Transcendent (18 page)

He squinted, puckering his bottom lip, silent for a moment. And then a flash in his eyes, and his fingers were around my wrist, pulling me along. We tiptoed past Zoey, toward the door. Zane eased the lock open and we quietly stepped out. When were both safely in the hallway, he grinned at me.

“The roof,” he said.

“The roof?”

“We're on the top floor, right, but here's this middle door,” he said, pointing to an unmarked black door opposite Anthony's. “I never tried it before, but it's gotta go somewhere.”

“What if Zoey wakes up?”

“Shit. Good point. Hold up.” He put a finger to his lips and disappeared back inside the apartment. I grew more anxious as I waited, counting the cracked linoleum floor tiles to calm myself while I walked a slow, straight line down the hall.

“All good,” Zane said from behind, knocking me off my track. “Left her a note. Just said we ran out on errands, not to worry. But I doubt she'll wake up. She looks pretty knocked out.”

I spun around, facing him and the black door.

“So we're trying this?” I asked. Heights didn't usually freak me out, but there was something about being out on a roof, in this strange new apartment and this strange new neighborhood—with Zane—that made my heart pound and my blood rush. But that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. I felt alive, real,
human
.

He just smiled back, reaching his hand for the door. He jiggled the knob a few times, left, right. “Damn. Locked. But . . .” he said, reaching into his back pocket. “Looks like an easy one, so just give me a sec.” He withdrew a plastic card from his wallet with a flourish and started poking at the lock. Within seconds, Zane pushed the door open, revealing a dark ascending stairwell.

“Seriously,” he said. “Too easy. I was hoping for at least a little bit of a challenge.” He waved me forward, but then stopped, moving so that he stood in front of me, blocking the stairs. “Let me check it out first. Make sure it's not totally nasty and dangerous up there. I don't want it on my hands if . . .” He stopped, his eyes widening before he turned away, suddenly intent on studying those same linoleum tiles.

“If what?” I asked, the question burning in my already queasy, full stomach. “What were you going to say, Zane?”

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “It was just a joke. But a shitty joke.”

“If it's just a joke, then say it anyway.” I folded my arms
against my chest, trying to look far cooler and far stronger than I actually felt.

“I was going to say that . . . Shit, Iris,” he said, running his hands over his close-cropped black hair. He still couldn't look at me. “I'm sorry. I was going to say that I don't want it on my hands if I kill the next Jesus, or, you know. Whatever people out there are saying.”

“You're right,” I said, almost a whisper now. “That was a shitty joke.”

I stepped forward and nudged Zane aside, taking the stairs two at a time. I needed to be away from him, those words. That name.
Jesus
. I needed to be free. There was another door at the top—unlocked, fortunately—and I yanked it open, walking out onto the roof before he could stop me.

“Iris,” he called out, but I ignored him, stepped farther out into the dark night sky. This building wasn't particularly high, but I could still see the streets stretching out in a grid, the people, tiny as dolls, walking beneath the halos of streetlamps. Rooftops always felt magical to me, like I was floating on clouds hovering just above New York City—its rivers and bridges and bright flashing lights, the skyline that people traveled from all over the globe to see. Everything was brighter, neater, better somehow, from up above. The world made more sense when you saw it from a distance; you became one tiny part of a much bigger,
grander machine. You were somehow more alone and less alone, emptier and fuller, all at the same time.

“Iris, c'mon.” Zane brushed up against my shoulder. “I'm sorry, okay?”

I couldn't acknowledge him, just kept staring out at the lights, the blur of movement happening for miles into the horizon. So many lives packed into these buildings all around me, so many lives and so many people, going about their nights, laughing, crying, eating, studying, fighting, breathing, dying.

I was just one. Just one piece.

“Seriously,” Zane said, grabbing my wrist and spinning me around to face him, his broad chest and piercing eyes replacing the skyline, the stars. “You have got a serious temper. Didn't see that coming.”

“I do
not
have a temper,” I said, frowning as I pulled away from his grasp. “I just thought that you were a . . . a friend, I guess, as silly as that sounds. I thought you understood me. But I'm clearly just a joke to you. This whole thing—my whole
life
—is just a joke to you. Are you helping me out because it's fun? Is this entertainment? Please tell me, Zane, what the hell is in any of this for you? Because I'm just confused.” The questions, the doubts—they'd been there waiting, lurking somewhere deep down since that moment he'd pulled me out to the courtyard and told me that he
knew
. Everything. But I hadn't let myself listen,
because I couldn't. I needed Zane. And so I'd let myself play dumb.

“You're not a joke to me,” he said, his eyes still fixed on mine. I held my breath, balled my clammy hands into fists at my sides. “Honestly, I don't know why exactly I'm helping you. I just know that I have to. No”—he shook his head—“that's not right. I
want
to help. There's . . . there's, God, I sound crazy, but there's just something about you. Something special, I guess.”

“Don't,” I said, stepping backward. My voice shook; my whole body shook. “Don't you dare say that. Don't you try to tell me that there's anything special . . .”

My foot hit something solid behind me and I stumbled, my standing leg wobbling as my weight shifted back. I threw my hands out to find balance, desperate to throw myself forward toward the roof, solid ground. My entire body was screaming—stomach, heart, lungs pounding with alarm. My mouth, though, was oddly silent. Wide open, lips cracking, but no sound was coming out. I had no air left to give.

My eyes locked with Zane's for a second—his horror, my horror—before he lurched forward. He grabbed at me, pushing me to the floor of the roof. It wasn't until we came to a stop, our arms and legs all knotted up together, that I looked back toward the edge. There was just a short ledge there, a ledge that my knees would have buckled over, a
ledge that would have done nothing to stop me from hurtling over the side of the building.

“Shit, Iris,” he said, the words muffled by my sweatshirt. His head was pressed hard up against my collarbone, his body bracing over mine as if I could still teeter, still roll away, if he let me go. “Do you know how fucking scary that was? I thought”—he lifted his head up, our eyes meeting, just inches apart—“I thought it would be too late to save you. That I wouldn't be fast enough. I thought you were going to die.”

The words ripped me open and poured inside, like icy, stinging water flooding through every gash.
I almost died.

I didn't think, couldn't think. I freed my arms from under Zane and grabbed at his face, pulling it closer to mine. I pushed myself up and pressed my lips against his. I had never kissed a boy before—never
been
kissed by anyone but my family, a peck on the cheek or forehead—and I'd always worried, wondered what that first time would be like, the awkward fumbling and the bumping around. But it was entirely natural and instinctual now, no how-to manual required. In the moment before I closed my eyes and let the kiss take over everything else, I saw the flash of confusion in Zane's eyes. But, my lips on his, his lips on mine, I didn't
feel
the confusion.

I felt nothing but right, solid and safe and warm. I
felt okay again, better than okay, like I was higher than this roof, higher than any roof, like I really
was
on the clouds, above everything happening below. I was above the news stories and the speculation, above my family and my friends, above everything that had gone so wrong with my life.

Our lips moved faster, his palms on my face, my hands wrapped around his neck, pulling him in deeper.

“Iris,” Zane whispered, lifting up so that his lips were just barely above mine. “Iris, you don't really want this. You don't really want me, I mean.”

“Yes, I do.” I was sure of that—I hadn't realized it before that moment, maybe, but that didn't matter. I knew it now. I had thought I wanted Gabe Goodman, all summer long, agonizing over what I could say or do to make something happen. To make
us
happen. The way I felt now, with Zane, was so much different. So much better. I pictured the two of them side by side: quiet, angelic Gabe with his shy smiles, sweetly playing his violin; and Zane, so tall and commanding, his strength rolling in waves off his words, his stance, his every movement. I bit down on my lip to hold back a laugh, the contrast of the two so absurdly amusing. I'd thought I knew what I was looking for. I was wrong.

“You don't know anything about me,” Zane said, pulling me back to the roof—the image of Gabe slipping from
my mind for good. “And I wouldn't want you to, either, because I'm not a good person. I'm not like you.”

“I know plenty of things about you,” I said, my lips brushing against his. “I know that you're not just a big brother to Zoey. You're practically a dad to her, and she adores you. Worships you, really. I know that you've probably dealt with more shit in your life than I can even begin to understand. And I know that no matter what mistakes you've maybe made, you do what you have to do to survive, to keep Zoey safe. You're angry, maybe, and you act tough, but I know the Zane that Zoey sees is the real Zane. The Zane I've seen, too. The one who is helping me for no good reason at all, even if he thinks I'm probably a little crazy and stupid for running. The Zane that just saved me a few minutes ago, in case you already forgot. And earlier today, too, from that terrible guy on the street. Twice in one day . . . pretty impressive, I'd say.”

“So you know a few things, maybe.”

“A few pretty important things,” I corrected.

“What about you?” he asked. “I don't know much of anything about you, except for the fact that people think your mom was, like, a modern-day Virgin Mary.”

“Trust me, nothing else is quite that exciting.”

“Tell me anyway,” he said, sitting up to look at me.

“Okay,” I said, pulling myself up next to him, close enough that our shoulders and knees still touched. “Well,
my parents are great, or at least were until I found out they'd been keeping this huge secret from me. That my
dad
isn't technically my dad, that no one is.” The thought stung all over again. But even still, I missed my dad as much as I missed my mom and Cal. “And I have a younger brother, Caleb, too. He's right around Zoey's age, actually, and he's already wiser than I am. It's a shame
he
wasn't my mom's firstborn.” I forced a laugh, and Zane wrapped his arm tight around my back. “But he's been pretty freaked out about everything. Understandably. Part of me wonders if it's easier for him with me gone.”

“I seriously doubt that's true,” he said quietly. “What else?”

“Let's see . . . I've played the violin for over a decade. It's my baby, really. And I miss playing it right now almost as much as I miss my family. And my bed.”

“I played guitar a little, mostly when I was younger,” Zane said. “My dad had one, and he left it behind with the rest of us. But I sold it a little while back, needed the cash. I sucked anyway. It was just something to do. It stopped my brain from thinking too much when I played. Made me calm down.”

“If you ever get a new one, we'll have to play together. I bet you're not as bad as you think.”

Zane snorted. “I am. Trust me. It's not happening.”

I closed my eyes and smiled, letting the image of the
two of us making music at the park together play through my mind. Zane was right. The scene was hard to actually imagine.

“Iris . . .” Zane paused. “Why do you keep running? I mean, really? It seems like you have a good family who cares about you. A home. And friends, too. I've seen you at school before, the little clique you go around in. You guys always seemed a little weird together—that punk girl who's always growling, the nerdy, chubby guy with the gigantic glasses. The other girl, the quiet one. She was in my art class once. Super fucking talented, didn't say a single word. Just painted her mad crazy, brilliant strokes. And then you. I never knew what the hell to make of you.”

“I'm surprised you noticed. We usually seem to slip under the radar.”

“Yeah, well. I'm alone most of the time. Lurking in hallways, as you put it. You notice a lot then.”

I was quiet for a moment, my eyes lost in the endless black sky above. “I'm running because I don't know what else to do. I thought some time away would help. That then I'd be able to stand up to my mom and make her understand that I'm not going to leave town like she wants. And somehow figure out how I can stay here and be safe still. Figure out what the rest of my life is going to be like, now that so much has changed.”

“How's that plan coming along, then?”

“Ha.” I swatted at him, my hand lightly tapping his cheek. “It hasn't been a total failure so far. I somehow convinced this random stranger to take me in. I'm pretty sure no reporters and no parents will think to find me here.”

“What would they say if they did? Find you with me, that is. I'm not any parent's dream, that's for damn sure. You'd probably be grounded for the rest of your high school life, anyway, so you wouldn't have to worry about facing the public.”