closed, but I keep opening them to see if the bird is still there, and it is every time I check, looking straight at me through the glass with those bright yellow eyes, taunting me, like, Oh yeah, what are you going to do about it?

It’s a coincidence, I think. It’s not the same bird. It can’t be. It looks like the same bird, but then, don’t all crows look alike? What does it want?

This is clearly putting a major kink in my quest for inner peace.

“Excellent job, everyone,” says Dr. Welch, stretching his arms over his head. “Now let’s take a few minutes to write in our gratitude journals, and then we’ll start the discussion.”

Go away, I think at the bird. Don’t be a Black Wing. Just be a stupid bird. I don’t want to deal with a Black Wing right now.

It cocks its head at me, caws once, and flies off.

I take a deep breath and let it out. I’m being paranoid, I tell myself again. It’s only a bird. It’s only a bird. Stop wigging yourself out.

I am grateful that meditation time is over, is what I write in my journal. Just to be snarky.

The guy sitting next to me looks over, sees what I’ve jotted onto my paper, and smirks.

“I’m not good at it, either,” he says.

If only he knew. But I smile and nod.

“You’re Clara, right?” he whispers. “I remember you from that stupid introductory game we played on the first day.”

Dr. Welch clears his throat and looks pointedly at the two of us, which means, You’re supposed to be grateful right now. Not talking.

The guy grins and turns his notebook slightly so I can see what he’s writing. I’m Thomas. I’m grateful that this class is pass/fail.