Unknown Number: Stormy.
Only one person calls me that. Ian. Spawn-of-Satan. Beckett.
It hasn’t even been twelve hours since he ripped up my notebook, and here I am, staring at my lame attempt to tape the pages back together. Can’t he let me grieve in peace? It’s only common courtesy to not gloat in your victim’s face.
I ignore the message.
Three seconds later, my phone dings again.
Ian: plz talk 2 me.
I can imagine him as he typed the words, his steely eyes downcast as he pouted, his bottom lip sticking outward just a little. He’s like if Lucifer had a torrid affair with an archangel and produced a bastard child, equal parts sin and beauty.
It’s not fair. Sculpted muscles for days, a nest of inky hair that never behaves, and a jawline that makes Michelangelo’s David look like a slacker. A warm pulse beats to life between my legs before I come to my senses.
Stop it, Harlow!
I flip my phone over, place my chemistry textbook on it, and ignore that message too. Less than a minute later, as if Ian literally can’t stand the suspense—as though he has absolutely no patience left—my phone dings again. It takes me exactly two seconds to send the chemistry book to the floor and free my phone.
Ian: i am sorry.
I snort, and it’s so obnoxious I’m surprised it doesn’t catch Molly’s attention, but she’s engrossed in a hot vampire melodrama streaming from her laptop.
Ian: i wish i could take it all back. i am so, so sorry, Stormy. Plz talk 2 me. This is killing me.
Ian: i know it’s killing u 2.
My resolve snaps, shatters, and then spontaneously combusts. My thumbs angrily punch the screen, sending forth a fast barrage of text bubbles.
Me: Stop texting me, Beckett!
Me: You’re sorry?!
Me: FOR WHAT?! Ruining my class notes or trying to ruin my life?
Me: What is your deal? Are you like training for the douche Olympic winter games or something? CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR UPCOMING GOLD MEDAL, ASSHOLE!
Why does it feel like I’m giving him what he wants? I should shut up. I should give him the silent treatment. I should NOT be texting curse words at practical, albeit delicious, strangers.
My bitchy thumbs get the best of me.
Me: How did you even get my #?
Ian: Raven.
My fingers bite into the sequins on my phone case, but before I can respond, my phone vibrates in my hand.
Ian: i am sry about ur notes. i’ll give u mine.
Ian: don’t b mad @ Raven. She thinks it’s 4 a class project.
I hit the keys without thinking.
Me: You could’ve just asked me for it.
Me: Stalker.
A second or two or eight passes.
Me: And I don’t want your craptastic notes.
Ian: u’d give it 2 me?
I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck that way. Of course, that’s what he took from everything I said. My thumbs lie for me.
Me: Never.
Ian: Never?
Me: NEVER!
Ian: i’m e-mailing u my notes. u know they’re better than urs anyway. u spend every class thinking of me.
Queue my turn to play in the ignore-that-comment game.
Me: YOU HAVE MY EMAIL?!?!?!?!?!!!!
Ian: plz calm down, sweetness. it’s not good for our future children, u busting my balls this hard.
I freeze as my eyes go wide.
What. The. Firecracker.
A moment passes, and a new text bubble appears.
Ian: lemme make it up 2 u. Go somewhere w/ me this wknd. No1 has 2 know.
My heart flip-flops in my chest like a fish out of water. Our future children?! My body simultaneously develops a fever and early menopause. My core temperature spikes, my pulse hammering wildly as sweat pops up low on my back.
Who does he think he is? He is infuriating. He is capricious. One minute he is fire, and the next he is ice.
He is a wicked, wicked boy.
Still, my traitorous fingers type back.
Me: You text like a heathen. Did fancy prep schools teach you nothing?
Me: And why should I go anywhere with you?
Three little dots appear on the screen. I hold my breath as they stay there, mocking me before they disappear. My stomach plummets to the floor, digs its way to the core of the earth, and keeps going as the three little dots appear again.
Ian: Because you are sunshine even in the darkest of times.
Molly looks over at me, perched on her bed, as I suck in a strangled breath.
He fights dirty. My thumbs slide to my phone.
Me: And you are my blood moon.
Although I mean it to show he could never break me—just like the sun always reappears after a blood moon eclipse—I realize too late that there is another meaning to my words. One from the Bible, Joel 2:31.
“The sun shall be turned into darkness, and the moon into blood, before the great and terrible day of the Lord.”
If I listen to those words, our fates are forever intertwined so that when one of us topples, the other too will surely fall.
Somehow, I know Ian stares at my text and laughs.
16
Harlow
At lunch, I realize I have left my chemistry homework in my room. Mr. Collins does not strike me as the understanding type. My stomach grumbles loudly. I want to grab food before lab, but I have to go back to my dorm.
I squeeze through a herd of students, all headed in the opposite direction, toward the dining hall. My flats slap against the marble floor as I dart between bodies. A girl stops at her locker, turning around to gossip with her bright-eyed friend, and I rush around them.
When I emerge from the herd, I bound forward as though my feet are on fire and the only way to put out the flames is to run. Headmistress DuMonte glides into my path from an intersecting hallway, and I screech to a stop in front of her, my arms flailing as my heart leaps into my chest. She eyes
