“I just want to go for a walk,” I said. “I need some air.”

He rubbed his hands over his face, harder now, raking his fingers through his hair, and when he spoke again, his voice was more his own, though still younger, less formal. “Okay. Can I go with you?” Another rub over his face, his shoulders straightening, voice deepening another octave. “I should go with you.”

“I . . .”

I looked at him. The boy was gone, the man back, but the wall stayed down, the confusion lingering, not sure why I needed to leave, still feeling as if he’d done something wrong, like me in the dream, rejected and lost and not understanding why.

“I’ll walk behind you, Olivia. I would simply prefer you weren’t out alone at this hour.” His voice dropped. “Whatever you saw, it was only a nightmare. I’m not going anywhere.”

I nodded.

“Could it have been connected to the vision?” he asked. “From the park? We still haven’t discussed that. I know you were going to talk to Rose first, but I would prefer . . .” He raked back his hair again, rolling his shoulders, as if still searching for equilibrium. “It might help if you talked about it. Perhaps that is upsetting you.”

I’m so lost right now. My parents . . . I think they . . . I’m sure they . . . And you and Ricky . . . So lost and so confused. Except I’m not confused at all. I know what I feel—for you—and I want to blame it on the visions, to tell myself I’m just reliving a role. But I’m not. What I feel for you . . .

Oh God, what I feel for you. I don’t want that. I want Ricky, and only Ricky, and no confusion, because he doesn’t deserve confusion. Neither of you do.

I want to run. Get the hell out of here and run to Ricky, and tell myself I never felt like this—that I was upset about my parents and half asleep and caught in that nightmare, and I got mixed up. I just got mixed up.

But I look at you, and I know I can’t run. Because you won’t understand. You let yourself reach out, and I cannot reject that. I cannot let you feel rejected. You need someone, now more than ever, and I desperately want to be that someone, even if it’s never going to be more than talking in front of your window and falling asleep and waking in your bed—alone.

“I’d like to talk about it,” I said. “I know it’s the middle of the night . . .”

“I’ll make coffee.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO