Read Online Bulletproof (Healer) by April Smyth - Free Book Online Page B

Should I hold his hand differently? If I was his girlfriend would I touch his arm playfully, kiss his cheek, wrap my arms around his waist. My breathing becomes uneven as I get flustered thinking about all the way I would act if I was his girlfriend but find it too difficult to because I’m not.
                  Acting comes naturally to Gabe though. His moody face softens and he releases bouts of flirtatious laughter occasionally. He plays with the loose curls that sway around my shoulders and his fingers reach to stroke the back of my neck. I can see why most of my peers enjoy chasing boys and spending long afternoons watching television with their boyfriends. This is pretend. Imagine how good it feels when it’s real, I tell myself.
                  The man surveying us must have gone because Gabe relaxes and the boyfriend act lessens to just a limp hand holding and the occasional forced smile. I’m left with a sensation like I’ve been punched in the gut as I remember how much Gabe actually dislikes me. 
                  We check in and make our way to the departure lounge. Gabe asks if I want anything and screws up his face when I ask for an extreme sports magazine. “You never fail to amaze me, Cassie,” he says in a toneless manner.
                  I paw through the glossy pages of EDGE. A magazine which I’m subscribed to back at home, ever since I learned that my biggest aspiration in life was to become a renowned adrenaline junkie. Dad would pull ridiculous faces when he’d see me with my nose buried in an interview with an Olympic snowboarder. He hated that I loved it so much because he knew eventually I’d be old enough to fight back and live my dreams.
                  An announcement reveals it is time to board our plane. There is a stampede running a riot inside my stomach. I am glad that I am allowed to clutch on to Gabe’s hand as I make my way down the walkway into a plane for the first time in my life.
                  The interior of a plane is nothing exciting. It looks exactly how I pictured for the dozens of movies I’ve watched. But the feeling of take off is inexplicable. I haven’t felt this rush of adrenaline pumping violently in my veins for such a long time. Like chicken pox, once you’ve had it you don’t get it again; I have become immune to fear. I am sure I catch Gabe smiling at me as he watches my thrilled expression appear. 
                  Once we’re in flight Gabe turns to me, “You’ve really never been on a plane before?”
                  “No,” I shake my head, “My dad takes paranoid parent to a new level.”
                  “But why?” Gabe blinks at me. “You’re untouchable. Nothing can hurt you.”
                  “We don’t know that,” I shrug. I feel like a broken record player. This conversation has played out so many times in the past few years with different people. Eventually I just stopped talking about it. A vacant expression is easier than trying to make people understand a concept so foreign to them. After Dave, the genetic mutations researcher that befriended me for his own selfish reasons, I learned that even the nice guys will never see more than a girl void of physical pain. I live and breathe isolation from the world around me; I would gladly swap this mental anguish for a broken bone.
                  “What do you mean?” Gabe leans on the small plastic dinner tray that folds out in front of him and is staring at me peculiarly like I am a puzzle he is trying to solve.
                  “The accidents haven’t always been here. Sure, we always knew I was different because I didn’t get bloody knees like the rest of the kids my age but it was nothing serious but now there are car crashes and crazy stuff. There’s no formula to it and my dad worries that one day his luck will run out and I will