Page 78 of Tracking Snow

"Doesn't matter. It’s just the truth."

"It does though." She leans forward, elbows on her knees. "Because I have spent my whole life being told I'm wrong. That I look wrong. That I want the wrong things." Her voice stays flat. "But the best day of my life was when I met a bunch of badass women, who taught me I get to choose what is right for me. That I get to decide who and what I am. If I believed what people told me while I was growing up, I’d be so...small." I see it in her eyes first, only because I'm watching closer than I'll ever admit. The focus slips off me by a degree, maybe two. Her pupils spread. The blue goes from live wire to standing water, and she's not in this room anymore. "I did shrink for a while. For many years, actually." She rolls the chair over to a counter and runs her fingers over it.

"While I may covet other people’s magic and strive to be more than I am, I’ve come a long way to accepting a lot of my own pieces because I stopped listening to the voices that wanted to keep me small."

Another wave of exhaustion overcomes me, and I lay back on the couch. This is too much philosophy shit. This was always Six’s playing field. But I’m so exhausted I can’t even tell if he’s adding commentary or analysis.

"I’m tired," I croak.

The screech and clatter of the wheels precede the warmth radiating off her, where she stops right in front of me. I extend an arm and she crawls onto my body, despite the couch barely being big enough for me. Still, she fits in perfectly and I let go of thinking about what a shitbag I am and let myself fall asleep with this human curled around me.

Wondering if she would ever in a million years understand why I don’t tell her where her friends have gone.

Chapter 24

Mr. Sandman, Bring Me a Dream

THREE

Ishouldn’t do it. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself.

I have to see her.

The other six are asleep. I ease toward the front until I’ve grasped the lead. Even Seven is buried deep.

I usually prefer someone else to be in lead, but I can’t stop myself.

So I creep forward.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Taking lead feels like stepping into warm water one inch at a time. First, the weight of our hands. Then the pull of our lungs. The couch under our back. The itch of fabric at our wrist. The steady, living pressure of Snow tucked into our chest.

I blink.

The world sharpens.

The eclectic tattoo parlor comes alive around me in layers. Old brick. Ink. Lemon cleaner. Metal. The faint sweetness of Snow’s hair under all of it, warm and tart, like summer apples left in the sun.

My throat works around a sound I refuse to make.

She is asleep on us.

On me.

One of her knees is hooked over our thigh. Her hand is curled in the front of our hoodie, fingers gripping the fabric like she caught us and decided to keep us. Her cheek is pressed over our sternum. Every tiny snore slips through her nose and lands against our ribs.

With Snow snuggled close, this cramped little couch is somehow more comfortable than the bed in our apartment, and that’s saying a lot.

Despite our rather spartan living arrangements, the massive king size bed we have has the plushest mattress topper, feather down pillows, and a comforter that is like being held in a cloud.

That was mine and Two’s doing.

We value sleep more than the others.

Aside from the bed, our apartment has always felt too much like a prison. A place to read books, watch TV, and occupy ourselves with anything that kept us inside and out of the public.