Boundless (Unearthly, #3)(25)

“Okay,” I say, although I don’t know if it will work for me to be the one who gives it to him. Last night between Tucker and me did not go well. But Tucker has a right, I remind myself, to be mad at me. And I never even apologized for what I did. I never tried to make it right. “I think that’s a great idea,” I tell Jeffrey.

“Thanks,” he says, and I can see in his eyes how he knows it isn’t enough, given all he’s taken from Tucker, all we’ve taken, but he’s trying to make amends.

Maybe my brother’s going to turn out okay, after all.

After breakfast I head back to Stanford, full of carbs and deep thoughts. I plan to have a nice, low-key kind of day, maybe take a nap, get started writing a paper I’ve been procrastinating on all week. But I run into Amy as I pass by the Roble game lounge, and she ropes me into a game of table hockey. She rants about how the administration has canceled the Full Moon on the Quad—which is where students meet up around midnight on the night of the full moon and kiss each other while a local band plays romantic music in the background, basically a ritualized-and-thereby-socially-acceptable, well-lit make-out session—because they’re afraid we’re going to spread mono all over campus.

“I don’t see how they can stop us, though,” she’s saying. “I mean, there’s still going to be a full moon and the quad’s still going to be there and we’re still going to have our lips.”

I nod and grumble agreeably about how unfair it is, but I could care less. I’m still ruminating on the conversation at breakfast: Jeffrey with a new set of opinions and a new love interest and a new vision.

“Well, I think it’s kind of gross,” Amy says. “Don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s so much older than she is.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Wait, who’s older?”

“You know. The guy Angela’s hooking up with.”

I stare at her. The puck clatters into my goal. “What? What guy?”

“I can’t remember his name, but he’s definitely older. A senior, probably. Oh my god, what is his name—I know this!” Amy scoffs at herself in disgust. “I swear, my brain is so crammed full of random facts for my philosophy exam on Monday that it can’t hold any more information. Seriously, it’s on the tip of my tongue. Starts with P.”

I feel immediately guilty that I didn’t call Angela last night after my dad told me to watch out for her. My mind whirls. Why would Phen come here? What could he want? What happened to we’re just friends and we know it’s impossible for us to be together and it’s temporary and all that other crap he fed to Angela this summer? I know I probably shouldn’t be butting into Angela’s love life—not again, anyway—but this is seriously bad. Phen claims that he’s not on the side of evil, but he’s definitely not, from what I saw this summer, on the side of good. Angela deserves something better. I’ve always thought so.

“Pierce!” Amy bursts out, relieved. “That’s it.”

Hold up. “Pierce? The PHE? That’s who you think is involved with Angela?”

“That’s the guy,” she confirms. “The one who helped me with my ankle that time. He’s a senior, right?”

This I do not believe. Angela’s all wrapped up in her purpose right now, even more obsessed than usual, it seems. No way would she take time out to mess around with some random guy. Something is wrong, I think. Something weird is going on.

“Why do you think Angela’s been hooking up with Pierce?” I grill Amy.

“Well, because she’s been going out all of a sudden, like almost every night. And two nights this week she didn’t come back to the room at all, and Robin saw her this morning coming out of his room,” Amy reports. “Hair all messed up. Not wearing her shoes. Same clothes she was wearing the night before. Post-hookup, definitely.”

My mind whirls some more. It’s like a Category 5 hurricane inside my brain.

“Pierce is the dorm doctor,” I say after a minute. “Maybe Angela wasn’t feeling well.”

“Oh,” Amy says. “I didn’t think of that. She has been looking kind of worn-out lately.” She shrugs. “I guess she could have been sick.”

“See, let’s not jump to conclusions. There could be another explanation,” I say, but I can tell Amy doesn’t buy it.

I don’t buy it, myself. Angela’s not sick. I know this better than anyone.

Angel-bloods don’t get sick.

“What are you so upset about?” Christian asks later when I fill him in on the Angela situation. We’re sitting in the CoHo (the Stanford Coffeehouse) drinking coffee, our usual Saturday afternoon ritual. “What, Angela’s not allowed to hook up with anybody?”

I really, really wish I could tell him about Phen.

“I think it’s a good thing if Angela’s seeing somebody,” Christian goes on to say. “Maybe it will help her get out of her own head a little.”

I take a sip of my latte. “It’s not like her, that’s all. She’s been acting weird for weeks, but this—a guy, staying out all night—is really not like her.”

But then, come to think of it, maybe it is like her. That’s what happened in Italy. Once she reconnected with Phen, she pretty much disappeared every night, sneaking back to her grandmother’s house in the mornings before anybody else woke up.