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“Well, damn, that sucks,” he pouts. “Now I’m gonna be a fifth wheel.”

I try to tease, “Yep. They’ll make a kids’ table just for you.” He smiles while I play with his unruly curls. “Believe me, I’d rather be going home with you.” Nana and Pops are okay, but I don’t care for my aunt and her family.

“Is that what’s wrong?”

My heart flip flops. “What do you mean?”

“I dunno. You’ve been kinda quiet tonight, that’s all.”

“Oh.” Crap. “Sorry. Just tired, I guess.”

He drops onto his side facing me and pulls my body right up against his.

I add, “This semester’s getting a little long in the tooth.”

“Yeah, but you’ll still get straight A’s.”

Is that admiration in his eyes?

Encouraged, I hook a leg over his, pulling him even closer. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you think… I mean, I had…” Why am I so nervous? He’s my boyfriend . “I mean, what would you say if…well…if I told you I thought I might be psychic?”

“Psychic? Why would you think you’re psychic? Wait—” His brows shoot up. “Do you know who’s gonna win Smash?”

I think he might be joking, but I give him the benefit of the doubt. “No, not that kind of psychic.”

“What other kind is there?” He has one hand on my rear end and the other up the back of my sweater.

“The kind that sees things or hears things or… feels things.”

His bright blue eyes go round. “Oh, like I see dead people ?”

Face suddenly on fire, I drop my gaze, focusing on my fingers as they trace his scratchy chin. “No, like, remember a couple of weeks ago, when that guy Jason OD’d? I felt it—like it was happening to me. ”

Zander gently strokes the bare skin of my back, his body language shouting “let’s get naked,” even though his smile is patient. “That’s because you’re sensitive.”

“But it’s more than that.”

“More how?”

My chest is in knots and getting tighter by the second. “I felt Jason OD before I knew it was actually happening.”

“That’s impossible, babe.” He chuckles and hugs me tighter. “Look, there’s nothing wrong with being sensitive. The world would be a better place if there were more people like you.”

I swallow my reply. It’s nice to hear Zander express appreciation for my sensitivity, but let’s be honest, sensitivity is all he’ll ever think it is.

He sweeps my hair from my face. “You’re sweet and you care. It’s one of the reasons why I love you.”

My breath catches. “You love me?”

“Yeah,” he says, in the same tone he uses when he says “duh.”

“You’ve never told me that before.”

He blinks. “I haven’t?”

“No,” I whisper, searching his eyes.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” One hundred percent. I’ve wanted to hear those words so badly, that if he’d said them, I would’ve remembered.

“But it’s not like you didn’t know.” His dimples flicker with his smile.

I confess, “Not for sure.”

“Really? Aww babe, I’m sorry.” He kisses me, long and sweet. “I love you.”

I slide my finger through his curls. I’m tingling everywhere.

“I love you too.”

Sometime before dawn, I sit up in bed and rub my eyes.

Zander is dead to the world, flat on his back with one arm hanging off the side of the bed.

Asleep, he looks like an angel, with his features relaxed and his hair forming a golden halo around his head.

If I cuddled up next to him, he’d pull me in close without waking up.

But right now, I don’t want to be snuggled like a teddy bear.

I thought for sure I’d have nightmares about the mill-workers, but I haven’t gotten into a deep enough sleep to dream.

My brain refuses to shut down. Instead, it’s taken me on a rollercoaster ride.

1:00 a.m: There’s no way I’m psychic, there’s no such thing.

1:30: Holy shit, I’m psychic. Now what am I supposed to do?

2:00: I never want to hang out with Leo, Avery, or Aaron ever again.

2:30: I need Leo, Avery, and Aaron. I can’t stand being psychic alone.

3:00: Leo Hawthorn is nuts. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

I’m just sensitive, that’s all. 3:30: Oh god, I’m clairsentient. I’m so screwed.

And now, a little after 4:00, I’m wide awake with an idea I can’t shake.

Despite my fatigue, I climb out of bed, pull on my jeans, and slip noiselessly out of the room.

The house is silent and dark. No giggles or whispers, no light shining under any doors.

The hardwood floor is like ice on my bare feet as I creep down to the living room and pause at the basement door. Do I really want to do this?

Yes. It’s time to move forward.

I flick on the light and make my way down.

There it is: the green stain in front of the pool table.

I get to within five feet of it and freeze.

Concentrate , Leo always tells me, but I don’t have to.

I’m already picking up Jason’s energy and probably that of everyone who’d gathered around him as he lay bleeding on the floor.

“Dammit,” I mutter as my chest constricts and my breath grows short.

I force air into my lungs and shake my arms and legs to loosen my muscles.

I need to make sure these panic symptoms aren’t psychosomatic.

If I don’t know how close I am to the spot where Jason fell, then I can’t make myself feel what I expect to feel.

As though I’m playing pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, I close my eyes, spin in place three times, and start a slow walk.

Concentrate.

My eyes remain closed, even when my outstretched hands barely stop me from bonking into a steel support pole.

The low hum of residual anxiety claws at my nerves, convincing me I’m close to my target.

A few more steps and a wave of panic nearly knocks me to the floor.

I fight the overwhelming temptation to open my eyes and tear up the stairs, all the way to Zander’s warm, safe bed.

But I stay put and remind myself that the fear is Jason’s, not mine.

So long as I remember that, it won’t hurt me.

Eyes still shut, I inch around the space, noting changes in the type and degree of emotion.

A few steps to the right and the panic lessens; forward, and it almost brings me to my knees.

Oddly, I feel anger when I back up. An O-Chi brother who thought Jason broke the pool table?

There’s hopelessness in the mixture, too, and determination.

I walk several feet away and pick up only a faint sense of fear.

When I turn around and head back, it ramps up again.

Back and forth, back and forth, I step in and out of the energy.

Where the anxiety is fiercest, I stop and open my eyes. I’m a mere foot from the blood stain.

Holy shit, this is so real.

I picture this basement as I usually find it, hot and loud and bright. All the laughter and shouting. How much alcohol and how many parties will it take to erase the negative energy? Will it ever feel the same down here again?

Will I ever feel the same again?

Probably not. But this little experiment proved what I hoped it would. When I’m forewarned—when I know when, where, and what I’m walking into—I’m able to step back from the feelings. I still feel them, but I know they’re not my own. And that’s a whole hell of a lot less terrifying.

Shivering, I wrap my arms around myself. Zander’s old Panthers T-shirt isn’t doing much to shield me from the basement’s chill .

I doubt I’ll be able to sleep, but I’m so cold, I head back upstairs. When I climb into bed beside Zander, he rolls to face me without waking up. I snuggle my half-frozen body against his warm one, and feeling oddly settled, fall into a deep sleep.