Page 61 of The Fall of Iris Henley
“Why me?” I ask again. “Why’d you spend all that time texting me, making me feel like you… like we…”
It comes out as a plea, and I hate it, I hate that I’m beggingfor what I’m owed, I hate that after all of this, after everything he did, some soft, messy, heartbroken part of me still exists. I hate that I was taken in by another monster in the form of a beautiful boy.
“What are youtalkingabout?” he asks.
I laugh, but halfway through, it turns to a single sob.
“Why did you act like you liked me?” I cry, before my hands fly up to cover my face.
We’re so close I can feel his body heat. His hands lock on my upper arms and squeeze. I shake my head, like I could fling him from my mind that way, but he holds tight.
When he speaks, his voice is low and gentle and scared.
“Iris, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but I’ve never texted you in my life.”
CHAPTER 33
MONDAY, OCTOBER 17, 5:13PM
MCKINNEY HIGH SCHOOL
The world is a blur of green and blue and gray, and there’s a terrible roaring in my ears. Someone nearby is talking but I can’t register what they’re saying. I’m untethered from the world—floating, bodiless.
It’s a relief, truly. A moment outside of time, away from the weight and chaos of my feelings.
Then someone grabs me by the elbow, and the world swerves back into focus.
“Henley. Henley.” It’s Max. He shakes me gently, trying to jostle me back into my body. Then, suddenly, he cups my chin in his hand.
“Iris,” he says.
I blink. There behind him is Jonah, still with a towel around his neck, sweaty from his match. He looks beyond startled, his eyes are so wide. I catch my breath.
“Are you okay?” Jonah asks.
I fight the urge to let out a wild, hysterical laugh. Instead I shake my head no.
Max sets his jaw and turns to look at Jonah.
“Do you know anywhere we can sit down for a minute?” he asks. “I think we need to talk.”
The orchestra room is dark and silent when we arrive. The three of us sit on the topmost riser near the back of the room, Max and me side by side, Jonah facing us.
“So you’ve never texted me, not even once?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I don’t even have your number. I almost asked for it last summer, but I just thought… you know. It seemed like a bad time. I didn’t want to freak you out.”
Max looks at me for a moment, then back to Jonah. His expression is guarded. It’s only because I’ve known him my whole life that I can see how tense he is. “What about Sekrit, do you use that? Someone’s been spreading a bunch of rumors on the Varda High feed. I take it that’s not you either?”
“No, man, I don’t fuck around with social media.” Jonah makes a face. “Partly because of stuff like this. This is messed up.”
“I’ll second that,” I say softly.
Jonah leans back against the wall. He still hasn’t had a chance to shower, and his curls are wilder than ever, the sweat drying it into strange whorls and twists. He’s ostensibly easier to read than Max—less guarded, more open—but I feel like everything I thought I knew about body language and expression has become useless in the last six months. I thought I knew Rocky and Lynette. I thought I knew who I was talking to when I was texting Jonah. But I’ve been wrong every single time.
“This guy—let’s call him ‘Not-Jonah,’ just to prevent confusion,” the real Jonah says. “He knew enough about me to keep this going since August?”
“Well… yeah.” I knew Jonah in real life, so I never questioned it. I liked him, I wanted to hear from him, and I was excited to see his name appear on my phone. But now that I’m thinking about it, what exactlydidNot-Jonah say that made me so sure of him?
