“He doesn’t want me to see her until Thanksgiving break.”
“But that’s a month away! She could be—” I stop myself.The moment I finish the sentence in my head, I feel sick. But there’s no way. People my age do
not have parents who die. She’l have chemotherapy, and of course it’l work. She’l be fine. “So what are you gonna do? Fly to San Francisco anyway?”
“My father would murder me.”
“So?” I’m outraged. “You’d stil get to see her!”
“You don’t understand. My father would be very, very angry.” The deliberate way he says this sends a chil down my spine.
“But . . . wouldn’t she ask your dad to send for you? I mean, he couldn’t say no to her, could he? Not when she’s . . . sick?”
“She won’t disobey my father.”
Disobey. Like she’s a child. It’s rapidly becoming clear why St.Clair never talks about his father. Mine might be self-absorbed, but he’d never keep me
away from Mom. I feel awful. Guilty. My problems are so insignificant in comparison. I mean, my dad sent me to France. Boo-freaking-hoo.
“Anna?”
“Yeah?”
He pauses. “Never mind.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
But his tone is definitely not nothing. I turn to him, and his eyes are closed. His skin is pale and tired. “What?” I ask again, sitting up. St. Clair opens his eyes, noticing I’ve moved. He struggles, trying to sit up, too, and I help him.When I pul away, he clutches my hand to stop me.
“I like you,” he says.
My body is rigid.
“And I don’t mean as a friend.”
It feels like I’m swal owing my tongue. “Uh. Um. What about—?” I pul my hand away from his. The weight of her name hangs heavy and unspoken.
“It’s not right. It hasn’t been right, not since I met you.” His eyes close again, and his body sways.
He’s drunk. He’s just drunk.
Calm down, Anna. He’s drunk, and he’s going through a crisis. There is NO WAY he knows what he’s talking about right now. So what do I do? Oh my God, what am I supposed to do?
“Do you like me?” St. Clair asks. And he looks at me with those big brown eyes—which, okay, are a bit red from the drinking and maybe from some
crying—and my heart breaks.
Yes, St. Clair. I like you.
But I can’t say it aloud, because he’s my friend. And friends don’t let other friends make drunken declarations and expect them to act upon them the
next day.
Then again . . . it’s St. Clair. Beautiful, perfect, wonderful—
And great. That’s just great.