“Ow,” Jesse drawls, and proceeds to push his boot back between my feet. Neither of us has slept since the incident in my room. Heaven forbid Jesse allow a minor obstacle like sleep deprivation to stand in the way of irritating me to death. If a curse can’t finish me, then by God, Jesse Talbot will.
He taps a finger against the tabletop. “About your dad—”
“I don’t want to talk about my dad.”
“Okay.” He surprises me by moving on without argument. “What do you want to talk about, then?”
Reckless energy crackles through me, sparking from the depths of my grief. “Why do you hate it here so much?”
Jesse cocks his head. “Why do you think I hate it here?”
I tick each item off, trying to ignore my shaking fingers. “You’ve never said yes to a dance or a date, you turn away anyone who tries to be your friend, you push away every teacher that tries to reach out to you, and you never show up to functions for the school or the town.”
“Hmm.” Jesse sits forward, lacing his fingers together on the table. My skin tightens beneath his steadfast attention. “I had no idea you were so concerned about my community involvement.”
The back of my neck heats. “Someone should be.”
Jesse’s lips twitch. He lifts a hand, mimicking me as he ticks off items on his fingers. “I’ve never been asked out by someone I want to say yes to, Idon’tturn away anyone who tries to be my friend, the fact that the teachers at Canyon have licenses continues to challenge my faith in our education system, and I would rather backflip into a deep fryer than show up for the town picnic or whatever.”
“Wow.” I fold my hands around my mug and raise both brows. “Do I get a drink with that crock of bullshit or should I use the coffee to wash it down?”
Jesse grins, ridiculously delighted by the swear word. He lowers his hands, folding them back on the table. “Any drink you want, Sour Patch.”
My smile fades. I drop my eyes to the oil spots forming on the coffee’s surface. “You turnedmeaway.”
It sits between us, a confession wrapped in thorns, too painful for either of us to touch. Had it not been for this curse, Jesse would have graduated from Canyon High without ever speaking more than a few words to me. He would have kept waking up early to cross the driveway and stayed sequestered on his side of the courtyard during lunch.
The waitress appears at our table just as Jesse opens his mouth. Though the dishes balanced on her shoulder teeter dangerously to the right, she swipes my empty carafe without pausing. “Refill?”
“No—”
“Yep!” I beam at her, and she winks before racing to the next table.
“Do you think my dad knew about Nadine?” I prop my chin on my fist as if we’re in the middle of discussing the season finale of our favorite show. “Knew about her family?”
If Jesse is thrown by the sudden change in subject, he doesn’t show it. “I doubt it.”
“I think he knew. Why else would he refuse to talk about her family? He must have known. He must have. He let a murderer be my mother.”
“Mansour …”
I wave him off, grappling for the strap of my backpack with the hand I’m not using to hold up my coffee. If I hear any concern in his voice, I’ll lose it. Maybe I’m in shock or denial or a fugue state in between—I don’t know, and I don’t care. If he wants me to function, to keep swallowing the scream ringing inside me, then he needs to take his sympathy and drown it.
“Whatever is after me, it followed me from the Haikal villa.” I draw out my mother’s journal and slap it onto the table, directly next to a puddle of drying syrup.
The journal disappears before I can contemplate using it as a coaster. Jesse pulls it across the table, out of my mug’s line of fire. Again, he wears an impassive expression, and I couldn’t be more grateful for Jesse’s disinclination to engage with any emotion that can’t be worked out with his fists.
“You said this journal was blank before tonight?”
I follow the path of the rain trickling down the window. “Yup. I’ve combed through it a million times.”
“So these entries appeared after you saw the shadow.”
My gaze flies to Jesse and widens. I hadn’t put the pieces together, but—”You think the shadows are linked to my mother’s journal?”
A long exhale rattles out of Jesse. “It’s one theory. Unless we contact your aunt, the journal is the only lead we have about breaking the curse.”
I jerk as though I’ve been slapped. “Contacting Khalto Safa is out of the question.” I try to imagine speaking to Khalto Safa knowing what I know, and a shudder runs through me. “She won’t help me.”
