I stifled a groan, lying here next to him because he wasn’t even only in my heart. He was behind my heart. He got in there at some point when I was eight years old, and I don’t think he’d ever left. This connection—whatever it was, I wouldn’t have it with anyone else.
I didn’t know if that was a beautiful thing or just bleak.
“Were you hoping they’d be like you?” Did that mean he was lonely somehow? Looking for others like him? But that wasn’t how it worked for someone who had his affliction. Was it? Maybe it wasn’t so black and white? Perhaps there was some gray in someone like Creighton.
I began tracing my fingers over the back of his hand.
“No.” He sighed. “I just thought maybe they were.”
“No one’s like you, Eight. No one understands you.”
“You do.”
I lifted my head. He was watching me intently. “You understand me.”
I don’t think I did understand him.
I looked away because I didn’t want to see if he was looking at me with those dead eyes or if they had an emotion, because sometimes, when he looked at me, therewasemotion there. I thought I saw it tonight, but maybe I hadn’t. Maybe I just saw what I wanted to see, and that’s why he stopped me from turning the light on.
That was probably it.
I could think and think and think to infinity and still never have him figured out, so tonight, I wasn’t going to do anything. I wasn’t going to get mad he was here. I wasn’t going to be embarrassed either. Scooting down in the bed, I rolled to the other side.
He didn’t say anything more, one of his hands resting on my hip as he settled in behind me.
I didn’t let go of his other hand. I should’ve, but I didn’t.
Chapter Fifteen
Blake
He was gone in the morning.
He came back the next night, crawled in with me.
We didn’t talk. I rolled toward him, and he held my hand. I fell back asleep, and he was gone in the morning again. The third night was a repeat.
It kept happening.
I didn’t want it to stop happening.
Chapter Sixteen
Blake
The train screeched to a halt, and when the doors opened, not many got off. Instead, a whole slew of guys got on.
Over the years, I’d begun to recognize Creighton’s army. It wasn’t all guys. Girls joined as well, but he tended to use the girls for different jobs. They were recruiters. Scouters too. Girls got overlooked, so Creighton used that, utilized them in areas where he wanted them to be overlooked. Guys, though, they looked like these guys. Youngish. Always dressed to blend in. Some wore jeans. Some wore joggers. Sweatshirts. Baseball caps. They could be teenagers or thirty-year-olds. They took care of themselves. Kept themselves fit. Clean shaven (generally), and their hair was cut with a fade on the side and a little extra on the top.
Nothing to stick out.
Except their eyes.
If they came to Creighton without hardened eyes, they got them soon after. Then again, the type of guy or girl who would sign up to work for Creighton generally already had those eyes. Most came from the street.
Like Creighton. Like me.
I counted twelve that got on. They were Creighton’s. I knew without a doubt, and just before the doors were going to close, the man himself stepped onto the train.
