Chapters (47)
- Front Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Contents
- Part One
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Part Two
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Part Three
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Acknowledgments
- Excerpt from Survive the Dome
- Prologue
- 6 Months Later
- One
- About the Author
- Back Cover
“And what if I didn’t? You’re assuming that I would have, but it’s pretty obvious that I don’t know how to control it! I jumped because I was startled, and I jumped back because I was surprised!”
Was that even the right emotion? Doesn’t matter.
“The point is,” I continue, my voice shaking. “You…you…just assumed that you know what’s best! And you know what? Maybe I have the wrong brother teaching me!”
The words come out of my mouth like venom, and I know, once I say them, that they were the wrong words. Not only because of the way Blake’s eyes widen and then sharpen but also because of the bitterness they leave in my mouth, like I imagine cyanide would taste.
Some words are poison, and when you speak them, they might kill your target—and you along with it. Bringing up his dead brother like that, when I have his organ? That was a low blow.
“Get. Out,” he says, punctuating each word like a sentence. “I mean it. Get out.”
Part of me wants to apologize. I should apologize; that would be the right thing to do. But the stubborn part of me doesn’t want to let him off the hook that easily. He doesn’t get a pass. If he hadn’t shoved me…
“I said get the hell out!”
I don’t say anything. The rapid pulsing of my heart is enough to kick my body into high gear. I turn, walk out quickly, and slam the door behind me.
Thirteen
8:15 a.m.
ONE MISSED CALL: BLAKE MCINTYRE
9:15 a.m.
ONE MISSED CALL: BLAKE MCINTYRE
11:56 a.m.
ONE MISSED CALL: BLAKE MCINTYRE
It’s been four days since my blowup with Blake, and in the past ninety-six hours, I’ve gotten nine calls and two voicemails from him. I’m not sure if that’s something I should be proud of.
“You totally should be proud of it,” Isobel had said during my self-imposed lunch break at the library. She drove halfway across town to meet me and bring me my favorite—a Philly cheesesteak.
Who said platonic love isn’t as valuable as romantic love?
“I mean, come on,” she scolded. “You have a boy from one of the most powerful families in Boston calling you. That means something.”
After our first interaction with Mrs. McIntyre, Isobel did her research. The McIntyres are a big philanthropic family, giving money to the symphony, education reform, mayoral campaigns, plenty of other political campaigns, and of course, medical research.