Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 85553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Skarr is standing with a cluster of the men—the other splices—and they all give me fascinated looks when I return. Except for Skarr. There’s a hint of annoyance on his face, as if he’s downright inconvenienced by the fact that I won’t jump his bones.
I resist the urge to snarl at him, but only because he’d probably like it.
Pretending nonchalance, I warm my hands by the fire. I can’t help but notice that all conversation died when I approached. No one’s talking, and it makes me feel more shy and vulnerable than ever. Like I’m a problem. Like I’m contagious with something all because my khui decided that the worst guy on the planet is my forever man.
It’s not as if I chose him. It’s not as if resonance is catching. I can’t even be mad at them for avoiding me, though. If there’s even slightly a chance that my resonance would affect theirs, I’d avoid me, too. No one wants to be stuck with one of these guys. I flex my fingers, waiting for someone to say something to me. Anything. I glance over and Colleen averts her gaze. Natalie chews her nails anxiously and watches me, saying nothing. Dawn and April whisper when they think I’m not looking. It’s not malicious. We just don’t know the rules of this new place and I’ve been tapped by the unluckiest hand there is.
Sabrina—the sweetest and most outgoing—fusses over Kyth, tucking a blanket around him and I notice his eyes are dull again, the light of his khui gone. Flor would talk to me, I think. Reassure me that all is well. But she’s not around. Maybe she’s catching a few moments with her mate, the guy she eats up with her eyes when she thinks no one’s watching.
If I were a braver soul, I’d sit in one of the vacant spots near the fire and start a conversation. Tell everyone how awkward I’m feeling. Heck, if I were braver, I’d approach the cluster of men near Skarr and give them my version of what it’s like to resonate. I suspect Skarr’s version is more enthusiastic than mine. I should probably be flattered instead of wanting to run away screaming.
Too bad I’m not a braver soul. Because I can’t take another minute of everyone staring at me. It’s too much of a reminder of when I was in high school, when I was the weird kid at the back of the class that wore all black and never spoke and…
Oh my god. I just had a high school memory.
It’s a tantalizing glimpse of who I was, and far more important than anything out here by the fire. I need to concentrate. Frantic, I turn and race away from the group, looking for a quiet spot. The tent we’ll be sleeping in looks empty and I head straight for it. Let them think I’m sulking over resonance. I need to get my head back—my me back—and they can think whatever they want.
I crawl into the tent, flopping onto my back in the tumbled sea of furs that we’ve all been sharing. Someone joked last night that the tent was like a big slumber party. It was probably Sabrina trying to cheer us all up, actually. But if it was a slumber party, that still makes me the weird kid at the back of the class. I press my hands to my brow, trying to force memories free from my foggy brain. I picture…boots. Not cowboy boots, but black leather boots. Boots with lots of shiny silver buckles and thick rubber tire-tread soles.
Another memory flashes through my mind. Of picking mud out of those huge treads with a stick and cursing the entire time.
“If you weren’t such a stubborn ass, you’d wear the proper footwear to go camping.” The words are harsh but there’s amusement threading through his voice.
“When you’re me, this is the proper footwear for camping, Dad.”
I remember him laughing. Dimpling. Oh my god, do I have dimples? Frantically, I smile to myself, feeling my cheeks to see if there’s an indent there. When I don’t find one, I want to cry. I play that same tiny tidbit of memory through my mind over and over again, hoping that my name will pop up. Hoping that his face will be more than just a blur and a memory of dimples. There’s sandy-brown hair and a red and black checkered flannel shirt, but I might be self-inserting those at this point. A quick tug on a long hank of my hair shows it’s sandy-brown, too.
So me and my dad went camping? Despite me being a goth-girl, I was into that sort of thing? Was it because Dad was? I’m hungry for more memories, and at the same time I’m hit with bitter loss, mourning a person I never met and wouldn’t want to meet me. I’m a clone of his real daughter, and I don’t know what happened to her.