Unravel Me: The Juliette Chronicles Book 2

don’t have the time, the energy, or the interest to deal with your problems. I like to mess with you from time to time because, well, let’s face it”—he shrugs—“the world is going to hell out there and I suppose if I’m going to be shot dead before I’m twenty-five, I’d at least like to remember what it’s like to laugh before I do. But that does not make me your clown or your babysitter. At the end of the day I do not give two shits about whether or not you and Kent are going steady. We have a million things to take care of down here, and less than none of them involve your love life.” A pause. “Is that clear?”
    I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
    “So are you in?” he says.
    Another nod.
    “I want to hear you say it. If you’re in, you’re all in. No more feeling sorry for yourself. No more sitting in the training room all day, crying because you can’t break a metal pipe—”
    “How did you kn—”
    “Are you in ?”
    “I’m in,” I tell him. “I’m in. I promise.”
    He takes a deep breath. Runs a hand through his hair. “Good. Meet me outside of the dining hall tomorrow morning at six a.m.”
    “But my hand—”
    He waves my words away. “Your hand, nothing. You’ll be fine. You didn’t even break anything. You messed up your knuckles and your brain freaked out a little and basically you just fell asleep for three days. I don’t call that an injury,” he says. “I call that a goddamn vacation.” He stops to consider something. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve gone on vacation —”
    “But aren’t we training?” I interrupt him. “I can’t do anything if my hand is wrapped up, can I?”
    “Trust me.” He cocks his head. “You’ll be fine. This . . . is going to be a little different.”
    I stare at him. Wait.
    “You can consider it your official welcome to Omega Point,” he says.
    “But—”
    “Tomorrow. Six a.m.”
    I open my mouth to ask another question but he presses a finger to his lips, offers me a 2-finger salute, and walks backward toward the exit just as Sonya and Sara head over to my bed.
    I watch as he nods good-bye to both of them, pivots on 1 foot, and strides out the door.
    6:00 a.m.

ELEVEN
    I catch a glimpse of the clock on the wall and realize it’s only 2:00 in the afternoon.
    Which means 6:00 a.m. is 16 hours from now.
    Which means I have a lot of hours to fill.
    Which means I have to get dressed.
    Because I need to get out of here.
    And I really need to talk to Adam.
    “Juliette?”
    I jolt out of my own head and back to the present moment to find Sonya and Sara staring at me. “Can we get you anything?” they ask. “Are you feeling well enough to get out of bed?”
    But I look from one set of eyes to another and back again, and instead of answering their questions, I feel a crippling sense of shame dig into my soul and I can’t help but revert back to another version of myself. A scared little girl who wants to keep folding herself in half until she can’t be found anymore.
    I keep saying, “Sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry about everything, for all of this, for all the trouble, for all the damage, really, I’m so, so sorry—”
    I hear myself go on and on and on and I can’t get myself to stop.
    It’s like a button in my brain is broken, like I’ve developed a disease that forces me to apologize for everything, for existing, for wanting more than what I’ve been given, and I can’t stop.
    It’s what I do.
    I’m always apologizing. Forever apologizing. For who I am and what I never meant to be and for this body I was born into, this DNA I never asked for, this person I can’t unbecome. 17 years I’ve spent trying to be different. Every single day. Trying to be someone else for someone else.
    And it never seems to matter.
    But then I realize they’re talking to me.
    “There’s nothing to apologize for—”
    “Please, it’s all right—”
    Both of them are trying to speak to me, but Sara is closer.
    I dare to meet her eyes and I’m surprised to see how soft they are. Gentle and green and squinty from smiling. She sits down on the right side of my bed. Pats my bare arm with her latex glove, unafraid. Unflinching. Sonya stands just next to her, looking at me like she’s worried, like she’s sad for me, and I don’t have long to dwell on it because I’m distracted. I smell the scent of jasmine filling the room, just as it did the very first time I stepped in here. When we first