Outside the barn, only a few stars escaped the thick cover of late-night clouds, leaving the sky dark and depressing. Besides the rustling of horses, an occasional cricket chirped. An owl hooted from a nearby tree. But I refused to go back to my room until I was sure my mom—Nicole—was sleeping. Once she’d poked her head in and swept up the disaster I’d made of the mirror, she’d taken to hovering.
Yes, hovering. As if acting like a stereotypical teen’s mom would make everything better. Right now, the sight of her slim, capable figure and concerned face filled me with violence: simultaneous and disparate needs to rage against more mirrors and to break down and sob in her arms.
Break down in the arms of the person who’d betrayed me—that would never happen. Still, with both of us occupying the guesthouse, I found it impossible to sit still, let alone sleep.
Sleep. About that. Did I actually sleep? Or was sleeping for me just another one of those “humanlike programs” that someone had had installed? Like a new version of Windows?
It would explain why I woke at the slightest motion or noise, perfectly lucid and alert.
I buried my head between my knees, taking deep breaths to combat the panic-induced dizziness. None of what Mom said made sense, I told myself. If I were an android, why did I feel dizzy in the first place? And how could deep breaths help, when, according to iPod Man, I didn’t have any lungs? When I combed my fingers through the hay, how could I feel the exact scratchy texture with fake skin? Suddenly, all of it seemed like an elaborate scheme. A sanity test. If it weren’t for my stupid arm . . .
My mind shied away from that topic. From that and my quick reflexes, my strength. And mostly from the explanations that Mom had offered. I didn’t want to think about any of it for too long, afraid that if I did, I’d start to believe.
I just wanted to pretend today had never happened. Go back to being regular Mila. A girl fumbling her way through a loss in a new town.
The high-pitched notes of my ringtone yanked my head up.
I rescued my cell phone from the hay and glanced at the screen. And stared, my eyes scanning the number over and over again in case I’d somehow made a mistake.
Hunter.
I’d actually brought the phone to the barn to text him, but I’d chickened out and texted Kaylee instead. No response from her.
I scrambled to press send. “Hello?”
“Hey, Mila.”
Just the sound of his voice, that quiet, husky voice, made the entire debacle with Mom feel less real. Hunter Lowe—A. Real. Boy.—was calling me. The military, the CIA? Secret android project? Really?
“Hey.”
“You took off earlier. I was just . . . worried. You okay? Your arm?”
The concern in his voice leached through the phone, flooded me with an unexpected warmth. I latched onto that feeling like it was my savior. “It’s fine.” True enough. It was just the rest of my life that was a disaster.
“This might sound weird, but I’m in my car and was wondering if . . . can I come by, to check on you?”
Come by, now? To check on me?
I pressed my eyes shut, hesitating. Earlier today, I would have been beyond thrilled to have Hunter call and ask to see me. But with the click of an iPod button, everything had changed. My past, my parents, the nature of my entire existence—all of it called into question by a faceless man with a southern drawl.
“I don’t know . . . it’s late, and I’m pretty sure my mom wouldn’t be thrilled.”
Not that I cared what Mom thought at the moment. Still, the last thing this night needed was more drama.
“Could you sneak outside?”
I walked to the door and pushed it open, emitting a wedge of light. Besides that, nothing softened the darkness except the glow of a few determined stars. The unlit house windows suggested Mom had finally climbed into bed.
Bliss nickered. A reminder that while horses were nice, I could really use a friend who talked.
“Meet me in the barn.”
“Okay. See you in a few.”
As soon as I hung up, I realized what I’d done.
I craned my neck, brushing clinging strands of hay off my butt and tugging down the short-sleeved shirt where it had risen over my stomach. Ducks. Hunter was coming, and I was wearing flannel ducks. Then I realized how ridiculous I was being. If only greeting a boy I liked in silly pajamas was my sole worry.
After a futile attempt to comb the pillow-inflicted knots from my hair, I dropped my hands and waited. Hopefully, the sliver of light would act like a beacon.
Less than three minutes later, the muted rumble of an engine cut through the night air in the distance. It was another thirty seconds before I saw the dark shape of a Jeep heading down our street. No headlights—it had to be Hunter, in an attempt to be stealthy. Sure enough, the Jeep turned into our driveway, the tires crunching on gravel.
He turned off the engine at least twenty yards from our house. I could tell he was trying to be quiet, but even so, I caught the slight click of the car door as it opened, and again as it closed.
A few moments later he stood in front of me, his hands shoved deep into his pockets and an uncertain smile hovering at his mouth.
“Hey,” he said. Softly.
“Hey.” Also softly, since my voice wanted to freeze up at the sight of him.
The faint glow from the barn picked up the damp strands of hair clinging to the collar of his gray sweatshirt and his clean-shaven cheeks, marred only by a tiny red dot on the left side. Right above his jawbone. He smelled like soap mixed with sandalwood.
Freshly showered, definitely. Which suggested he’d used the line about being out and about anyway as an excuse to see me. That realization sent a flutter of . . . something . . . through me. Something that felt warm, alive, and very definitely human.
I put one finger to my lips and beckoned him to follow, swinging the door gently closed behind us.
Amid the rustle of horses, who snorted at the scent of a newcomer, I led Hunter farther into the barn. And then we stood there. The pair of us. Saying nothing.
“Um, do you want to sit?” I finally asked to break the silence, glancing around even though I knew a chair or a couch wasn’t about to appear out of nowhere.
“Sure.” Hunter slid down the wall next to the first stall until he reached the floor. Then he smiled and patted the spot next to him.
I sat, careful to keep space between us. Even so, I found his nearness distracting. The way his bare knee peeked out of the frayed fabric of his jeans. Even the look of the fingers that tapped away at his knee, long and lean and gentle. I wondered what those fingers would feel like, interlaced with my own.
Fearful that my expression would give my thoughts away, I traced a yellow duck on my leg to avoid looking at him.
“So . . . ,” he said, pausing.
“So . . . ,” I echoed. When he still didn’t continue, I felt a pressure inflate my chest, rising with every silent second that slipped by.
Why wasn’t he saying anything? Did he already regret coming here? Was it my arm? Maybe he was wanting to ask me about it but didn’t know how. I should just tell him.
Well, tell him the fabricated version I’d come up with between his phone call and his arrival. Get the ordeal over with already.