Page 239 of Immune

“No,” she says, swallowing harshly. “No, there fucking aren’t.”

She turns away from me then, setting the hat on the edge of the planter bed like she can’t stand holding it anymore butcan’t bear placing it any farther. Then she presses both of her hands to the edge of the wood, dirt crumbling under her fingers.

Then, with a small, quiet confession, she says, “I hate him.”

“Yes.”

“I love him.”

“Yes.”

“I hate that I love him.”

I nod.

She looks back at me with bright and furious eyes. “Are you just going to agree with everything?”

“No.”

She raises a challenging eyebrow. “Then disagree with something.”

I accept the challenge and tell her, “You’re not weak because a part of you still needs him.”

“Fuck you,” she says, but it’s not soft or teasing. It’s a sharp blade thrown because she needs to see whether or not I’ll bleed and blame her for it.

I don’t move. “No.”

Her breath catches and the greenhouse suddenly feels smaller than it did before. Her scent shifts, but not with heat. At least, not exactly. It’s want entwined with grief. Anger threaded through need. It’s a whole storm trying to decide if lightning is needed or not.

Dakota’s eyes fall to my mouth, and then they snap away just as quickly before she says, “You don’t get to look at me like that.”

“How am I looking at you?” I ask carefully.

“Like I’m not completely disgusting right now,” she answers with a self-deprecating roll of her eyes.

I push away from the door slowly, and her body grows still. She doesn’t step back, though.

“Dakota.”

She flinches at the sound of her name, but not because she seems to dislike it coming from me. But because tonight, names have a bite to them.

I stop only two paces away from her before I say, “You’re angry. You’re grieving. You’re exhausted and bleeding through things no one should have had any right to ask you to survive.”

Her eyes shine, but there are still no tears. Not here, not yet.

Quieter, I continue, “None of that makes you disgusting.”

“You don’t pity me?” she asks after a single beat.

“No,” I answer honestly.

“Bullshit.”

“I hate what happened to you, but that’s not the same.”

She laughs, harsh and wet. “Why do you say things as if you’ve carved them right out of yourself first?”

I shrug. “Because sometimes I do.”