“Take. The damn. Pie.”
My eyes flicker to it, then return to her face. “Why?”
“My arms are getting tired, that’s why!”
“Then take it home. Give it to someone else.” I swallow harshly. “I don’t want it.”
“What kind of psychopath doesn’t accept a fresh-baked pie?” She jerks the dish another inch forward, so the rim bumps my stomach. “Justtakeit!”
“You’re acting like a crazy person.”
“And you’re acting like a total dickhead!” She glares at me fiercely. “Which shouldn’t be much of a surprise, given that seems to be your new standard. Tell me, when the aliens abducted you last summer and switched out your brain, did you get a say in the new personality type they installed or was it a surprise to you too?”
“Cute,” I mutter flatly. “Are we done, now?”
“No, we are notdone now,” she snaps. The pie dish is quivering — whether from sheer anger or from her overexerted arm muscles, I’m not certain. “I came here to find out what the hell is going on with you, and I’m not leaving until I get some answers!”
“I thought you came here to thank me.”
Her mouth drops open. “Um. Right. I…”
“So, the pie is a ruse, then.”
“No.” She shakes her head vigorously. “Of course not. I truly did want to thank you! But I…”
I press my eyes closed as she stammers into silence.
I want her gone.
No.
I need her gone.
Having her here is too hard. Looking at her this close, hearing the little catch in her voice, watching the light flicker over her features… and not being able to touch her, to laugh with her, to offer her comfort in the midst of her confusion…
It’s absolute torture.
It’s like getting a tiny taste of something delicious that you know, down to the marrow of your bones, you’ll never again have access to. You’d be better off never tasting it. Because every other flavor, for the rest of your life, will be dull by comparison. That one sample of perfection will haunt you until you leave this earth.
Not a gift; a curse.
An echo.
A ghost.
Having half of you would be worse than none at all, Jo told me once, last summer. I understand that now, more acutely than ever before. I’d rather not see her at all than do this constant dance of self-deprivation; rather our paths never cross if it means constantly pretending not to care.
I rip my own heart from my chest over and over again, trying to protect hers. And every time, it gets a little harder. Every time, a little less of me comes back to life after she walks away from me.
So… end it.
Make this the last time.
Make sure, when she leaves…
She does not come back.
Not ever.