Ignite Me - Tahereh Mafi Page 0,71
I’ll always care about the few people who’ve shown me kindness in my life, but everything else is just . . . gone.”
“I understand,” he says.
I don’t believe him.
“So what do you want to do?” I ask. “About tomorrow? And Adam?”
“What do you think should be done?”
I sigh. “I’m going to have to talk to him. I’ll have to break up with him for the third time,” I say, groaning again. “This is so stupid. So stupid.”
I finally drop the pillow. Drop my arms to my sides.
But when I look up again, Warner is gone.
I sit up, alert. Glance around.
He’s standing in the corner, putting on a pair of pants.
I try not to look at him as I climb back onto the bed.
I kick off my shoes and sink under the blankets, burrowing into the pillows until my head is buried beneath them. I feel the weight shift on the bed, and realize Warner must be sitting beside me. He plucks one of the pillows off my head. Leans in. Our noses are only inches apart.
“You don’t love him at all?” Warner asks me.
My voice is being stupid. “Romantically?”
He nods.
“No.”
“You’re not attracted to him?”
“I’m attracted to you.”
“I’m serious,” he says.
“So am I.”
Warner’s still staring at me. He blinks, once.
“Don’t you believe me?” I ask.
He looks away.
“Can’t you tell?” I ask him. “Can’t you feel it?”
And I am either losing my mind or Warner just blushed.
“You give me too much credit, love.” His eyes are focused on the blanket, his words soft. “I will disappoint you. I am every bit the defective human being you don’t think I am.”
I sit up. Look at him closely. “You’re so different,” I whisper. “So different and exactly the same.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re so gentle now. You’re very . . . calm,” I tell him. “Much more than you were before.”
He says nothing for a long time. And then he stands up. His tone is curt when he says, “Yes, well, I’m sure you and Kishimoto will find a way to sort this situation out. Excuse me.”
And then he leaves. Again.
I have no idea what to make of him anymore.
FORTY-ONE
Adam is already here.
Warner was completely uninterested in dealing with Adam. So he’s gone about his day and his duties, having skipped his morning workout.
And now I’m here.
I’ve just stepped out of the elevator, and the pinging sound that signals the opening of the doors has alerted everyone to my presence. Adam was standing in the corner, talking to James. He’s now staring at me.
It’s weird, how I feel when I look at him now. There is no extreme emotion in me. No excess of happiness or sadness. Not upset. Not overjoyed. His face is familiar to me; his body, familiar to me. His unsteady smile, as he looks at me, is familiar to me.
How strange that we can go from friends to inseparable to hateful then casual all in one lifetime.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey.” He looks away.
“Hi, James.” I smile.
“Hi!” He waves, buoyant. He’s standing just next to Adam, eyes lit up, clearly thrilled to be back among us. “This place is so cool.”
“It is,” I agree. “Have you had a chance to take a shower yet? The water is warm here.”
“Oh, right,” he says, shyly now. “Kenji told me about that.”
“Why don’t you get washed up? Delalieu will be bringing lunch down soon. I’m sure Brendan can show you around the locker room—and where to put all your stuff. You can have your own locker,” I tell him, glancing at Brendan as I do. He nods, taking the hint and jumping to his feet right away.
“Really?” James is saying. “That’s so cool. So they just bring the food to you? And you get to shower whenever you want? Is there a curfew?”
“Yes, yes, and no,” Brendan answers him. He takes James’s hand. Grabs his little bag. “We can stay up as late as we like,” he tells him. “Maybe after dinner I’ll show you how to use the bicycles in here,” he says, his voice fading to an echo as he and James disappear into the locker room.
Once James is gone, everyone seems to exhale.
I steel myself. Step forward.
“I’m really sorry,” Adam says first, crossing the room to meet me. “You have no idea—”
“Adam.” I cut him off, anxious. Nervous. I have to say this and I have to say it now. “Kenji lied to you.”
Adam stops. Stills.
“I haven’t been crying over you,” I say, wondering if it’s even possible to deliver this kind of