Nevermore: The Final Maximum Ride Adventure

Doesn’t care about social skills. Like me.

A freaking social butterfly. Complements my antisocial behavior.

Has eyes that seem to see inside me. Not good.

Has eyes that make me forget myself. Not good.

Is capable of bringing the meaning of “irritating” to whole new levels.

Is capable of… pretty much the same thing.

Almost like a brother (ack).

Not like a brother. At all. In any way.

Closed off.

Makes darn sure that I know every single emotion going through his head.

I don’t know how to act around him anymore.

Easy to be around.

Never told me he loved me. (Writing it in a letter right before he deserted me doesn’t count. Coward.)

Loves me. And told me so. Right to my face. Gulp.

Intense. Powerful. Moves in a way that makes me ache to touch him.

Strong. Beautiful. Looks at me in a way that makes me ache to… scratch that.

Still having dreams about the way he kissed me.

Ditto.

Don’t know where he is right now. Because he

freaking left

.

Is right here with me. Now. Always.

IT WAS A pretty complete list. The kind of list one makes when one cannot fall asleep because one’s thoughts keep swirling through one’s brain like a bunch of sparrows on crack. I put down my notebook, rolled over, and gazed at the floor.

Dylan had rolled over onto his other side and was facing the opposite wall, his quilt balled up at his feet. He was a turbulent sleeper. Unlike Fang, who was quiet and self-contained. I started to add that to the list, but then thought, Who cares?

I frowned at Dylan’s sprawled limbs. He couldn’t possibly be comfortable. He was probably cold.

“Hey… you cold down there?” I whispered, leaning over the edge of the bed.

He didn’t answer. Seeing as how he was asleep and all. I watched his breathing, slow and steady, the shadow of his abdominal muscles rising and falling under his bunched-up T-shirt. I tried to slow my own breath, but it thundered quick and ragged in my ears.

Before I knew what I was doing, I was out of bed with my own comforter. I felt sorry for him. Yeah, that was it. Really sorry for him. As anyone would.

The floor was freezing against my bare feet. I padded over to Dylan and carefully lay down next to him. He shifted, coughing, and I froze. After two long minutes, satisfied that he was still asleep, I curled myself into him, drawing my comforter over us both. I felt the warmth of his body against mine, his breath on the back of my neck, making the tiny hairs rise.

We fit like two puzzle pieces. Just like we were supposed to. The whole designed-to-be-my-perfect-other-half thing…

Gah.

But you know what? Just this once, I was going to shove away all my angst and confusion and fear and just focus on the present.

Which happened to be very warm. Maddeningly warm. My whole body felt tingly.

With that thought in mind, I pressed myself closer against Dylan’s sleeping form and closed my eyes, drifting into the sweetest sleep I’d had in a long, long time.

I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to wake up.

34

THE NEXT DAY at school was, predictably, a complete horror show.

Not for me (for once), but for Nudge, who’d been publicly spurned and ridiculed by Sloan, in front of all of the popular girls. In less than a minute, this new gossip was all over Facebook and Twitter.

About eight hours later I was rapping my knuckles against the door to Nudge’s room. As soon as we’d gotten home from school she had gone in there and locked the door behind her, and she didn’t come out for dinner. I couldn’t blame her—things had only gotten worse after Sloan’s scaredy-cat retreat.

God, I should’ve unleashed a can of whup-ass on him.

“Nudge? Come on, open the door. Let’s make popcorn.”

“Go away,” came Nudge’s weak voice. “Don’t wanna talk about it.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” I said. Please, no—no more talking about it, I beg you. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. Open up, will you? We can make hot chocolate.”

After a few moments of silence, I heard her trudge across the room. The door opened.

Nudge’s face was stained with the tears she’d been holding in all day; rivers of mascara ran down her cheeks. Her big brown eyes were puffy and bloodshot.

I had no idea what to do. I’d already offered popcorn and hot chocolate. What else was there?

“It’s just getting worse and worse,” moaned Nudge. “First it was just stupid gossip. Now I’m an outcast. They all think I’m some kind of circus sideshow. As usual.”

“Come here,” I murmured, putting my arms around her. “I know it’s a drag to have everyone at school treat us like lepers”—to put it mildly—“but they’re just gullible, prejudiced jerks. Typical Avian-American prejudice.” I eased her head onto my shoulder, which I should have lined with paper towels first. “I’m really sorry Sloan was such a butthead,” I said soothingly. “But sweetie, he’s so unworthy. You deserve better than that. You deserve someone who’s going to love you, wings and all.”

I’d hardly ever seen such sadness on her face. “That’s easy for you to say. You have two guys who love you.” She looked up at me, and I didn’t know what to say to her. “I don’t have anyone.”

I swallowed nervously. Guiltily.

“That’s not true. You have us,” I blurted out, knowing full well how lame that was. The flock was awesome and all, but it just can’t be compared to the rapture of being loved, held, adored. In that… different way.

I quickly shook off the pleasurable shiver that shot down my spine as I remembered spending the night on the floor next to Dylan.

“Listen. Soon we’ll blow this Popsicle stand and move on, and then you’ll never have to deal with any of them ever again. Until we get rich and famous, and then you can have fun spurning them when they beg for your autograph.” I smiled, pulling her close, but Nudge wasn’t amused.

“I don’t want to move on,” she cried, pulling out of my arms. “Can’t you see that? I don’t want to ‘spurn’ them!” She made air quotes with her fingers, glaring at me. How had I become the enemy here, exactly? “I just want to—” Her voice broke, and she drew in a trembling breath. “I just want to be liked by them, Max!” And then Nudge burst into tears. Again. Crap.

“Oh, sweetie,” I said helplessly, uncomprehending. I had spent very little energy in my life trying to be liked by anyone. “Come here. Come sit down,” I said, taking her hand and tugging her toward the bed.

Then I saw that the entire thing was covered with crumpled-up pieces of paper. A pair of scissors was lying on top of a stack of teen magazines, all of which had been mangled and cut to pieces.

“Nudge? What’s this?”

Nudge blew her nose miserably and gestured at a pile of blocky, badly cutout shapes. “Those are for my scrapbook.”

I picked up one of the shapes. It was a photo of a pretty teenage model, smiling brightly at the camera, wearing some sort of sparkly outfit with furry boots. “Blech,” I said, and put the photo down. The next photo was