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
Clyde doesn’t miss the chance to come padding over, put his front paws on the couch, and lick my cheek, bringing me back to reality.
“Boy trouble?” Mom repeats in a leading tone.
“Not like that, Mom.”
“Do we need to have—”
“We one hundred percent do not need to have that talk. Dad already gave it to me. And you did too.”
“I did?”
“Twice.”
“A third time can’t hurt.”
I swat Clyde away. “Maybe when I actually have a boyfriend.”
Mom leaves the room, heading into her closet for a moment, then returns with a pair of heels. She sets them on the chair by her vanity, checking them against the fabric of her dress.
“Should I be worried?”
“Why would you be?”
“That boy. Blake McIntyre, the son of the woman who gave you your liver and the boy who stopped by last week. He’s in one of your online classes, right?” She doesn’t actually want an answer. “And he’s also the boy who you’re so concerned with, who’s been taking up so much of your mental space.”
She pauses, spritzing herself with perfume and putting on her shoes.
“Being close to those who saved you is good, Andre. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to be indebted to them. That’s not how an organ transplant works.”
“I know.”
“And you promise me you’ll be careful?”
“I promise.”
She nods. That’s the end of that.
“So you like this boy?”
I pause. The real question isn’t if I like Blake; it’s if I like Blake more than I like Michael, and I don’t know the answer to that question.
“Let me rephrase.” Mom stands and gestures for me to help her with the clasp of the necklace that Dad got her for their twentieth anniversary. Tonight must be an important night. “Do you think you might like this boy?”
I stand behind her, weaving and threading my fingers like it’s second nature, helping her with the clasp. It’s not long before the necklace falls against her skin. It’s beautiful but doesn’t overpower her. It allows Mom to shine, and I can see, in this moment, why Dad fell for her—and keeps falling for her.
“I don’t know yet, but I know I don’t dislike him. There are a lot of factors at play.” Like Michael.
“That’s enough for now.” She turns back around, cups my cheek with one hand, and smiles. I can’t help but instinctively nuzzle her hand. It’s warm and it’s safe and—
“Andre!” Dad’s voice rings loudly from downstairs, breaking through the wooden barrier of Mom’s door. “There’s a boy at the door for you!”