Boundless (Unearthly, #3)(79)

But Christian’s excited about it. He’s making plans.

He sees the freaked-out expression on my face, or maybe he feels it. “Clara, don’t worry. We can take this whole thing really slow. One step at a time, with everything. Let’s stay here for a couple more weeks, if you want. I know it’s hard.”

Does he? I wonder. Walter is gone, I think. Christian’s an only child. He’s not leaving anything behind.

“That’s not fair,” he says quietly. “I had friends at Stanford. I had a life there, too.”

“Stop reading my mind!” I exclaim, then say stiffly, “I have to feed Web,” and leave the room.

I’m being childish, I think. It’s not Christian’s fault we’re on the run.

After Web is fed and changed, I slink back into the kitchen. Christian’s closed his laptop. He’s watching TV. He looks up at me warily.

“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

“It’s fine,” he says. “We’ve been cooped up.”

“Will you take Web for a while? I need to take a walk. Clear my head.”

He nods, and I hand Web over to him.

“Hey, want to hang out, little man?” Christian asks him, and Web coos happily in response.

I beeline it for the door.

It’s raining outside, but I don’t care. The cool air feels good on my face. I stuff my hands in the pockets of my sweatshirt, pull up my hood to cover my head, and walk to a park a few blocks from the hotel. It’s deserted. I sit on one of the swings and turn on my phone.

I have to do this one last thing, which I’ve been avoiding—hoping, maybe, that everything would work itself out. But it’s not working itself out.

I have to call Tucker.

“Oh, Clara, thank God,” he says when I say hello. He was sleeping, and I woke him, and his voice is rough-edged. “Are you okay?” he rasps.

I am not okay. Just hearing him brings tears to my eyes, knowing what I’m about to do. “I’m fine,” I say. “I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.”

“I’ve been going out of my mind, worrying,” he says. “You took off like that, half-cocked and frantic and whatnot, and then the Garter was all over the news. I’m so sorry, Clara. I know Angela was one of your best friends.” He lets out a breath. “At least you’re safe. I thought you were—I thought you might be—”

Dead. He thought I might be dead.

“Where are you?” he asks. “I can come meet you somewhere. I have to see you.”

“No. I can’t.” Just do it, I tell myself. Get it out before you lose your nerve. “Look, Tucker, I’m calling because I have to make you understand something. There’s no future for you and me. I don’t even know what my future is, at this point. But I can’t be with you.” A lone tear makes its way down my face, and I wipe at it impatiently. “I have to let you go.”

He gives an aggravated sigh. “It doesn’t matter, does it?” he says, his voice laced with anger. “All that I said to you before, about us, about what I feel, it doesn’t matter. You’re making the choice for both of us.”

He’s right, but that’s just how it has to be. I push on. “I wanted to tell you that wherever I am, whatever happens, I’ll always think of you, and the time we spent together, as my happiest time. I’d do it all over again, if I had the choice. No regrets.”

He’s quiet for a minute. “You’re really saying good-bye this time,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s asking me or simply trying to get his head around the idea.

“I’m really saying good-bye.”

“No,” he says against my ear. “No. I won’t accept that. Clara …”

“I’m sorry, Tuck. I have to go,” I say, and then I hang up. And cry. And cry.

I sit on that swing for a long time, in the rain, thinking, trying to get a grip on myself. I try to picture Chicago, what it will be like, but all I can conjure in my head is a giant silver bean and a bunch of tall buildings. And Oprah. And the Bears.

I gaze up at the gray, shifting clouds.

Is this my destiny? I ask them. To be with Christian? To go with him? To protect Web because his mother can’t be here?

Is this my purpose?

The clouds don’t have a lot of answers.

For the first time in my life, I wish for a vision. I almost miss having them, which is ironic, I know. Every night lately as I lay me down to fragile sleep, I wonder, will it come? Is this the night when the mysterious scene will play like a movie trailer behind my eyelids and the whole process will begin again: sorting through the fragments, the details, the feelings, trying to understand what they add up to? In that moment before I close my eyes and give in to the darkness of night, to sleep, my body tenses under the sheets. My breath quickens. Waiting.

Hoping that a vision will steal over me, and there will be something God wants me to do. Anything.

Hoping for a direction. A path to walk. A sign.

But the vision doesn’t come.

From behind me, bells start to toll the hour from a towering redbrick church a couple blocks away. I count the beats—ten of them—and stand up. I should get back to Christian.

But then, as the last notes from the clock fade away, an idea comes to me, a thunderclap of sudden inspiration.