Page 51

Ouch.

‘I don’t think that’s…’ I bite my lip, rein in my response and try to fight fire with water. ‘Look, I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have undermined⁠—’

‘Stars, you’re pathetic. It makes me sick. Stick up for yourself at least once. It’s nauseating watching you grovel to clean up other people’s shit.’

‘I-I⁠—’

‘I-I—’ she mocks. ‘Fuck, what a waste of space. What a waste of my fucking time.’

‘What is your problem? Seriously? They’ve done nothing to you! They’re old, and all they want is to make a collection of their stories and you’re worried that, what? They might hit a wrong key on the computers that no one else even uses? You’re so cruel, so needlessly mean. I don’t get it. Why are you like this?’

By now, the walls are shaking. The desks rattle, and the computers she’s so fucking hell bent on keeping everyone’s hands off are about to tumble off the desks.

‘Why would I confide in you? You’re a dumb, hopeless, idiot. The only people who can stand being around you are the dregs of society. The only company you have is a tree that can’t escape you and a bunch of old farts using you to get their stupid book finished.’

There’s a strange aura in the room now. Almost like a haze, almost like a colourful, intangible whirlwind. Papers are sent scattering; they fly through the room. Delilah is too mad to notice. I’m too mad to care. A high-pitched ringing is starting to peal through the room.

‘And why would I explain myself to you, Miller? We’re not friends. I don’t like you. No one actually likes you. I can’t stand the sight of you. Actually, you know what? Just leave. I’m sure there’s more than one screw-up in this town available for hire⁠—’

The ringing in my head is too much, too loud, even for Delilah’s shouting. My vision is going blurry; I blink and it’s like the pictures going static on an old TV. I stare into Delilah’s eyes, wide and panicked.

Chapter Fourteen

The Coffee Pot

The library’s muted tones desaturate completely before everything begins to entirely fade. Delilah sprints from the room. I’ve finally done it. I’ve pushed her over the edge and now she’s left me here to die. I try to grip the table, the curtains by the sill, the computer cord, damn near anything. But no. It all goes. Everything leaves, but me. The one thing I don’t want to be stuck with right now. I’m plunged into darkness, but I’m not suspended, there’s still solidity beneath me. I can’t tell if it’s me that trembles, or the ground itself. The voices are like a storm, like a hurricane I can’t outrun. They’re intangible, and lethal.

The wind and voices crescendo and echo, they pull at me from every direction, tearing at my skin like clothing to a lover. There’s nothing lustful in it. This is love spoiled. These are words that scorn and touches that strike.

Tilly appears before me, eyes scrunched, lip curled in distaste. She looks just like the last time I saw her. If I weren’t already filled with dread, my racing heart jolts to a halt and tries to pull away from the words I know I’ll hear next.

‘Miller, what are you doing here?’ Her brows pinch together, creating an angry little pyramid. She looks over my shoulder, smooths her features and smiles briefly, before her eyes find mine and her pretty face crumples again.

‘I thought you’d… you’d…’ I stutter the words. I have no control over the old reply. This conversation breathes without me. ‘I thought that you’d want me here.’ I can hear the same confusion that strained my voice that day. I can feel it too. I can feel the excitement of seeing her wavering and the uncertainty starting to sweep in. What does she mean? Why wouldn’t I be here? This is her big moment, I’m her closest friend. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.

‘Miller.’ She swallows once. Looks back over my shoulder again and holds up a finger. Hold on. Wait.

Tilly takes a rallying breath and locks her fingers in front of her. I know that sign. She learnt it from me.

‘Miller, did I invite you to the premier?’

‘Well, technically the public don’t need⁠—’

‘Did I invite you?’ she cuts in.

I pause, frown. Because, ‘No, you didn’t.’

‘Did I invite you to my birthday?’

I take a second longer to answer. ‘No.’

‘Have I given you any indication whatsoever that I have interest in you or your life now?’

I know where this is going. I knew, even then. Of course, I knew she wouldn’t want to be seen with me since leaving the orphanage. Immortals and mortals don’t mix. Not unless there’s some random stroke of brilliance we can cling to, but I’ve never been called brilliant. Strange, peculiar, sometimes fun. But not brilliant. Of course, it makes sense. I just didn’t realise that time, that friendship, counts for nothing.

‘Shit, Til.’ I run a shaky hand through my messy head of hair. I had to hitch a train to get here. I lost a shoe. ‘It’s been three months⁠—’

‘Shut up,’ she hisses. She grips my wrist and pulls me through the darkness and it blends and bleeds to make space for us. I remember the room though, stunning, striking reds and elaborate gold adornments. The room was made for royalty and Tils fit right in. The only blemish in there… was me. ‘You can’t be here. And’ – she takes a deep breath, fans her hands in front of her as if she’s ready to push me away – ‘I’d appreciate if you didn’t come again.’