The Becoming of Noah Shaw (The Shaw Confessions #1)(63)

“Why, Jamie,” I said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were bitter.”

“Not bitter, just annoyed. There’s a difference.”

“Do tell.”

“Because it’s so fucking obvious!” He spins, throws his back against the wall. “Privileged white kid—now officially an orphan—with a troubled past—destined to save the world. Come the fuck on, man. You’ve read that book a thousand times.”

“I have,” I say tonelessly.

“And surely you must look in the mirror,” he says, mimicking my accent now. Poorly. “Your strong jaw, your perfectly mussed-up hair, the lean but somehow still muscular body, the height—you’re practically Captain America.”

“Except English.”

“Even worse!”

“True. But surely, mate,” I say, exaggerating my own accent, playing right back, “you’ve seen yourself in the mirror? You know how you look, how people look at you—men and women both. I mean, I’d fuck you, if you asked politely.”

“Hard pass,” Jamie says, but he’s unstoppable now. “Okay, I’m not wearing my Greek chorus T-shirt, but I’ll play anyway: You’re so focused on avoiding your family shit, on not becoming your father, or what your father said you would be, that you’re totally unwilling to look for answers in the only places that matter.”

The air in the room changes. It’s feverish, electric.

“And it’s not because you don’t want to help Stella, or the others, because you do. Why do you think I haven’t really given you shit about it?”

“Because you don’t care?”

He breaks into a grin. “Sure, deflect by being an asshole.”

He’s right. Jamie’s many things, but not callous. He almost left when Stella did. Because Mara would’ve killed people who didn’t deserve it, so Stella claimed.

“That’s shit,” I say, conceding. “Sorry.”

Jamie shrugs. “You heard what your father said: You’re the Hero. You so don’t want to be the Hero that you’re letting your dad write the only other part you can play from beyond the grave.”

“Which is . . . ?”

“The Fool,” Jamie says.

Another archetype. The hair rises on the back of my neck. I try to hide it by taking a shot. “What about the others?” I ask as the ball bounces off the edge.

“Before you deflect, consider the reverse psychology in handing you the keys to his kingdom, knowing how much you fucking loathe the king. Basically guarantees you’ll never actually explore the kingdom, doesn’t it?”

“Wow, Jamie. That’s some next-level insight there.”

“Thanks. I try.”

“Five, corner pocket,” I say, and then proceed to miss. “Assuming you’re right, what precisely do you think is buried in said kingdom that I’m trying subconsciously to avoid?”

He rolls the cue between his palms. “Something about Mara, I’d guess. Probably something that means you can’t be together.”

“Nothing means we can’t be together,” I say, and the words are hardly out of my mouth before a Cheshire grin appears on Jamie’s lips.

“See? That’s your endgame. And hers. Alas, you’re the hero, she’s the villain—the star-crossed lovers, fated to be apart.”

“You honestly think Mara’s behind this?” I ask. He doesn’t call her a Shadow, at least, though that makes it harder to know if he’s speaking abstractly, in tropes, or if he actually believes whatever nonsense my father was spouting.

“No, I’m saying that we all have roles—the ones we think we’re playing, the ones other people think we’re playing, and the ones we’re actually playing. But the game’s been set up long before any of us appeared on the board.” He makes his next shot.

“So I’m fated to play whatever part’s been assigned to me?” I ask, unable to hide my disgust. “You truly believe that?”

“Your dad wasn’t wrong about everything, Noah. We’ve all got legacies. Own your shit.”

I once told Mara, “Own yourself.” God, I am the Fool.

“So what about Stella?” I ask as I line up my cue, miss yet again. “What’s her alignment?”

“Stella.” He drags out the sound of her name. “If you asked me before shit got real, I’d have said lawful good.”

“But now?”

“I don’t know. Before she vanished, I got a different read off her. Chaotic good, I think. Haven’t quite figured it out yet. Eight ball, corner pocket,” he says, positioning his stroke.

“Let me know when you do?”

He makes the shot. Game over.

“Well done,” I say, letting my cue fall against the others, turning away from him and the conversation as quickly as possible. I hear Jamie’s voice behind me as I head upstairs with my mobile.

“Only play the games you can win.”





35


DESPERATE THINGS

MY FOOTSTEPS ECHO DULLY ON the stairs as I head up past the second floor, and the third, straight to the roof. The sun’s dying, being swallowed up by the screaming spires of New York’s skyline and the thick twilight that’s already begun to fall. I check for new texts—none—but I do scroll through the images Mara sent. Some scratch at a vague memory I once had, but can’t reach now. It’s more than unsettling—I’ve never had to pore over books or notes or paintings or anything to remember every detail. I turn over my palm, the one I cut to show Goose. The slash in it is closed, but the wound is still red, angry. My mind turns back to the list.