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not terribly surprised that James is asleep on the floor next to Orchid’s bed—he’s been around almost constantly since we went to the club. I have my own thoughts and reservations about the guy, but I remind myself that it’s not my business as I slip into the dark hallway.
    There’s a girl asleep in the hall, a computer propped next to her. I stare for a brief moment then shake my head and step over her and head out.
    I promised Micah I wouldn’t go out on the ocean by myself. I wrestle with that promise the entire way down to the boathouse.
    I could always use the rowing machine, but I don’t want that—I want the freedom of the open water, the danger of the ocean thrumming around me.
    My promises be damned. I
need
that today.
    I see something from the corner of my eye, a flash of red and the ghost of laughter. It makes my stomach drop, and I break into a jog, racing the memories that aren’t real. I’m more unsettled today than I have been in years, and I’m furious with Peter. He should have accepted my limits, shouldn’t have pushed for more when I was so very clear.
    Talking about it has stirred up all the old memories, the anxious desire to see someone that I know I won’t see—because he’s not real.
    Why couldn’t he be? Why did he have to be an illusion—why couldn’t the precious memories of happiness been grounded in fact and not a gauze that hid the horrors of my parents death? Why did even that meager comfort have to be so fucking false?
    I can feel tears on my face, but I ignore them as I hit the water, cutting through it with fierce precision. The ocean is rough, rising to the weather that is starting to chill. A wave slaps the side of the kayak, and I fight to keep her upright and steady, gasping as the ice cold water drenches my thighs.
    Any thought of the Boy and Peter and the mess that is my life vanishes under the chill and the need to deal with the crisis at hand.
    Which is why I came out here. I bare my teeth, a grimace more than smile, and push the boat farther into the deep waters, riding the danger like a wave.
    It’s stupid. It’s fucking suicidal, and Micah will be furious. The Boy will be irate, his cat eyes flaring with anger.
    The other boys will suffer, because he is angry. I hesitate at that thought, and the kayak gets yanked around by the pull of the tides. I swallow the sour taste in my mouth, suddenly exhausted. I don’t want to fight an ocean any more than I want to fight my memories. So I row, letting the ocean’s rhythms pull me in, until I hit the rocky beach. I pull my kayak up and flop onto the ground.
    I lost it. I haven’t been that caught up in the delusions in years—I’d almost forgotten the others, the ones who followed my boy like a loyal pack.
    How the hell had I forgotten them? And—more importantly—why was I remembering them now? Was I going backward—was I going to lose it completely? Again?
    A sob gets stuck in my throat, and I make a strangled noise and drop my head. I can’t go backward. I can’t go back to Pembrooke.
    A hand settles on my back, warm and heavy. I flinch, almost pulling away. But this feels different from my brother, and after the disaster that was yesterday, Peter won’t come to me. Cautiously, I look up.
    James crouches next to me, pulling his hand back to run it nervously through his hair.
    “What are you doing here?” I ask. My voice is raspy, like I’ve been screaming. I wonder if I was, if I’ve merely forgotten.
    How does one forget screaming her throat raw?
    “I saw you leave. What are you doing, Gwendolyn?”
    It annoys me that he calls me that. No one calls me Gwendolyn—not even Aunt Jane. Daddy had, before the accident. But hearing a familiar name wrapped in James’ silky tones, with odd inflections—it sets my hair on end. I shrug slightly. “What business is it of yours?” I demand.
    He hesitates then finally settles on the ground, abandoning his crouch. He makes a slight moue as his hands hit the