Page 22 of Dead Set on You
Half dead.
This is impossible. Not theyou’ll never escape your pastimpossible. Thenot everimpossible.
A whimper chokes out of me as full-body tremors roll through me.
This can’t be happening.
I gasp for air that doesn’t seem to want to go into my lungs, emitting sounds I’ve only heard in documentaries about whale songs.
Is this happening?
I can’t make sense of whatthisis, but it’s inexplicable. A mental breakdown. A nightmare. A glitch in the matrix.
My sobs evolve to wheezing.
I shouldn’t cry. Crying solves nothing, and I need to solve this.
Taking a steadying breath, I start to pace the length of the room, humming through sobs. I make it through half of ABBA’sgreatest hits (and lots of sniffles and snot) by the time I feel brave enough to look at the bed again. That unmoving body is mine. Once so full of life and possibilities—a bucket list of them.
The waterworks start again. Worse than before.
The last time I cried was two years ago, and I’d never admit it to him, but it involved Rafael, a supply closet, and a flask I discovered hidden between reams of printer paper. I haven’t cried since, not unless I was getting emotional over a documentary about endangered animals or climate change.
I most certainly don’t cry when it comes to me. Because one: it’s pointless. And two: I don’t believe in feeling sorry for myself—not when being logical and making checklists are so much more effective for solving problems and moving forward.
Onlynothingis logical about being in a coma when I was justhere. More specifically, at the Aviary, on the verge of a long-worked-for promotion and slowing down. In the middle of training for my fifth marathon and checking one of the more attainable items off my bucket list. I ate salads for lunch, and I exercised like it was my religion. I saw a therapist and meditated, even if I couldn’t ever quite manage to get my head quiet. I couldn’t have simply slipped into a coma. Right?
I press a hand to the base of my head, where the throbbing intensifies, and I sniff back another round of tears, fighting for control over my emotions.
I need to focus on facts. On the parts of the puzzle Idohave. The Aviary. The dinner. Rafael.
The pieces click together so fast my stomach drops and my blood pressure spikes.
I didn’tslipinto a coma. Maybe someoneputme into one. And only one person could have pulled that off. The same person who was with me the last night I remember being … in my body. The same person who’s made it his life’s mission to drive me insane.
What if he somehow drove me out of my body? Long enough to snag a promotion? The idea is as ridiculous as me being in two places at once. Yet here I am. OrthereI am.
If Rafael were here, I would—
“Dios mío.” Rafael’s voice makes me jolt with a squeak.
I spin on him so fast I forget I’m a snotty mess.
Rafael stands a few feet away from me, wearing The Sweatpants and a tee that hides but not-so-subtly silhouettes the abs beneath. He hovers in the doorway, staring at me with wide eyes.
He’s staring. Right. At. Me.
“You can see me,” I blurt with a hoarse voice. Feeling like a wet sock, I sniffle and straighten, smoothing down the dress and tossing my hair over my shoulder, as if that could mask that I’m currently the antithesis of Evie Pope.
Rafael blinks, looking past me. I falter.
Maybe I imagined it all—him talking to me, responding, seeing me.
Maybe I’ve tricked myself into believing he could because the alternative is too terrifying.
Because he’s staring straightthroughme. Like I’m not here.
Needing confirmation, I ignore the tempest of uncertainty inside me and take a small step toward him, tears drying and hands shaky—exactly how one should approach their sworn enemy.
