Echoes Marissa Lete (best ereader for students .TXT) 📖

“You’re looking at it.”

“Someone who knows what they’re doing.”

“I know what I’m doing. I’ll be fine.”

I shake my head, turning my attention back to the road in front of us. “Do you think anyone is following us?”

“If they are, we’ll know soon enough,” he replies.

I nod, then pull the car back onto the road.

✽✽✽✽✽

Twenty minutes later, I come to a screeching stop in the stone circle driveway in front of Maverick’s house. I hop out of the car, then walk over to the passenger side and open the door. He looks pale.

“Come on,” I grab his right arm, helping him step out of the car.

“I’m okay, honestly.”

I look at his left arm skeptically, taking in the blood soaking through my jacket. Then I tug him inside.

We go to the kitchen, where Maverick instructs me to grab the first aid kit from a cabinet. Inside the kit, I find the gauze pads and long white bandages, setting them on the table. Maverick sits down next to the sink. “Should we clean it first? I mean, that’s what you do, right?” I ask him.

He nods but doesn’t look confident. “Fun fact: this is actually my first bullet wound. But I guess so. There’s rubbing alcohol in there.”

I grab it, then bring the supplies over to him. Carefully, I untie the knot in my jacket, pulling it away from Maverick’s arm. He winces when it gets close to the wound. “I’m sorry,” I say, watching as fresh blood slowly seeps out of his skin once the jacket is gone.

“Don’t be.”

I unscrew the cap of the rubbing alcohol. “Well if I wasn’t before, then I am now.” I lift his arm over the sink, then carefully pour the liquid over it. His jaw tenses and his other hand grips the edge of the counter, knuckles turning white. When I’m done, he lets out a ragged breath.

“Are you sure you don’t want to see a doctor?” I ask him.

He looks down at his arm, touching the skin next to the wound with his finger. It’s a small wound, and it looks like the bullet just barely grazed him at an angle, without actually entering his skin. It’s bleeding still, but it looks less intimidating under the bright fluorescent lights of Maverick’s kitchen.

“I’m sure. Just bandage me up. It’s not that bad,” he tells me.

So I grab the gauze pads, laying them carefully over the wound, then I take a long white bandage and wrap it several times around his arm tightly.

When I finish, I take a step back. “I guess that should do,” I say. I lift my hand to pick up the first aid kit on the table next to him and Maverick catches my wrist, his warm fingers curling around my clammy skin. I don’t flinch, I don’t try to pull my hand away; there’s no point, because when he looks at me, into me with those burning amber eyes, it lights a fire inside my chest.

“Laura, I’m so, so sorry,” he tells me, his voice quavering.

“Why are you sorry? You saved my life.”

He shakes his head. “If it weren’t for me, your life never would have been in danger.”

“Maverick, you can’t—”

“No, Laura,” he tightens his grip on my wrist. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

I open my mouth, but he speaks again before I can get any words out.

“What I did to you, it was wrong. I should never have done it. It should never have been an option.”

“You did it because you wanted to protect me,” I say.

“I did it because I thought I was being selfless. I thought that without me in your life, you’d be safer. You’d be happier.” He loosens his grip, letting my hand drop to my side. “But really, I was just being selfish. I should have talked to you. I should have given you that choice.”

He's doing that thing again, where his eyes focus on me, never blinking, never moving, like I’m the only thing he sees. I feel my heart in my chest, threatening to beat right out of me.

I ponder his words, trying to imagine being in Maverick’s place, faced with a decision as monumental as he had. He thought that I was in danger. He thought that by giving me up, he could save me. He’d done everything in his power to protect me, to keep me out of this, even after he realized his mistake. And now, he’d just taken a literal bullet for me.

Sure, his choice to erase my memories had hurt me, but isn’t that the thing about choices? There’s no way to guarantee that they’ll be the right choice. They can always end up backfiring or hurting someone. And we’re here, now, in this strange place between friendship and a relationship, caught up in this terrible mess that we aren’t sure how to fix. What happened before has been done, but if it had never happened, we might never have learned about each other’s abilities. Our abilities connect us, make us understand each other in a way that no one else can.

I gaze back at him, trying to calm my breathing. “It’s okay. I forgive you,” I tell him, and I mean it.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know if it’s that easy.”

I shake mine, too. “Even if it’s not, I want to try. I want to know you. I want to know how I felt about you before. Which means we both have to get past this.”

He blinks a few times. “Are you sure?”

I nod.

He moves to me, then, without warning. He slides off the counter and steps closer. I stumble backward in surprise, but he doesn’t let the distance between us grow, stepping forward at the same time