Page 40 of Sweet Nightmare

I cross back to the staircase and, after shoving my phone back in my pocket, climb out of the root cellar. Lightning flashes above me as I go up the stairs, and thunder rumbles continuously. I’ve never been afraid of storms, but this seems extra, even for the Gulf.

I try to climb faster—the sooner I get out of here, the better—but the rain is pounding down and my shoes are slipping on the narrow steps, so I take it slow. At least until I pop my head above ground and find myself staring straight up into Jude’s wet, angry face.

I’m not sure which one of us is more surprised. Maybe him, judging by the way his eyes go wide before he demands, “What the hell are you doing here?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

LOVE, LOVE ME

DON’T

Is he seriously growling at me right now? “I’m pretty sure I should be asking you that question,” I shoot back as I finally make it out of the cellar.

Instead of answering me, he busies himself closing the doors behind me. “You need to go back to school.”

“We need to go back to school,” I correct. “What are you even doing out here, anyway? And why is Jean-Luc out here?”

“Jean-Luc’s here? Where?” He looks around like he thinks the fae is going to materialize out of thin air.

“I have no idea. I thought I saw him go into the root cellar, but by the time I caught up, he was gone.” I eye him suspiciously. “Are you going to try to tell me that you know nothing about this?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he says, “Go back to the dorm, Clementine,” and turns away, as if to underscore that he’s done with me. Like his use of my real name isn’t enough to make that clear.

And that’s all it takes for something to snap inside of me. I don’t know if it’s the blatant dismissal or the way he thinks he can order me around or the fact that he is once again walking away from me. But whatever it is, something just breaks inside of me, and I end up snarling, “You don’t really think that’s how this is going to play out, do you, Bungalow Bill?”

He pauses for a second at my reference to the classic Beatles song—and the ever-changing nicknames we used to give each other as kids. He used to call me different citrus fruits, popular and obscure, instead of Clementine. And since he shares a name with one of the most famous Beatles songs of all time, I called him by all the others instead.

I know he remembers—he’s already slipped once today and called me Kumquat—and I think maybe this is it. Maybe, here in the pouring rain, is where we finally have it out.

But then he just keeps walking, and it pisses me off. I follow behind him and grab his arm, trying to spin him around. When that doesn’t work, I scramble to get in front of him and block his path.

He looks at me with eyes that have gone completely blank. “What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” I answer, wiping my hands over my face in a futile effort to sluice the water away. “You haven’t talked to me for three years—three years, Jude—and then, today, you finally break that silence and—”

“I didn’t have a choice. We were in a group together.”

I’m expecting the words—hell, I know the truth of them very well—but that doesn’t keep them from hurting as they hit. All the pain and anger from earlier combines with the pain and anger I’ve been nursing since freshman year, and I end up hurling a whole bunch of my own words at him. Words that at any other time, in any other place, would never have left my mouth.

“That’s seriously all you’ve got to say to me?” I demand. “After cutting me off completely, after ignoring every message I sent, after pretending Carolina didn’t just disappear from our lives, ‘we were in a group’ is the best you’ve got?”

His jaw works, his too-full lips pressing together as he stares down at me through the pounding rain.

Long, storm-drenched seconds pass, and I know he’s waiting for me to look away, waiting for me to just give up. That’s what the old Clementine would have done, the one he knew—and ditched.

But I’ve grown since then. I’ve gone through a lot. And I’ve waited too long for this moment just to let the matter drop—especially when I know him well enough to know that if I walk away now, I’ll never get the answers I’m looking for.

So instead of backing away—backing down—I hold my ground. I keep my gaze locked with his until, finally, finally, he replies, “It’s the truth.”

“It’s a cop-out, and you know it,” I toss back as anger jets through me. “Just like you know I’m not asking why you finally talked to me today. I’m asking why you haven’t talked to me in three years. I’m asking why you kissed me, why you made me think you cared about me and then discarded me like I was garbage. Worse than garbage—at least you give trash a second thought when you pick it up to throw it away. I didn’t even warrant that much attention from you.”

“You think it was easy for me?” he whispers, and somehow, I hear his words even over the storm. But maybe that’s just because they’re echoing inside me, scraping against my skin and hollowing me out like a pumpkin waiting to be carved up.

“You really believe that walking away from you wasn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done?” He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, there’s something in their depths that looks an awful lot like pain. “You were my best friend.”

“But you did walk away! And you’ve got other best friends now, so no harm, no foul, right?” I take an unsteady breath, for once grateful for the rain because he can’t see the tears burning in my eyes. “But it’s all okay, I guess, because so do I.”

He looks away, and I watch his throat work for several seconds before he turns back and says, “I know it’s hard without Carolina.”

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