A Need So Beautiful (A Need So Beautiful #1)(7)

I haven’t told Mercy about our plans, but I’m sure she’ll approve. Or at least I hope she will.

“Aw,” Sarah coos sarcastically. “You two will be so cute playing house. Maybe you can adopt dogs to pose as children too. Dress them up in little sweaters.”

“Oh my God, shut up.”

“Harlin can go work at some filthy garage, fixing motorcycles, and then he’ll come home all dirty. And you’ll be there—his little woman—cooking dinner while wearing this jacket. With nothing underneath.”

“Wow.” I laugh. “That’s a bright future you have planned for us.”

“I’m part clairvoyant, too.”

“You’re also part moron.” I grin at her as we walk outside, the noise of traffic immediately assaulting our ears. I don’t mind the sounds, though. At least right now my hearing isn’t plugged by the Need.

Sarah hooks my arm and bumps her shoulder into mine. “I’m just kidding about the playing-house stuff. I know you’re going to be great at whatever you do,” she says, sounding suddenly sentimental.

I look at her. “So will you.”

She crinkles her nose. “Don’t think my father would agree with that.”

I don’t respond. Daddy conversations are something that Sarah usually reserves for alcohol-induced moments. She glances away just as the sun pokes out from the clouds, only staying for a second before fading behind the tall buildings.

“Anyways,” she says with a heavy sigh. “Let’s get back to talking about Harlin and how he’d want you to show up naked under this jacket.”

I shake my head. “I think I know what Harlin wants.”

“Hmm . . .” Sarah says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “I bet you do.” She snorts and our shoes beat a steady rhythm on the concrete as we head to the garage where her father’s Beamer is parked. Sarah’s been driving her father’s car since we were fifteen—unless you count that time when we were twelve and skipped out on gym class to grab a milk shake at Frankie’s. She nailed a trash can while trying to park and then spent two hundred dollars of her allowance getting it fixed before her father found out.

Sadness washes over me. That was before the Need took over, back when I only had to sneak away once, maybe twice a month. That was when I had more time.

Sarah clicks open the locks of the car, and as I climb in I start to work on my exit strategy to get to Harlin’s. First I’ll check in with Mercy and pretend to settle in for the night. Once she’s gone, I’ll slip out.

Sarah starts the car and drives out of the garage, talking about how she’s sure Seth has been staring at her in physics class. But it’s hard to listen. There’s an image that I can’t shake. And I know it won’t stop until I get there: 5918 W. Broadway.

Chapter 3

A s I push open the heavy wood door to my fifth-floor walk-up apartment, Mercy is there—her black hair knotted tight near her neck, her pale blue scrubs crisp from too much starch.

“And where were you?” she asks in her thick Puerto Rican accent. Even though she sounds brusque, I know she’s just being protective. Sometimes that involves dragging Alex out of a rave on a Friday night, or picking me up at Harlin’s when I’m there too late. But recently her schedule at the ER became more demanding, giving us opportunities to sneak out. Not that we take advantage of it. Much.

I drop my backpack on the floor by the couch and untie the belt of my jacket. “Sorry. Sarah had to get a dress for some fancy dinner she’s going to tonight.”

“You can’t call me?” She pauses and touches the green sleeve of my coat. “This is lovely, by the way.”

“Thanks. And you’re right, I should have called. I will next time.”

“Mm-hmm,” she huffs. “And I’m assuming you’re in for the night now that you’ve gotten Sarah’s shopping out of the way?” She’s not hinting. She’s telling me.

“Of course.”

“Good. You know I don’t like you riding the bus when it gets late. I told Alex that too, but I know his little fifteen-year-old butt was out after twelve.” She raises her voice so that it carries toward his bedroom. “He’s lucky he’s not grounded.”

I smile, knowing that Mercy would never ground us. Scold us endlessly, yes. But never punish us. It just isn’t her way.

I’ve been with Mercy for over ten years, longer than Alex or Georgia. She used to tell me about the day she first saw me in the hospital, a six-year-old with a pale pink dress and ribbons in my hair, sitting all alone in the waiting room. No one knew who dropped me off, or whom I belonged to.

Mercy had just gotten her license to foster, so when no one claimed me, she put in a request to take me home with her. After nearly a year of searching, my parents were never found, so Mercy filed to become my legal guardian. She likes to say that I found her.

It used to haunt me, not having natural parents. I’ve tried so many times to remember my early childhood, but nothing comes to me. Like I didn’t exist until the moment I sat down in the hospital waiting room. Mercy and Monroe both think my memory loss is post-traumatic stress. They say it sometimes erases painful experiences.

But I gave up dwelling about my past a long time ago. There’s no reason to. Mercy treats me like her own, and with Alex here with us, it’s like we’re a real family. We’ve each found the place where we belong.