Dark Heart (Dark Heart 1)

“I don’t think so, Max. Can’t have your sweaty ass on Gran’s good blankets.”

Max snorts. “Better than what fucked up shit you’d do if you got on it.”

I turn back to Luca as the thumping sound intensifies and the pilot’s voice crackles over the speakers, letting us know we’re about to depart.

His wide eyes meet mine, and I squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.

“You ready?” I ask.

He laughs. “What about you?”

I cover my face with my free hand, breathing through my gritted teeth. “It makes me feel a little sick at first.”

The helicopter lurches off the landing pad, and Luca mutters, “Fuck.”

We tighten our grip on each other, and he closes his eyes. I see his jaw tic when I look up at him. My stomach clenches as I shut my eyes again, as if I swallowed a pool ball and it’s tugging me downward. Another roller coaster sensation and we’re steadier. A little steadier.

The guys alternate between ribbing Luca and reassuring him. Dani hugs Ree, who keeps saying she’s fine, just fine. And then we’re really up—we’re approaching the top of 4 New York Plaza, and all around are blinking lights and gleaming steel and glass. Luca’s eyes flip open, meeting mine before he glances out the window. As soon as he gets a good look at things, he squeezes them shut again.

“I get sick from trains,” he says, and gives this soft, embarrassed laugh.

I squeeze his hand then lean in closer—so my mouth is near his ear and nobody can hear me. “You’re not really in a helicopter. You and I are at a carnival. It’s just the two of us—we’re on this ride that kind of makes you want to hurl but kind of feels like floating in an ocean. Do you know the one?”

He nods, and cracks open one eye so he can see me when he smiles. I smile back, and then I watch as he looks out the window again.

“This is better than the train, I think,” he murmurs.

“It is?”

He nods, wiping his palm on his pantsleg as he blinks at the city through the window. “Better view.”

The gang is still talking. Even Ree, who, thankfully, seems to be handling the helicopter almost as well as me. They’re on the topic of who lives over on Kings Point, and Jace tells everyone that the author F. Scott Fitzgerald used to, which I knew already.

That’s the flow, then there’s an ebb where Luca and I wade out of the conversation…just enough so we have space to look at each other again. He’s smiling, and I don’t know what to do about it. I’m so hungry for him, I feel almost sick: dizzy and overheated. I look down at our clasped hands. His is curved around mine—large and protective.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we will now begin descending. Tighten your seatbelts and we’ll be at our destination in another four or five minutes.”

Luca lets a breath out, smiling when our eyes catch. I rub the tips of his fingers, and he rests his head against the seat’s back.

“Thanks,” he murmur-whispers, and I lean my cheek against his shoulder to tell him he’s welcome.* * *This house is a castle. Three levels of rose-beige stone with grand, arched windows and massive mahogany doors. It’s shaped like a vertical rectangle, with four tall, cylindrical towers guarding each corner. The towers are topped with pointy, witch-hat-looking roofs and covered in crawling ivy.

The balconies on the west-facing towers hang over the Long Island Sound. Water sparkles below them, sloshing gently as boats slice through the inky water, their wake rippling outward.

I could stay out here all night, inhaling the river smell, letting the autumn air sink through my gray pants, through the fabric of my soft green sweater. It’s cold, but I like that. I like that I hear people chatting above and below me—people out on other balconies—but I’m alone on this one.

I lost track of Luca. Maybe an hour after we arrived, he offered to get me a virgin daquiri. I saw him talking to Max by one of the coolers; then they disappeared into the crowd.

I tell myself I don’t care. I think of Becca—what’s she doing at home?—and I get the frozen feeling I have sometimes, knowing what will happen. It’s like being on a train, and I can’t get off. And I know it’s going to crash. And I’m not sad. I’m only bracing.

I think of my dad calling home from the office before I left to go with Dani for the night.

“Be careful tonight—all nights, but especially right now. We don’t need to split our focus.” By which he meant he and my mom don’t want to worry about me in addition to Becca.

Sometimes Dad will say, “We didn’t know things would be like this,” as if to imply that if they had known about Becca’s disease, maybe they wouldn’t have chosen to bring her into the world at all. I don’t know why he says that. I never said I was upset or that I thought they should have known. Our family isn’t normal, but I don’t care. All I want is for them—my parents—to just…be around. And talk and stuff. But no one is, and no one does, and that, they can control. But they choose not to talk to me. Or Becca. Dad picks work and Mom picks her appointments.