Page 250 of Ominous: Part 1

I knock my head back against his locker, rolling my eyes. I want to disagree with him. Private schools host strange people, case in point Eli and his posse. But I don’t say anything as he pulls back, putting a little space between us.

I dip my chin and see his eyes searching mine.

“You didn’t text me last night.” All playfulness is gone from his voice.

I slide my hands up and down the straps of my bags, my palms growing clammy. “I know, I…”

He lifts a brow, waiting, and since it’s Thursday and starting tomorrow we’ll be apart all weekend anyway, I just tell him the truth. “I got my phone taken away. I’m grounded.”

He studies me for a second, and I think he’s looking for a lie, but he must find the truth instead because he just asks, “Why?”

I don’t want to tell him, because it’ll make things weird between Eli and Mom and Reece. I don’t care about the latter, and I’ll be leaving both of the others next year, but until then…

“What’s wrong, Eden?” Eli doesn’t touch me, but he’s very close, and I hate the concern in his gaze. I feel guilty he doesn’t ask,what did you do wrong? How did you get into trouble?

He doesn’t care what I do wrong. He doesn’t care if I’m trouble. He only cares about me. I sometimes feel as if I could tell him I murdered my entire family and he wouldn’t say a word except to ask if I needed help cleaning up the blood.

It’s dangerous.We’redangerous. One day, if we kept this course, we’d do something very, very dangerous, together. I’m not sure I’d hate it.

“Mom wanted me to put some distance between us.” I blurt it all out, quick and fast. I drop my gaze to his chest, broad and beautiful beneath the dark gray blazer clinging to him. “She probably knows I’m lying about my sleepovers with Luna,” I trip over her name, “and Janelle and… yeah.” I lick my lips, debating my next words, but I decide to say them, so he doesn’t take any of this personally. “She just wants to make sure I’m focused on school. That I’m not… like she was.” I keep staring at his chest, waiting for him to speak cruelly of my mom.

But all he says is, “When do you get it back?” I lift my gaze to his and he must see my confusion because he adds, “Your phone?”

I’m a little startled. “I… I don’t know.”

He looks annoyed by this answer, cutting his eyes to the floor and shaking his head. “What’s wrong with your mom?”

I clear my throat as his eyes find mine again. I realize the halls have cleared and we probably have seconds left to get to class, but I don’t care. “What do you mean?”

“Why doesn’t she want you to belike she was?”

Shame is hot in my chest. “Because… well, she cleans houses, you know, and…” I’m stammering over my words, and I just want to go to my next class and talk about this later. I shake my head. This is a thing I don’t like discussing. It’s easy to stereotype all of his nice things as “rich boy” stuff, but the truth is there are miles between us in class and wealth and along with those miles come opportunities.

And for him, a lack of worry over how he may be perceived because of his parent’s job or his home or car. “I have to go.”

But before I can turn away from him, he speaks. “Your mom raised you. There’s nothing wrong with cleaning houses. Someone has to do it. My dad, for one, is grateful for someone like your mom.”

I stop, but I don’t turn to face him.

“I know why she wants to put distance between us. I understand it. She cares and she’s worried.”

I’m staring down the hallway, unseeing, only listening.

“People won’t understand us, Eden.”

My throat feels tight, hairs prickling along the back of my neck, every sense heightened in my body. I wonder if Eli wears a choker because the constant pressure keeps him alert. I wonder if he likes it in the same way I enjoy having my breathing restricted.

Dancing with death.

Do you want to hold the knife this time?

“They don’t have to. They wouldn’t be able to, even if we could explain it.”

He’s right. My mom would have me committed if I told her how I feel about him. I don’t even understand all the ways I’d die for him or bleed for him or let him hurt me because it’s the same, for us, as love. Bruises and butterfly kisses, from him, I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.

Sometimes I wonder if this is another incident waiting to happen. Another attachment and obsession like the one I got in trouble for at Shoreside. Sometimes I feel like I’m flying. But there’s always a crash, isn’t there?

“But I need a way to get a hold of you this weekend. Do you have a home phone? And does the gym have—”