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"She's awake," Silas says. "Like really awake this time. We were talking."

"Noah?"

But just the sound of his voice hurts. I don't want to answer; I don't even want to look at him.

I don't want his fucking pity, either.

"She doesn't really want to talk to you. You should probably just go back to the motel."

Tate lowers his voice again, as if I can't still fucking hear him. "Okay, but…we can't stay here. We need to move her. Every hour that we stay—"

"I know," Silas says. "But we need to wait until dark."

Tate groans in frustration.

"If you want to leave, then go ahead and leave," Silas says.

"I don't," Tate says. "I don't want to leave. Not without you and not without her, either."

"I can hear you, you know," I say.

"Well, good. I'm glad you can hear me."

"Do I get a say? Because I think you shouldbothleave."

"You don't mean that," Tate says.

Footsteps move toward me. Tate kneels beside the bed and rests his hand on my hip. Suddenly, I'm eighteen again, and I'm lying in bed with Mia while Tate whispers in my ear and convinces me we're in love.

He was right. Not that we were in love, but that I'm forever eighteen. I stopped living a long time ago, and I can change my name, my hair, and try my best to become someone new, but I'll never be able to outrun that girl with the bloody lip and the broken heart.

The one who was too delusional to save herself. That's who I'm really running from. That's all I'll ever be.

"I'm going to pack your things, okay? Do you have a suitcase or anything?"

I roll away from him without a word.

It's a ridiculous question, anyway. I came here barefoot with only the clothes on my back. Most of what little clothing I havebelonged to Jodie's daughter, or I bought it at the thrift shop over by the motel.

Of course I don't have a fucking suitcase.

"Tate, I doubt she has a suitcase," Silas says. He steps into the kitchen, opens the cabinet beneath the sink, and takes out a garbage bag. "Here."

Tate takes the bag from him and begins emptying the contents of my dresser.

"I'm not going with you," I say.

"Yes, you are," Silas says.

"He doesn't want me," I tell him. "And I…" I swallow a lump in my throat. "I don't want him anymore, either."

Tate turns toward me, and I accidentally let him meet my eyes before averting my gaze somewhere over his shoulder.

"You don't mean that," Tate says. "It's okay, Noah. I say things I don't mean all the time, too. I'm glad you're feeling better enough to insult me, though."

He continues filling the bag like nothing is wrong.

"Idomean it. I hate you, Tate Riley. Knowing you—andyour sister—ruined my life."