My steps slow, my chest brimming with a soft ache as I think of Remi, how she would’ve laughed at this, would’ve grabbed my hand and dragged me up the steps.
I wish she could see me now or, better yet, walk at my side.
A deep breath and I start forward again, unable to keep the smile from my face.
The clink of silverware against porcelain and the murmur of conversation washes over me as I enter the dining hall. It’s different from the one at Rosewood. More masculine, with stone walls and floors, stained-glass windows, and heavy wooden tables. Lou had told me about it before, joking it was imported from a medieval kingdom. Seeing it now, I almost believe her.
Far across the room, I catch the flash of Carrson’s dark, glossy hair.
There he is, sitting beside Lou, her boyfriend on her other side, the three of them deep in conversation. Whatever’s being said must be good because Carrson throws his head back and laughs. The sound carries, and my own mouth rises in response, as if his happiness finds a place in me as well.
I weave through the tables, anxious to reach him. Heads turn, curious, as I pass, but I don’t pay them any attention. I’m too fixated on the man in the back of the room.
He doesn’t see me until I’m right in front of him.
I say his name, and Carrson’s head slowly lifts.
I stand there, smiling, my hands clasped in front of me. “Hey,” I say, feeling bashful.
I expect him to get up, to come to me, but instead his brow creases.
“Becky?” He glances around the room, like he’s searching for what he’s missing. “What’re you doing here?”
Uncertainty sets in.
“Uh.” I shift my weight. “You told me to come?”
“No.” He shakes his head.
The people at the tables around us fall silent, chairs scrape, and attention shifts my way.
I’m not invisible anymore.
“Carrson,” Lou says carefully, glancing between us. “Did you—”
“No,” he repeats, sharper this time.
My fingers curl into my palms, nails pressing into skin.
“I—” Heatclimbs up my neck. “Daphne said—she told me you—”
“I didn’t,” he says, looking past me, scanning the room like he’s trying to figure it out.
“It was me,” says a voice behind me. “I called you here.”
I turn, already knowing who will be there.
Jackson.
My stomach hits the ground.
“What do you want?” snaps Carrson, irritation clear in his tone. His chair scrapes loudly as he stands.
Jackson doesn’t answer right away. He watches Carrson approach, until the three of us form a loose triangle in the center of the room.
“I thought you should see this.” Jackson holds up a bag, letting it dangle from his bent finger.
At first, I think it’s Carrson’s backpack, the one I last saw at his house back in Ashport, but then I look closer and see the turtle charm that hangs from the zipper. My stomach plummets. I left that in my room, haven’t touched it in months. I have a newer bag I use for school now, pink and cheerful. I only kept this worn gray one to hold all the papers and files I gathered back when I was learning about this place.
