Once We Were (22 page)

Ryan wasn’t looking at me anymore. Why couldn’t he just be angry or upset or
something
? I had no idea what he wanted or needed to hear. Was this something I was supposed to know? Was this yet another bit of life I’d missed out on learning?

I just wanted to do the right thing. I just wished I knew what that was.

I died and died again in the silence that followed my words.

Then Ryan laughed. Quietly, but he laughed. “A couple months ago, a man in a suit came to take us away from our homes. We spent a week in a mental hospital, and now we’re on the run from the government. I think we’ve officially left
normal
behind.”

He had to whisper, because of course all this was completely secret, but somehow the whispering made everything seem that much more ridiculous. How had all this happened? How had Addie and I traded honors biology for Sabine’s notes on bomb making? How had we gone from
high-school freshman
to
fugitive of the law
?

“Eva,” Ryan said. “I get that you didn’t want me with you in case you got caught. But trust me, if you’d gotten caught, the only place I’d want to be is next to you. Okay?”

“Yeah,” I said softly. “It goes both ways.”

He nodded. Smiled, just a little. “You threw everything into an uproar when you left. Dr. Lyanne kept demanding we tell her where you were, and we kept saying we had no idea.”

“She believed you?” I said.

“Yeah. She did. Why not, right?”

“Why not,” I echoed. I hesitated. “Ryan, do you think we should stop? With the plan?”

He frowned. “What?”

“Never mind. It was just . . . I just—never mind.” I took a step toward him. I’d never felt uncomfortable around Ryan before. Especially not when Addie wasn’t here. But now all I could think about was how she might react if she suddenly returned. “I should go back down. Sophie’s probably waiting for me.”

He knew there was something off. I could tell. But all he said was, “Okay.”

There was a pause. Then he leaned down and kissed me, and it was right for a moment—it was eager and familiar and comforting. Until I remembered Jackson’s kiss, and Addie, and without meaning to, I jerked away.

Ryan went very still. The hand that had rested on our shoulder hung in midair.

“Sorry,” I said quickly, quietly. I looked over my shoulder. “I thought I heard something. I’m just still jumpy from tonight. You know.”

After a second, he nodded and dropped his hand.

He tried to smile before giving up and going inside.

I
sat in bed long after Sophie and Kitty had gone to sleep, my knees tight against my chest, thinking about what I should say when Addie came back.

It was right for us to have our privacy. Wasn’t that the point of going under? To give each of us a taste of what it was like to be alone, to act and feel and
be
without thinking of the other.

But at the end of the day, my hands were still Addie’s hands. Addie’s mouth was my mouth. As children, back before I lost control, Addie had always been more capable in our body than I was. Almost always, she’d been able to overpower me when our wills clashed. But we were older now. Old enough, surely, to figure out how to share this body without hurting either of us.

Our nightstand drawer sat halfway open, Addie’s sketchbook peeking out. I hesitated, then pulled it onto my lap. Between the moonlight and the streetlamps, I could just see the pages. I paused at the drawings of Hally. At the half-finished sketch of Kitty watching television, her face tilted away from us and almost complete, but the rest of her body still flat—dissolving into nothing but lines and the suggestion of form.

The sketch after that was one I’d never seen. A drawing of Jackson, the lean lines of his shoulders and back, the way his hair was just a little too long and fell into his eyes. He was looking at me. At her. I stared back, trying—knowing it was futile—to remember those moments Addie had spent capturing his image in graphite.

My hands had drawn this. My fingers had gripped the pencil, held the eraser. My eyes had traced over his body, studied the creases in his shirt and the lines of his hands. But I would never remember it. Addie hadn’t sketched a background, only a faint outline of the chair Jackson sat in, so I didn’t even know where the two of them had been when this happened. I didn’t know what they’d talked about.

I replaced the sketchbook just as Addie eased into existence.

I reached for her the way I had when we were children. My carefully planned sentences tangled together, my words tying themselves into knots.

It was a long moment before Addie replied.

She spoke carefully, her voice soft.

I winced.