Page 81 of Losing Wendy

I cringe. I thought so too, when we first arrived. That Peter had some glamoured hold over me that forced me to drown in his aura, to cling to my attraction to him. Sure, he used his glamour to calm me when I first came to Neverland, but it’s not as if he did it to hurt me. I realize now that most of what I ascribed to glamour was just denial, me wishing to blame magic for the intense draw I feel toward Peter. That I’ve always felt toward Peter.

“He protects the Lost Boys,” I say. “You have to admit, he cares for them.”

“By keeping their pasts in the dark.”

“Maybe their pasts aren’t worth remembering.”

“And whose opinion is that? Yours or Peter’s?”

Uncertainty twists in my gut, but I hold my resolve. I’ve seen the agony in Peter’s face over the boys, especially over Thomas. He wants nothing but the best for them, and Peter is just as trapped here, just as chained here as they are. There’s no doubt in my mind that Peter’s only trying to keep them from pain.

“Peter’s not the only one at work here,” I say. “You’re forgetting about the Sister. He called her his master,” I say, the word thick on my tongue, like mucus.

“That’s convenient for him. A being on which he can rest all the blame for his actions.”

“Peter saved us the night of the masquerade,” I snap.

John cocks his head to the side.

“You’re forgetting what you handed over to him to get him to take me and Michael with us.”

My stomach caves in, my mind returning to the unconditional bargain I’d given Peter the night of the masquerade, like a blank check for him to cash at his leisure. I shouldn’t have forgotten, not with the mysterious ovals marking my skin.

“He’s asked nothing of me,” I say.

“Yet.”

I stiffen.

“Wendy,” John says, rubbing the space between his eyebrows. The motion causes his spectacles to ride up. “I know you don’t want to talk about what happened to you in the parlor that night. And I’m not trying to imply that you can’t make your own decisions about men, but I worry that, just perhaps, it affected the way you—”

“No. No, I’m not talking about this.” Flustered and unable to come up with a response other than that, I jump out of my cot and grab my coat, twisting it around my shoulders.

“Where are you going?” asks John, but my attention is fixated on the smallest of phrases.That night.

Because John is under the impression it only happened once.

“To take a walk.”

“I thought you just had one of those.”

No, I think.I flew.

I go looking for Peter,regretting making him fly me back to the Den. I should have stayed with him, shouldn’t have let John take a needle to my perfect night. Now I’m left alone with my thoughts, and they’re as hostile as ever. Peter’s confession about the origins of Neverland quelled my anxieties surrounding him, at least the idea that he’s been manipulating me. But they awakened new fears within my soul. They swarm in my head, keeping me on edge.

This place should not exist. Neverland should not exist. Simon was right when he said that Peter keeps the memories of their pasts so that they don’t have to, but dread crawls in my belly when I think of Thomas. Of Freckles.

No matter what Peter attempted, he couldn’t protect them from their fates. Sure, they survived the plague, but only to be handed over to death anyway. Thomas, strangled. Freckles, stabbed and disfigured.

The morning air is frigid, the fog obscuring my view of anything well past the shoreline, but I follow it toward the northernmost tipof the island, where I confronted Peter after Freckles’s death. When Peter dropped me off at the Den, he flew off in this direction.

It’s raining, the clouds a mist of gray overshadowing the island. I can’t imagine that Peter fares well on days like this, when the weather itself feels as if it’s bearing down on your soul. I tell myself that’s why I search for him, to make sure he’s okay. Because he’s the only source of protection the Lost Boys have, and I need to make sure he’s okay to make sure they’re okay. Because if Peter is distracted by his own gloominess, something could happen again, like what happened to Thomas and Freckles.

I tell myself it’s not because Peter has left a shard in my heart, a stitch on my soul. That I can feel his presence tugging at me. That after Freckles died, I knew in my very being where Peter had gone.

I don’t want to feel this draw toward Peter, toward the male who finds himself cloaked in shadows, hardly able to restrain himself from his whims. I tell myself that’s not the man I’m following into the fog. That I’m following the orphan who gave his life up to protect the children destined for misery. The man who holds the burden of their pasts on his shoulders so that they don’t have to. I tell myself I’m running toward the male who plays with Michael like his way is just as legitimate as any other child’s.

That’s what I tell myself as I wander into the fog until it swallows me up.

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