Tears filled my mother’s eyes. “You have no right to come in my house and tell me how to treat my daughter!”
“Oh, really? Because I know terrible parents, and you’re one of them!”
“We tried,” Dad finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “We tried to tell her. Alex was in the hospital at the time—she’d just had an episode, she wasn’t doing well—and no matter what we said, it just . . . rolled off.” He looked at me. “Like you couldn’t hear us. At first we thought you were just in shock. We thought you understood. But then you came home, and you were talking to her, and we realized that . . . that you didn’t.”
The room was too small, too close, too hot. An awful sob escaped my throat before I could catch it. I clapped my hand over my mouth. It seemed to break Miles’s anger; his face rearranged itself into a soft expression of pity that I hated. I didn’t want that look from anyone, least of all Miles. Never him. I darted across the kitchen to the back door. I could hardly see, but I knew exactly where I was going.
I wrenched the door open, tripped down the steps, and sprinted across the backyard.
When I got to Red Witch Bridge, I slid down the embankment of the creek and climbed under the bridge, where no one could see me. My lungs burned, and my eyes stung from the tears.
Blue Eyes. Bloody Miles. Scarlet. The 8 Ball. And now Charlie.
Charlie. Charlemagne. My own sister. If Charlie wasn’t real, then what was?
Was everything made up? Was this whole world inside my head? If I ever woke up from it, would I be inside a padded room somewhere, drooling all over myself?
Would I even be myself?
Charlie had been a constant. Never once had I suspected she wasn’t real. She’d always been real. Soft and warm and there when I needed her.
I couldn’t breathe. I pressed a hand to my stomach and sucked in air, but bile rose to block it. My throat closed up.
“Alex! Alex, calm down!” Miles slid down the embankment, planted himself in front of me, and grabbed my shoulders. “Breathe. Just breathe. Relax.”
He took my hand and pressed it to his chest, over his heart. It beat frantically under my palm.
Was that real? His heart? Was he real?
I stared back at the blue eyes I’d always thought were too good to be true. So were they? Was Miles real? Because if Charlie wasn’t real and he wasn’t real, I didn’t want this anymore. I didn’t want any of this.
“Hey.”
“Are you real?” I asked.
“Yes, I am,” he said resolutely. He pressed my hand harder to his chest. His heart beat like a drum.
“I am real. This”—he put his other hand over the first—“is real. You see me interacting with other people all day long, don’t you? I talk to people; I affect things in the world. I cause things to happen. I am real.”
“But—but what if this whole place”—I had to suck in air again—“what if everything is inside my head? East Shoal and Scarlet and this bridge and you—what if you’re not real because nothing is real?”
“If nothing’s real, then what does it matter?” he said. “You live here. Doesn’t that make it real enough?”
Chapter Fifty
Miles and I sat under Red Witch Bridge until darkness settled in for good around us. My parents hadn’t come looking for me—I guess they knew I wouldn’t go far. Or they had amazing faith in Miles’s ability to find me. Or maybe they didn’t want to face either of us.
At the house, the kitchen light was still on. I stopped in the backyard, taking a long minute to search the area. It seemed stupid now, but I couldn’t stop myself. I turned slowly on the spot. House, door, street, woods.
We went in through the front door. I closed it loud enough to make sure my parents knew we were back. I didn’t want another confrontation. I didn’t want Miles and my mother going at each other’s throats again.
I did another perimeter check in my room, opened one of my photo albums on the dresser.
It was all Charlie. Charlie smiling, Charlie playing chess, Charlie asleep with her violin tucked under her arm.
I showed Miles the album. “What do you see?”
He flipped through a few pages. “Furniture. Your backyard. Your kitchen. The street. What should I see?”
I took the album back from him, closed it, and set it on the dresser. No medicine would ever be strong enough for this.
Miles glanced at the clock on my nightstand. It was almost one in the morning.
“Will your dad be angry?” I asked.
“Probably. He gets angry about everything.”
Over his shoulder I got a glimpse of white and red; Bloody Miles stood in the corner, grinning at me with his stained teeth.
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Do . . . um . . . do you have to go?”
“Are you okay?” He brushed my arm. I opened my eyes.
“I’m fine. I’m good.” I turned toward the bed and the window.
Charlie stood outside, a horrible sad grimace on her face. All sixteen black chess pieces stuck out of her mouth like finely carved tumors. I gasped and jumped; Miles’s arms came around me.
“What do you see?”
“Charlie’s at the window. And . . . and you’re in the corner.”
“Me?”
I nodded. “From Celia’s bonfire. Please don’t ask.”
“I can stay.”
I nodded. I pushed open his arms and walked to the closet, opening the door in Bloody Miles’s face. I peeled my shirt and jeans off and put on my pajamas.
Miles sat on the edge of the bed and took off his shoes.
“Your parents?” he asked.
“We’re not doing anything.” Besides, they might not be real.
“I think your mom hates me,” he said.
“I kind of hate her,” I said, realizing with a jolt that I meant it. “She needed to hear that. Thank you for telling her.”
I closed the closet door. Bloody Miles’s foul breath fanned over my ear and cheek. I pulled away from him and slid past Miles, into the bed. He lay down and slung an arm over my waist. I didn’t know how to position myself: facing away from him, Charlie stared at me through the window. Facing him, Bloody Miles loomed overhead. I turned to the pillow, eyes shut.
This wasn’t real. They weren’t real.
Miles pressed up against me and buried his face in my hair. He could say he didn’t understand emotions all he wanted, but sometimes it felt like he understood them better than anyone else I knew.