Page 24 of Sweet Nightmare

On the plus side, Jude isn’t uncooperative for once.

Maybe it’s because he’s too busy watching Remy with narrowed, suspicious eyes. Or maybe it’s because he senses how close I am to the edge. For the first seven years he was on the island, we were inseparable, and he knows me better than anyone ever has—except for Carolina—and there’s definitely no “enemy of my enemy is my friend” stuff going on here.

After what feels like an eternity of avoiding both Jude’s and Remy’s eyes in the tensest atmosphere imaginable, the bell sounds.

“Today, I am going to be my best, most positive self.”

“And that’s it for today, students!” Ms. Aguilar cheerfully exclaims from her own desk in the corner of the classroom, shaking her head. “I hope you felt your spirits come alive reading and dissecting these luscious poems!”

No one answers her as we all spring up like jack-in-the-boxes and start shoving our stuff into our backpacks.

“I’ll hold on to this,” Jude says, reaching for the notes still sitting on my desk.

I nod my thanks but don’t trust myself to say anything around the giant lump in my throat as grief presses down on me. Instead, I slide the zipper closed on my backpack and all but run for the door.

I push my way into the now-crowded hall, desperate to put as much distance between Jude, Remy, and myself as I possibly can. My brain’s on overload, and the rest of me feels like it’s going to shake apart any second now.

I weave around a pissed-off warlock with an attitude problem before slipping between two dragon shifters who look more than a little high. I have one second to wonder what they’ve been sniffing and how they got the contraband before someone calls my name from behind me.

I turn instinctively, only to find Remy jogging down the hallway toward me, an intent look in his eyes that says he’s done letting me ignore him. He’s tall—even taller than Jude—and between his height and the beeline he’s making for me, we’ve definitely begun to attract attention.

This isn’t where or when I would have chosen to have a showdown with Remy, but if that’s what he wants, so be it.

My knees are wobbling because I’m hungry—the granola bar I grabbed for breakfast was a long time ago—not because I’m the least bit nervous.

Except Remy apparently doesn’t want a showdown after all. Because he stops in front of me with that sad smile of his and murmurs, “I’m sorry about that.”

“Sorry about what?” I ask, much more belligerently than his approach warrants.

He shakes his head, gives me a look that says he knows I’m lying. “I can do the rest of the project on my own.” His languid New Orleans accent softens the words—and his approach.

“Do whatever you want,” I answer with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

It does matter, so much, but now isn’t the time—and this definitely isn’t the place—to have that discussion.

Remy looks like he wants to call my bluff, but instead he just shakes his head. “You’re going to be okay, Clementine.”

I give him a cool look. “You can’t possibly know that.” For the first time since he walked into English class, his eyes twinkle.

“I know a lot of things people don’t think I can know.”

“Except when you don’t,” I shoot back. And though I don’t mention her name, suddenly Carolina is there between us, clear as day.

The light goes out of his eyes, and his handsome face turns dark. I brace for him to lash out at me—it’s no less than I deserve considering what I just said to him—but it only takes a moment for me to realize the darkness isn’t directed at me at all. It’s directed inward, a tornado of grief and rage that’s wrecking him from the inside out.

Apparently, I won’t need to beat him up for Carolina’s death. It looks like he’s doing a good enough job of that all on his own. Even if it’s only visible if you look closely.

Maybe it should bother me that his suffering makes me feel better, but it doesn’t. Carolina deserves his pain. And mine. And so much more.

Still, the fact that he’s suffering, too—that he’s not just glossing over her death like my family has—makes me like him more than I expected to. It also makes me feel bad for him, because I know just how much it hurts to lose her.

Perhaps that’s why I extend the tiniest of olive branches—or maybe it’s because he’s the only person I can share her with. The only person who might actually want to hear what I have to say. Most days even Aunt Claudia acts like she just wants to forget.

Either way, I whisper, “She made really good cookies.”

He grins cautiously, and the darkness slowly fades a little from his gaze. “She told really great stories.”

“Yeah.” The fist around my heart eases just a little, and somehow, I find myself smiling, too. “She really did.”

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