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But there is no normal. And I think she knows this. Though she believes I’m fucking nuts, she also knows this is it. She cares about me but not enough to go the extra mile. Not enough to just let me be the way I am. She won’t be there if I let this go any further.

I have a choice but it’s really like no choice. Get help, or pretend to get help and admit that it’s all in my head, and keep my friend. Or stay true to course. Live out my truth, no apologies.

And lose her.

“I’m not going to the doctors, Amy, because there’s nothing wrong with me. Nothing they can cure. It is what it is and I am what I am and yes, I’m majorly fucked and totally fucked up. But I’m not crazy. It’s not in my head. It’s all very real, too real, and it happens to be something I’m going to have to deal with for the rest of my life. I wish it wasn’t this way. But we don’t get to choose who we are.”

She watches me for a few moments, the hostility on her brow melting away, becoming something close to sorrow, before she closes her eyes. When she opens them, her expression is blank. Closed off. I know that expression too well. It’s how I should be feeling, trying to protect myself from the hurt.

But it’s too late. I’m hurting.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she says after what feels like eternity. “You always get a choice as to who you are.” She looks behind her at the concert. “Look, I’m not sure I quite feel up to this anymore. I’d offer you a ride home but . . . I need time to think.”

Ouch. I try not to grimace. It’s not exactly easy to get home from here using public transit, which means I’ll have to call my dad, but I wouldn’t have ridden back with her anyway.

And at that, she turns and goes, not even bothering to find someone else to take her concert ticket.

I’m dumbfounded, standing there and watching her as she weaves through the crowd, until she’s across the street and around the block, until she disappears and I’m not sure how long I’ve been frozen in a sea of people.

It’s only when some drunk dude bumps into my shoulder, spinning me around and offering a harsh “Sorry” as he tries to catch up with his friends, that I’m spurred into moving.

I glance at my ticket and briefly think about going into the concert, being swallowed up by the music and the crowd, maybe grabbing a joint off of someone.

I don’t have it in me.

I turn away and stagger off toward the riverfront walk and start walking aimlessly along it, heading south, not really sure what to do next.

I’m numb. Angry. Terrified.

Sad.

So fucking sad.

I guess I always knew deep down that Amy wouldn’t believe me. That she would reach for the most logical explanation, even though she knew that to not believe was to hurt me. I knew and that’s why I had kept it to myself.

It’s Jay’s fault, I think bitterly as the dull thuds of the concert and chatter of the crowd slips behind me. I have no choice but to blame it on him. The whole thing was the fucking ginger’s idea. He probably saw this coming himself, I mean how could he not, he’s most likely psychic. Most likely sees that I’m going fight demons through sardonic wit and end up friendless and alone. Future Ada will have blood on her hands after a hard day of fighting the dead and eat Lean Cuisine meals with her cat.

I smile bitterly at the thought, doing what I can to keep the sorrow at bay, that cutting sensation around my gut that tells me things will never be the same after this.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The storm is now billowing through east Portland.

In a few minutes it will pass over the river and hit me, and the music festival, head on. It’s like I’m conjuring it up myself, the elements matching my mood, instead of being a typical late summer thunderstorm.

I didn’t bring a jacket or an umbrella and I have no idea where I’m going. I’m wandering, aimless, just trying to understand what’s happened, wanting to come to terms with my friendship with Amy but still feeling things too clearly. If I let myself dwell on it too much, I’ll fall into another downward spiral and this time I’m not sure if I have the strength to crawl out all on my own.

I’ve turned down a street past a row of food trucks, near the university where my father teaches when the sky goes dark, slowly, like someone pulling a dimmer switch. The air grows heavier. I can feel the weight on my skin, producing a sheen of sweat, the hairs on my arms standing with electricity. Yet a shiver slowly makes its way down my spine, icy fingers feeling along each bump of my vertebrae.