Figment. Part 13

I took a tiny step toward him. "Listen, I know I haven't been the greatest friend. But all that craziness is behind me. I want you to know that."

He glanced at me quickly, as if trying to see if I was kidding or not.

"Seriously." I met his gaze. "Things are getting better for me now," I said. "Can I make all this up to you someday?"

He reached out and gently caressed my cheek with one ink-stained finger. "I think that might be possible."

"Maybe?" I asked.

"Just maybe," he said with a smile.

The London lights glowed in the black water of the Thames, and a chill breeze blew across the water. I s.h.i.+vered, hugging my cardigan around me, as I walked slowly along the promenade, past the empty benches and shuttered food carts. I'd left my parents back at the flat, packing our ma.s.ses of suitcases. Our flight back to Connecticut was at eight the next morning.

This time tomorrow, I thought, I'd be back in my own house, in my own room, in my own bed with the striped sheets. But for now, at least, London was still mine.

I saw it then-a figure coming toward me along the promenade. Someone tall, with broad shoulders and blond hair that glinted under the streetlamps. Davis. He walked as he always had, with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, his shoulders slouching a bit, his stride long and easy.

My heart thudded suddenly against my chest wall. He's not real, you know, I reminded myself. You're seeing him in your mind's eye.

The figure was coming closer. He stopped in front of me, and we gazed at each other.

"Davis."

He didn't say anything but reached out and took my hand. I waited to feel the warmth of his hand, but it was with only a twinge of surprise that I realized I couldn't feel his touch. He was already slipping away. But he couldn't go before I said good-bye.

"Davis, it's going to be okay. They got Jeremiah. The account is safe. And someday I'm going to do what you promised we would-travel, see even more of the world."

He smiled and nodded but still didn't speak.

"I wish you could come with me." A sob choked me, but I fought it back.

He just gazed at me sadly, silently. Me, too. The unspoken words hung in the air between us.

I straightened my shoulders, then swiped at my cheeks. "I love you." I reached out to touch his cheek one last time.

He smiled at me and cradled my hand to his face. You'll be okay.

And then, just as quietly, he was gone. Only the Thames swished and rippled at my feet. I reached into my pocket and drew out the chunk of metal I'd carried with me all summer. Leaning over the railing, I let it swing on its chain once, twice. Then I opened my fingers and watched it swoop downward, arcing toward the water.

I turned and slowly walked back, leaving the river behind me.

EPILOGUE: TWO YEARS LATER.

"Are you going to Corsica anytime soon?" Becca's voice crackled in my ear from five thousand miles away. The white-hot sun was beating down on the yellow cobblestones as I made my way through the busy Florentine square. My cla.s.s at American University's Italian satellite campus had let out fifteen minutes late because Dr. Murray needed to describe Michelangelo's death in excruciating detail.

"Yeah, I think we're going to take the ferry over next weekend. Oliver's dying to see the ruins there." I transferred my phone to my other ear and hoisted my backpack higher on my shoulders. The square was choked with the usual array of scooters, tourists, and, everywhere, tiny metal tables with Italians sipping their after-lunch espressos. "Anyway, listen, Oliver's waiting for me. We found this little cafe right off Piazza della Signoria that has the best Bolognese you ever tasted. And he's-"

I stopped short, the words caught in my mouth as a familiar face whipped by me in the crowd. The phone fell from my slack hand. Dimly, I heard it crash to the sidewalk. Before I could stop myself, I called out, "Davis?"

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Thanks for this book go mainly to my family, especially my husband Aaron, who put up with his crazy wife writing a ma.n.u.script mere weeks after having a baby. And thanks, baby Leo, for being such a good sleeper. I'm happy you're here.

I also have to thank Michael Bourret, my agent, and my editor Emilia Rhodes, who never gives up on me. It's been fun working with you both these last four years. And I want to thank the editors at Alloy Entertainment, who gave me my start in fiction writing and showed me how much fun it can be.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Emma Carlson Berne, who sometimes writes under the pen name Elizabeth Woods, is the author of Choker and Figment. Emma was born in Cincinnati and grew up in a hundred-and-forty-year-old house with the world's creepiest closet.

Emma went to the University of Wisconsin, where she used to watch muskrats swimming in Lake Mendota, and has lived in Boston; Jerusalem; and Charleston, South Carolina. She finally succ.u.mbed to the siren call of the suburbs and now lives a block away from her old high school.

[[TEA]].

Also by Elizabeth Woods.

Choker.