A Want So Wicked (A Need So Beautiful #2)(45)

His whispers are tender, the only sound in my ears. They wrap around me, covering me in fog. In shadows. My eyelids flutter, and the entire scene slips out of focus.

They’ve forgotten me. Mercy, Sarah—everyone. My destiny is unavoidable. My life is over. It’s horrifying, and yet . . . I’ve lost the will to fight. I just want it all to be over. Because now I know that I never existed. That there is no such thing as me.

I open my eyes, completely disoriented. The memory still holds me with its sorrow, but I push it away when I realize I’m around the back of Santo’s, sitting on the gravel against the outside wall.

How did I get here? The last thing I remember was searching for Abe. And then I woke up, filled with a memory that leaves me feeling helpless.

I hear my name and turn to see Abe rushing over, his eyebrows pulled together in worry as he kneels next to me. “Elise,” he says, checking the back of my head for blood. “Are you okay? What happened?”

I touch my mouth. It’s sore, like I’ve been punched in the face. My shirt is untucked, and my head feels like I smacked it on something.

“I must have fainted,” I say, not sure I believe it.

“We should get you some water.” Abe looks like he’s so worried he can barely stand it. He takes my hand and helps me up. “You have to be more careful, Elise,” he says. “I can’t always be here to save you.”

“What can I say?” I ask, still shaking. “You’re my savior.”

He pulls me into a gentle hug as he kisses the top of my head. “Close enough.”

When we get inside, I know that I have to leave and find Marceline. The memories are getting more intense, the lines of reality blurring completely. I tell Santo that I’m sick—possibly with the flu—and that I have to take off. He reluctantly agrees. Abe makes me promise to call him when I get home. I don’t mention that I’m not going there, or that I don’t even have a car. But I’m glad that Abe and I are still friends. I think he might be the only one I’ve got.

CHAPTER 20

I walk to Marceline’s, which luckily isn’t too far. I’m halfway up her walkway when I hear a motorcycle pull up at the curb behind me. My stomach drops, and I have to force myself to turn around. There’s no reason not to be civil. Just because Harlin hurt my feelings doesn’t give me the right to treat him poorly. Look at Abe. I hurt him, and he’s still a gentleman.

Harlin notices me, pausing a long moment before climbing off his bike. He seems miserable as he slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans and approaches me, head down.

“Hi, Harlin,” I say evenly.

He lifts his gaze to mine before shifting it away. “Elise, I—”

I turn, walking toward the house before he can offer another excuse. Or worse, try to explain in more detail. Being this close to him and not being able to touch him is torture, a reminder of how much I like him. A reminder that he rejected me. I don’t know why he’s even here, especially when he knew I’d probably come back.

When I ring Marceline’s bell, Harlin stands next to me with his arms crossed over his chest. Of course we’d get to the house at the same time. Hopefully he doesn’t plan on staying long. I have a lot to talk to Marceline about.

The door swings open. Marceline is wearing a flowered housecoat, her white hair wild without the knit cap to tame it. She looks between Harlin and me, grinning.

“I figured you’d show up together,” she says in her broken voice.

Harlin and I exchange a look, not mentioning the fact that we’re not really on speaking terms at the moment. It also doesn’t help that Marceline just rubbed some salt in my rejection wound.

“We’re, um . . .” This is so humiliating. “We didn’t come here together,” I tell her. “We just happened to show up at the same time. A coincidence.”

Marceline laughs, holding open the door as she waves us in, her bracelets jangling. “Child,” she says, “there’s no such thing.”

Marceline’s house is comforting in its clutter, in its oddness. I make my way to the couch, wondering if she’s going to talk to me in front of Harlin. I’m scared. I don’t want him to know the things she’s said to me. Will he believe them? Or will he think I’m an idiot for sitting through her ramblings?

As Marceline shuffles in, Harlin stands in the doorway watching us.

“Harlin,” the old woman calls as she takes her spot in the rocking chair. “Don’t sulk around like some wounded puppy. Have a seat.”

My eyes widen. Oh no. She’s going to tell him that I’m a Forgotten. I start to panic, even think about leaving. Marceline pushes her bowl of mints toward me.

“I think I’d rather be lucid for this,” I murmur.

“We’ll see,” she says, taking a piece and popping it into her mouth. I wonder how many of those she’s had already today.

Harlin comes to sit next to me, my heart rate spiking the minute he does. His smell is so familiar, the heat from his body radiating toward mine as our shoulders brush against each other. I close my eyes, nearly overwhelmed by the sense of loss I feel.

“I’m going to be candid,” Marceline says. I look to find her staring in my direction. “He should know what you are.”

What I am. The phrase slaps me, breaks me apart. I think of the memory and the feeling that I was dying. That I’d given up trying to save myself. But I’ll never give up.