Waves crash around me.
They’ve been lapping this shore for eons and they’ll keep on eons after me and my stupid problems are gone.
Lana kept calling, and I… I left my phone in LA.
Maybe if I had been willing to take a chance, maybe if I’d realized sooner how I actually feel about Mylo, then maybe I’d have…something.
I wanted everything. And now I have nothing.
Well… not nothing.
Mylo is safe. He’s where he wants to be. Maybe even somewhere he could be happy. And that’s… the most that can be done. Especially since it’s my fault everything went to shit in the first place.
You and Mylo have a scent match.
If he’d never met me… he’d still be happy. Maybe in a world without me, he can be.
Not that I’m thinking like that; it’s been a long time and a lot of therapy since I thought like that.
I could move somewhere nobody’s ever heard of me. But if I go missing—ifChristine Evansworth, America’s Sweetheartgoes missing—it’ll plaster the news cycle for weeks. Months. Paparazzi and reporters will be tracking down every assistant, rigger, and caterer fromChristine Evansworth’s Last Movie. They’ll find Mylo.
No more running. Time to grow the fuck up.
I just need…
A couple more days.
CHAPTER
FORTY-TWO
MYLO
One week later
We sitaround the dining room table in the same places we always did.
Dad’s face is softer, his hair greyer.
Mom looks the same with her bouncy teal curls and honey-colored eyes, so I suppose I have the typical omega’s slow aging to look forward to.
“You’ve gotten so thin, honey.” She scoops an extra-large helping of buttery mashed potatoes onto my plate. “Eat up.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She reaches over and fusses my hair out of my face. “That horrible dye is faded a bit. It’s nice to see your roots. Oh, I know. I’ll take you to Millie and she can give you a nice short cut, get rid of all this…” She tucks my hair behind my rounded ears and hesitates. “…darkness.”
I run my fingers through my hair and pull it back over my ears and face. “I’m good. Thanks, though.”
Mom looks like she wants to say something, but she just glances down at her plate.
Dad clears his throat. “That trendy coffee shop downtown is hiring. You’d fit right in there. Could be nice to have something to do, depending on how long you’re staying.”
“Ofcoursehe’s staying,” Mom says. “The coffee shop is a lovely idea. Even if they did change their chai tea recipe, and it’s terrible now.” She slices the turkey on her plate as if it’s directly responsible.
I stare at the fresh-cut flowers in a little vase on the table as I shovel mashed potatoes into my face. I have exactly one suppressant dosage left—I never took my evening dose the night of the wrap party—and it’s still in my backpack. My heat symptoms haven’t come back, so… I guess it’s over. Time to catch up on meals, even if I haven’t really felt like eating.
Time to face the music, too. I looked up that doctor, Giovanna Heath. She’s legit. So is suppressant resistance syndrome. There are more questions than answers, but it’s clear that I can no longer rely on suppressants to hide what I am.
