always love him. I can’t help it. There’s no point pretending that any moral principle could make the blindest bit of difference. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. Since our first meeting, there has been no room in my head for anything but Tom Rigbey. I’ve been floating on the happiness that his existence and interest in me has brought into my life. If he’s bombed a car or set fire to a house, I don’t care. If he’s killed someone, or tried to and failed, I don’t care. If every word out of his mouth is a calculating lie, so what? No one else has ever made me feel as elated as I feel in his presence— not even for ten minutes.
Not at all.
So. I have to not care. It’s the only way I can be immune to what Simon and Charlotte might be about to find out and tell me.
If Tom is a plague in human form, and I’m ready to condone all of his sins, then I must be one too.
I should do something wrong, to prove that we belong together, that we’re right for each other. Something Nadine Caspian can find out about and say, “Ugh, Chloe Daniels is every bit as bad as Tom Rigbey. They deserve each other.”
Maybe I could do something wrong to Nadine Caspian. Now there’s an idea . . .
The school bell rings, startling me, at the exact same moment that I find Nadine on Twitter. There’s her horrible face as her avatar, smiling. Like a doll made of flesh-colored stone. I have a quick look up and down her timeline. Her communications are mostly inane: clothes, booze, cake baking. A new tweet appears, moving the others down on my phone’s screen. She must have just done it. It’s a quote. It says, “ ‘Pour yourself a drink put on some lipstick and pull yourself together’—Elizabeth Taylor.” There should be comma after drink .
I press the “Reply” icon at the bottom of Nadine’s latest offering, and write, “Why are you so against Tom Rigbey? What’s he ever done to you?” Then I press the “tweet” button.
Her reply appears on her timeline a few minutes later. “He’s a sociopath. Leave me alone. Blocking you now.”
A sociopath? The word is like cold medicine, making me swallow hard. What does it even mean?
I’ll look it up later. If Tom Rigbey is a sociopath, then I must become one too. Oh, God. I hold my breath and clench my fists, nearly knocked off balance by sudden weakness. I’m not sure I can do this. Please let this whole thing be one enormous misunderstanding.
“ Mum!” Freya calls out, running toward me. “I won the Star of the Week award!”
“That’s wonderful, darling. Well done.” I say all this without registering what she’s told me. I’m too lost in my own thoughts.
If I find out the truth about Tom and say nothing, he’ll think I don’t know.
The possibility that I know and don’t mind because I love him unconditionally will not occur to him.
Chapter 12
“D O YOU HATE it? Tell me if you hate it, and I’ll . . . scoot over and propose to that woman over there instead. No, I’m kidding. Is it okay?”
I stare tearfully at the large pear-shaped diamond in its open, cushioned box. “It’s beautiful,” I manage to say. “Stunning.” Any minute now, the La Mimosa staff will spot the ring and this will no longer be a private conversation.
I won’t be able to say no, surrounded by Italian waiters.
I don’t want to say no. There’s a big, loud “YES” in my head.
Tom looks delighted. “Try it on, see if it fits. If it doesn’t, I can get it altered. No, wait! Don’t try it on.”
“Why not?’
“I think you need to accept first—officially. You need to say you want to marry me. Assuming you do. If you don’t, that’s fine. I’ll just wade into the River Cam with my pockets full of heavy stones. That’s why I picked this restaurant—the river’s right outside, full of the bodies of spurned suitors.” He grins. He knows I’m going to say yes.
Am I, though? If I am, what’s stopping me? Not his over-the-top, macabre
Not at all.
So. I have to not care. It’s the only way I can be immune to what Simon and Charlotte might be about to find out and tell me.
If Tom is a plague in human form, and I’m ready to condone all of his sins, then I must be one too.
I should do something wrong, to prove that we belong together, that we’re right for each other. Something Nadine Caspian can find out about and say, “Ugh, Chloe Daniels is every bit as bad as Tom Rigbey. They deserve each other.”
Maybe I could do something wrong to Nadine Caspian. Now there’s an idea . . .
The school bell rings, startling me, at the exact same moment that I find Nadine on Twitter. There’s her horrible face as her avatar, smiling. Like a doll made of flesh-colored stone. I have a quick look up and down her timeline. Her communications are mostly inane: clothes, booze, cake baking. A new tweet appears, moving the others down on my phone’s screen. She must have just done it. It’s a quote. It says, “ ‘Pour yourself a drink put on some lipstick and pull yourself together’—Elizabeth Taylor.” There should be comma after drink .
I press the “Reply” icon at the bottom of Nadine’s latest offering, and write, “Why are you so against Tom Rigbey? What’s he ever done to you?” Then I press the “tweet” button.
Her reply appears on her timeline a few minutes later. “He’s a sociopath. Leave me alone. Blocking you now.”
A sociopath? The word is like cold medicine, making me swallow hard. What does it even mean?
I’ll look it up later. If Tom Rigbey is a sociopath, then I must become one too. Oh, God. I hold my breath and clench my fists, nearly knocked off balance by sudden weakness. I’m not sure I can do this. Please let this whole thing be one enormous misunderstanding.
“ Mum!” Freya calls out, running toward me. “I won the Star of the Week award!”
“That’s wonderful, darling. Well done.” I say all this without registering what she’s told me. I’m too lost in my own thoughts.
If I find out the truth about Tom and say nothing, he’ll think I don’t know.
The possibility that I know and don’t mind because I love him unconditionally will not occur to him.
Chapter 12
“D O YOU HATE it? Tell me if you hate it, and I’ll . . . scoot over and propose to that woman over there instead. No, I’m kidding. Is it okay?”
I stare tearfully at the large pear-shaped diamond in its open, cushioned box. “It’s beautiful,” I manage to say. “Stunning.” Any minute now, the La Mimosa staff will spot the ring and this will no longer be a private conversation.
I won’t be able to say no, surrounded by Italian waiters.
I don’t want to say no. There’s a big, loud “YES” in my head.
Tom looks delighted. “Try it on, see if it fits. If it doesn’t, I can get it altered. No, wait! Don’t try it on.”
“Why not?’
“I think you need to accept first—officially. You need to say you want to marry me. Assuming you do. If you don’t, that’s fine. I’ll just wade into the River Cam with my pockets full of heavy stones. That’s why I picked this restaurant—the river’s right outside, full of the bodies of spurned suitors.” He grins. He knows I’m going to say yes.
Am I, though? If I am, what’s stopping me? Not his over-the-top, macabre
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