“This is when I need Dove.” Thomas’s eyes were bright, a storm wearing itself out.
Andrew hardly recognized his own voice, raw with a bitterness he never showed. “Go be with Dove, then.”
Thomas looked stunned. He was shaking apart—or maybe that was Andrew. Andrew, who was tipping toward a steep cliff overlooking an endless chasm. He had no wings. He’d fall and die and he’d do so in silence.
He’d never made Thomas look at him like this, with rage or hurt or—something worse.
Betrayal.
When Thomas finally spoke, he sounded calm and terrible. “I’m walking away from you now. And I’m not coming back.”
The world was melting around Andrew, like a sword had been driven up to the hilt in his stomach. He wanted to whisper,Wait. He couldn’t survive this, couldn’t be left alone out here when the forest felt far too eerily close, as if the hungry foulness of whatever had watched them was attracted by this fight.
Thomas turned, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his sketchbook like it was a dead thing he wished he’d buried in the woods. He walked away.
Inside Andrew, the world was ending. He was breathing too fast and yet not at all. He should never have spoken, even if he had meant it.
But no one who was innocent needed to be so violently defensive.
EIGHT
When Andrew woke, Thomas had already left for breakfast.
Thomas knew how to sayscrew youin very specific ways, courtesy of having roomed with Andrew for most of their time at Wickwood and knowing him too well. He’d started with this:
The soundless escape from their room, so Andrew would wake late.
Eating early, so Andrew would risk breakfast alone if he couldn’t find Dove.
The way he’d pulled his mess over to his side of the room in a very clear line. Usually his art supplies and knotted-up jeans and scrunched paper balls wandered all over the floor.
Worst was the return of an old well-thumbed notebook Andrew had written in years ago and Thomas had squirreled away for inspiration. It lay flung on Andrew’s bed, pages sagging with rejection.
Andrew felt sick as he dressed, his fingers shaking on the buttons of his white collared shirt. He took too long messing with his tie and couldn’t get it straight. He covered the bad attempt with a vest instead of the forest-green Wickwood jacket. It was too warm for wool and layers yet, but he deserved to suffer.
He always ruined everything.
They never fought like this. He’d bicker with Dove all day long, but he took more care with Andrew. If they argued, Thomas would end the day by thumping onto Andrew’s bed to demand a discussion on fairy-tale lore and the best way to describe a monster to fix things between them.
Andrew needed it and hated that he did. It never stopped making him feel small, the way Thomas had to nurse his anxiety. It lived between them, this knowledge that Andrew couldn’t cope and so Thomas took care of it.
Right up until he didn’t want to anymore.
Andrew skipped breakfast and went through morning classes with his skin turned inside out. He slumped at his desk, unable to focus on lessons or take notes. Everyone else seemed uninterested in their work as well. They were too busy staring at Thomas.
Did you hear about Rye?
He totally killed his parents.
The school festered with gleeful horror as juicy gossip swapped hands. The students shouldn’t know about it at all, but plenty of them had faculty parents to eavesdrop on and a quick Google search confirmed the Ryes’ disappearance. Fame followed Thomas’s parents in a glamorous haze, their work eccentric and coveted, and their vanishing meant something.
Thomas did not look okay. His face had gone pale under his freckles, and he zoned out in every class, not even doodling as he usually did. Gone were the paint-stained fingertips, the pencil shavings clinging to his clothes, the sketchbook he always had on hand—as if he’d lost all interest in doing the thing he loved most. He needed his best friend right now, not this icysilence between them, especially when Andrew would accept anything he did and never judge or hate him.
But Thomas had only heard—
I think you’re a murderer, too.
Andrew should have said nothing. He needed Thomas, but he’d always known Thomas didn’t need him in the same way.
