Page 40 of Dead Set on You
Too-many breaths later, I finally collect myself.
So much fordoingthe haunting.
I doubt I’ll ever recover.
I start to stalk down the street, avoiding tourists and locals, needing to channel my mental energy to more productive (and less disturbing) endeavors. A plan. A checklist. A way out of this situation.
A few blocks later, to-do items fall into place—the Revival Checklist:
1.Find Gemma (as my best friend, she has to be able to see me)
2.Research cases similar to mine, figure out what’s wrong with me
3.Consult with professionals
4.Use professional help to fix myself (defibrillators not off the table)
5.Make Rafael regret he ever met me
Thirty minutes later I’m in Wicker Park, walking down Gemma’s street. Her blue-brick duplex is within sight—and so is Gemma. My heart skips at the sight of my best friend, her red hair her signature feature. Gemma Quincy-Kaneko is the closest thing I have to a family.
We met as interns at a public relations firm. She was a badass former athlete with a personality to match, and I was her polar opposite. For one reason or another, she decided we were going to be best friends, and the rest is history. For the last decade, she’s dragged me to bars and events. Taken me to meet herfamily. And introduced me to two of my exes and threatened to dismember one of them.
She showed me what family was supposed to be like. Was more motherly than my mother ever was.
When she moved to Media Lab two years ago, she became a buffer between Rafael and me. When she was transferred to his team, she became a source of intel. Not that it’s helped. There isn’t a formula for understanding Rafael.
Seeing Gemma sparks hope.
I run toward her, shouting her name. “Gemma!”
She doesn’t turn.
I shout again, louder. Still nothing. I pick up my pace. As I close the distance, Gemma’s husband, Oliver, joins her on the sidewalk, dragging a suitcase behind him. The trunk of the SUV pops open.
“Gem!” I’m jogging now, but neither of them turns. Not even as I wave my arms wildly and shout their names as if from the top of a mountain. Like a screaming banshee.
They don’t turn.
Disappointment crashes through me as I slow to a stop, breath unsteady and pulse hammering. They’re standing beside the driver’s door, holding hands, oblivious to anything else—me included.
Ollie and Gemma met freshman year of college. He helped her get her grades to a passing level so she could keep her scholarship, and several late nights and study guides later, Gemma passed statistics and Ollie proposed. They were married a year later and have been inseparable since.
“Gem. Ollie,” I say, looking between them. The urge to hug them is overpowering.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come?” Ollie asks.
“No. I’ll be fine,” Gemma says, pressing a kiss to his lips. She brushes his jet-black hair from his forehead before she retreats and slides into the car. “I’ll call as soon as I get there.”
“Where are you going?” I ask, needing to know.
She doesn’t hear me. Not as she pulls on her seat belt and leans out the car window. Not as I get within inches of her face.
“Love you,” Ollie says with a wave.
“Back at you.” She blows him a kiss.
“Gem!” I’m desperate as the Jeep begins to pull away. I march alongside it, face practically glued to the window. “I’m here!” I shout, hoping like hell she’ll hear me.
