Free Damaged by Amy Reed Page A

whisper.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWhen I saw you the other day at the beach, I got the impression you needed a friend.”
    Something inside me cracks a little, sends a lump to my throat that I have to swallow down. “I have plenty of friends,” I say, but even I know it sounds like a lie.
    â€œOkay,” he says.
    â€œExcuse me.” The librarian coughs from her desk. “Will you kindly take your conversation outside?”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” Hunter says with a smile. He gives her a military salute, and a tween girl by the magazine racks giggles. I grab my backpack and follow him outside.
    â€œSeriously, why were you looking up exorcisms?” he says as the door closes behind us.
    â€œI wasn’t,” I lie. “I mean, I just sort of ended up there. You know how that happens. You start off doing something on the Internet and then somehow you end up in some weird place.”
    I am acutely aware of how messy my hair is, how my clothes are stiff with dried sweat and sticky with spilled ice cream, how I must smell like hot dogs. Even though I hated him a moment ago, I am hit with a sudden need to not leave, to stay with Hunter, like despite my lack of sleep over the last few days and the nightmares and hallucinations, I suddenly feel safer than I have in a long time. I start to panic. My chest tightens at the thought of him walking away, of being left to ride home, alone, with my demons.
    But just as I recognize that I’m not breathing, Hunter says nonchalantly, “Want a coffee? I’m buying.”
    Air enters my lungs, and the pressure on my chest loosens. I nod my agreement, trying not to look too grateful. We walk in silence over to the coffee shop. I try to focus on my steps. I count them instead of thinking about how this was one of Camille’s and my favorite places to go, how I haven’t set foot in it since she died.
    The familiar smell of the café makes me nauseous. I have never been here without Camille. It looks different—less glamorous, more dingy—without her in it.
    I order a quadruple iced espresso.
    â€œWhoa, killer!” Hunter says. “That’s some serious caffeine.”
    â€œI’m a serious person.”
    â€œYes.” He laughs. “You are a very serious person.”
    We sit at a table in the back. I am grateful Hunter didn’t pick Camille’s usual table by the front window. She loved being able to see everyone coming and going. She loved everyone being able to see her. Just one of the million ways we were different.
    I try to focus on the community bulletin board behind Hunter’s head. I count all the flyers I recognize from my mom’s weird friends offering massage, acupuncture, private yoga classes, something called Reiki. I feel all eyes in the café on us.
    â€œHow do you like being famous?” Hunter says.
    â€œUgh.”
    He laughs.
    â€œYou seem okay with it,” I say.
    â€œWhy do you say that?” He takes a sip of his hot chocolate. What kind of guy orders hot chocolate with extra whipped cream?
    My mouth opens before I have a chance to think about what’s going to come out. “Why do you seem so . . . okay?” I hear myself say, and suddenly the air seems so thin, like all the fog that’s accumulated over the last few days gets cleared out. All the people in the café disappear and the crappy music fades away, and it is only me and Hunter at this table. I relax and it feels like melting, it feels like losing five hundred pounds, and all I want to do is keep letting go. I don’t want to fight anymore.
    â€œI’m a mess,” I whisper, and it feels like I’ve never said anything truer in my life.
    He looks at me from behind the wall of his hair, and there’s something in his eyes that goes way deeper than his cool and brooding affect, deeper than his reputation, something sad and old and achingly familiar. He nods but says