Page 82 of Flickerstate

Jo sobs. “Say something.”

I can give up on myself if I want, but this horror show isn’t all about me. It isn’t even all about Dad. It’s about Jo, Kev, Irene, Mom. They’re the ones who’ll have to live with my failure. My plan to save my family relied on my personal excellence at following rules and winning contests. I botched that plan.

That doesn’t mean I get to stop trying.

It means I need a new plan.

“I messed up,” I admit. “My team lost the Archive trials.”

Jo inhales sharply. After a long pause, she asks, “How else can you get the cure?”

“I’ll need help,” I say.

Chapter Twenty

I make Jo swear not to tell anyone what I’ve said, but when we hang up, she’s not crying anymore. I flop back in bed—I’m tired, tired,and so hungry—and read my texts.

Candace’s says,Fuck you, Intense Girl Norah.Damn. I’m not sure she’ll talk to me again. It’s funny how much the thought hurts, a cold ache in my chest, when I have so many more fatal problems to worry about.

The ones from Vik are knives between the ribs:The last time I saw a friend spiraling, I didn’t push and I regretted it. Please tell me what’s really wrong.Then:Can I help?

He heard me go off on Bree, and I’m sure he disapproved: Gratuitous meanness isn’t his style (though it didn’t seem to bother Griffin, which is either flattering or a little disturbing). But he still wants to help me. Because he feels guilty about the friend he couldn’t help. Because he’s a good person.

Because I’m not a good person, I text back:My room in 30?

***

I shower, pull on sweatpants and an ancient Turkey Trot T-shirt, and eat an emergency protein bar stashed in my dresser. At thirty minutes on the dot, I hear a quiet knock and open the door. Vik slides past me, back to the wall, barely inside the room. When I close the door, he cuts his eyes sideways at the knob—flushing, I think, a bit—and reaches for the light switch. “You mind?”

Oh. Yeah. It’s past sunset, orange light dying to blue dusk. I’ve been too preoccupied to notice that I’m lurking in the shadows like a creep. “Go ahead.”

The light blinks on. I rub my stinging eyes.

My single is bigger than the room I share with Jo at home, but it’s not big. I back away so Vik doesn’t feel crowded, till my bed bumps my legs. (Unmade, I remember, face prickling.) Even so, if I stretched out my hand, I could brush his arm with my fingertips. His arm—or his chest, muscles straining his faded T-shirt as he breathes.

This is the first time we’ve been alone in my room. And despite the exhausted pallor glowing through his brown skin, he looksgood. He’s showered since the trial, his black hair curling damply over his forehead. I wish I could run my fingers through it.

I have before.

But when I meet his eyes, they’re—withdrawn. Cautious.

Cautious of me.

Guilt and embarrassment swamp me. I shouldn’t be thinking of him like that, not after how I dumped him, how we tore at each other during the final trial, how he saw me rage at Bree like the unstable jackass I am.

Of course he’s cautious of me. I lash out when I’m hurt. He’s seen that. He’sfeltit.

He’s here to right past wrongs for Jake. Not for you, not really. Get it together.

“I’m about to ask a favor,” I say brusquely, “and the ask is big. You’re free to say no.”

“I’m aware.”

I try not to flinch at that. “First, I have to show you…”

My Turkey Trot shirt is oversize, sleeves drooping past my elbows, loose enough that I can push the left sleeve to my shoulder in a second.

Once he sees my bite, there’s no turning back. He’ll know I’m a liar. A criminal. He could cuss me out. Or report me. Or just walk away.