Crash (8 page)

I don't even know why I'm thinking along these lines, why I'm suspecting them, seeing threats everywhere.

“The Committee? What would be their purpose?” He doesn't sound convinced. But he doesn't sound dismissive,
either. “What would they gain?”

“Control.”

“They already have that.”

That pretty much sums it up.

I sigh. “I'm not making much sense, am I?”

“Right now, you deserve to just live in this reality, Miki. You deserve to be able to focus on your dad and Carly. You
need
to do that. Put everything else away for now. It's too much. Psych overload. I know. I've been there.”

He has. When Lizzie died. Lizzie, who's dead but isn't dead.

One more terrifying piece of the puzzle.

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WE SIT SIDE BY SIDE OPPOSITE THE FLU VACCINE POSTER, minutes crawling past until I can't take the quiet anymore. I rise and pace, then spin back to face Jackson. “How did you cope?” I ask. “When everything felt like too much? After Lizzie died and the game and . . . When you thought you were going to crash?”

“I shut down. Built walls. Locked everyone out.” Jackson huffs a soft laugh. “Became an asshole.”

“Pretended to become an asshole,” I say.

“Always seeing the good in me.”

“Not always.”

His brows rise above the frames of his glasses. “I closed down, Miki. Got numb. Emotions were messy. Ugly. I withdrew from my parents. I didn't feel a hell of a lot.”
He pauses. “Didn't
let
myself feel a hell of a lot, except for crushing guilt. That leaked through just fine.”

“But you aren't guilty. You—”

“Killed my sister, whether I meant to or not.” He gets to his feet and closes the space between us. “My con was red. I was dying. She told me to make like a Drau, to borrow enough of her energy to stay alive. So that's what I did, except I didn't just borrow enough, I took it all. And I killed her.” He touches my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I felt guilty, inside the game and out. Like every loss after that, every death was on me. And let's not even talk about having any kind of true friendship or connection with someone, any kind of . . . intimacy.”

“Did you see anyone? A therapist?”

He shrugs and after a couple of seconds I realize that's the only answer I'm going to get.

“Did you get a diagnosis?”

“Didn't ask for one.”

Of course he didn't. Typical Jackson. “PTSD,” I say.

He cocks a brow. “Your professional opinion, Dr. Jones?”

I shrug. “I read up on it. And pretty much every other anxiety disorder. Dr. Andrews said that's part of my need to be in control. I'm an information hoarder.”

“The internet is a wonderful thing,” he says dryly.

So much about him makes sense now. The way he was when I first met him in the game. The persona he shows the world. The way he got to know me and let me know
him, like he didn't really want to let me in but couldn't seem to help himself.

“You're different now.” Different than when I first met him.

“A little,” he says, then goes quiet for so long that I think we're done here, that he's changed his mind about letting me take a peek at his soul. That he's said all he's going to say.

Jackson surprises me when he keeps going. “I've seen lots of people die in the game, their cons go red. I've felt it every time, like a punch to the gut. Loss. Guilt. I didn't mourn them. I didn't let myself mourn them. Didn't let myself have any vulnerability.

“But Richelle . . . she was different. Losing her was different. I respected her, liked her. Maybe even loved her a little.” He pauses. “Not in a romantic way. But in a way I hadn't let myself feel in a long time, like I cared what happened to her. She
mattered
. And I didn't let myself recognize that until she was gone.”

I nod, not daring to say anything, worried that even the sound of my voice might derail him, might stop him from talking, from telling me things I never, ever thought he'd share. It's like he's giving me a gift, giving me a tangible piece of himself to help me deal with what I'm going through.

“Her death was on me,” he says. “My fault.” I shake my head, but he doesn't let me protest. “But her fault, too. Her con went orange. She knew the routine. Fall back. Defense
only. She made a bad choice.”

“But if I hadn't been there,” I say. “If you hadn't been watching my back—”

“No ifs, Miki. Chances are, even if you hadn't been there, I wouldn't have been able to save her, because I trusted Richelle to save herself. Sometimes, nothing you do or say can change the outcome.”

I sink down onto the couch. “Like Mom,” I say. I'm too scared to say,
Like what happens to Dad and Carly tonight
.

Jackson settles down beside me. He leans forward so his elbows rest on his thighs, his hands hanging loose between his knees, his head bowed.

“Remember that mission where Tyrone was so messed up?”

The mission after Richelle died.

“I went to see him after. We talked.” He turns his head toward me. “You're surprised.”

“Neither of you ever let on that you had any sort of connection outside the game.”

“We didn't. Not till then. Tyrone said something that really clicked. That he was glad he knew her, glad he loved her, even glad for the pain of losing her because it meant he'd let himself experience loving her.” He runs his fingers back through his hair in a totally un-Jackson gesture. “That made me think about Lizzie. About all my memories of her and how no matter how much it hurt when she died, I wouldn't trade those memories, wouldn't have traded having a sister, just to spare myself the pain.”

“You can't recognize true joy if you've never known heartbreak,” I say. “Pain makes you stronger. Fear makes you braver. Tears teach you to laugh. You can't know hope if you've never known despair. My friends sent me every inspirational cliché under the sun after Mom died.” I pause. “I hated them at the time. They seemed like such bullshit.”

“And now?”

“Now I think maybe there's some truth to them, if I let myself look for it.” I nudge his knee with mine. “You?”

“Ever since Lizzie died, I believed that letting someone in, caring about them . . . it gives them power over you, whether they plan it that way or not. It gives them the power to leave, to hurt you. Why do that? Why give anyone that power? You open your heart and you're just begging for a beat down.” He smiles a little. “Sound familiar?”

“Yes,” I say, looking at the floor. It's like he's vocalizing all my fears.

“But living,” he says, “
really
living is messy and sometimes ugly, and it hurts.” He takes my hand and threads his fingers with mine. “The moments when it doesn't, the moments that shine, the ones where I get to hold you, kiss you, laugh with you, those are the ones that matter, Miki.”

“Those are the ones that matter,” I whisper, studying our linked hands. “It's so hard. Gram, Sofu . . . Mom . . . They were alive, and then they weren't. They didn't make it. I believed they would. With all my heart, I believed. Even when Mom was in palliative care, when the doctors
told us there was nothing else they could do except make her as comfortable as possible, I couldn't stop believing. And it wasn't enough.”

Jackson's quiet for a long time, then he says, “Your dad and Carly aren't going to die. They're going to pull through.” He sounds so certain, and I don't get how he can be.

Then I think of him trying to save Carly after the Drau killed her, of him putting his life on the line to go against the orders of the Committee and use his Drau abilities. What if that's the reason he's so certain that Dad and Carly will make it? Because he plans to do that again? To save them . . .

If that's what he's thinking, I can't let him follow through. The Committee will kill him. But knowing Jackson, he'll do it in secret, keep it from me, not let the choice be mine. Because how am I supposed to choose between his life and Carly's and Dad's?

I almost say something to him. Almost. But just in case he hasn't been thinking along those lines, I don't—I don't want to put ideas in his head.

We sit there, the noises of the hospital filtering to us through the open door. After a few minutes, there's the sound of heels clicking on the hall tile and Carly's mom comes into the waiting room. Carly's dad stands in the doorway, both hands shoved deep in his pockets, his sandy hair standing up in all directions. He jingles his change and rocks from foot to foot. He can't bear to be still, either.

My full attention—along with all my hopes—turn to them.
Please let her have good news. Please.

“Miki,” Mrs. Conner says, and lays her hand on the top of my head. “I hear your dad's out of surgery.”

I nod. “Dr. Lee came to talk with me. They're going to let me see him soon.” My gut churns. “Carly?”

“They're moving her to the neuro-ICU. That's where we're going now.” She glances back at her husband.

“Is she okay?” I ask, hoping, desperately hoping. “Did she wake up?”

“Not yet. She's in a medically induced coma. They want—” Her voice breaks and she swallows against her tears. Mr. Conner walks over and puts his arm around her shoulders.

“They want to keep her that way for a bit,” he says. “They told us it can help minimize the damage to her brain.”

I press my knuckles against my lips, feeling sick.

Tears track silver lines down Mrs. Conner's cheeks. She looks a million years old and so very tired. I remember Dad saying he was glad Sofu passed before Mom, that a parent should never have to bury a child.

My vision darkens at the edges, narrowing until all I see are those tracks of tears.

Mr. Conner looks at Jackson. “I feel like we're deserting Miki, but . . . we need to be there, be with Carly . . . Can I count on you, son?”

“I'm here,” Jackson says at the same time I say, “You
aren't deserting me.” I press my lips together. “After I see Daddy, is it okay if I come see Carly, just for a minute?”

Mrs. Conner cups my cheek and stares down into my face. Then she shakes her head. “Tomorrow, okay? You go see your father now and then you go home and get some sleep. You'll see Carly when you come back tomorrow and by then she'll be awake.”

Mr. Conner swallows and looks away, and I'm pretty sure Carly won't be awake tomorrow.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

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I SIT BY DAD'S SIDE. HE'S HOOKED UP TO A TON OF TUBES AND machines, an IV dripping clear fluid into his vein. The sounds of the respirator and the beeps of the monitors, the antiseptic smell, it all reminds me of Mom, of the weeks it took her to die. I slump forward in the chair with my arms stretched out on his bed, my head on my forearms, my tears wetting the sheets.

I need to touch him. I'm scared to touch him. In the end, I press the tips of my fingers to the tips of his. They feel so cold.

The nurses move in and out, busy with the IV, with the machines, with administering meds.

“I'm Laila,” one of them says after I've been there for a while.

I swipe my tears with the back of my hand. “Miki.”

“It's time to go home, Miki.” She's probably right. I'm not wearing a watch, but I figure it has to be close to dawn. Still I shake my head, but she takes my hand between both of hers and says, “You think you need to be here every second, that he won't get better if you leave. But he came through surgery with flying colors and he's stable now. He's been given some medication to make certain he sleeps. That's the best thing for his recovery. Sleep. And the best thing you can do to make sure you're there for him is get some sleep yourself. This is going to be a long haul for him, Miki, and if you burn yourself out now, who will be there for him later?”