I don’t know what this means. It’s like my purple corduroy jacket the day of the fire. Could the balance of the universe be affected by the color of a tie?

Tucker skips school the first day to stay with me. Mostly this entails him sitting in the chair next to mine while I sit and do nothing, trying to talk to me, occasionally asking me if I need anything, and I almost always say no, until later that night, when I say, “Can you go home? No offense, but I want to be alone right now.” It’s true. I want to be alone. But I also specifically don’t want to be around Tucker right now, because there are things I’m not telling him, big things, and I don’t want to think about those things.

He says yes, of course, sure, he understands, but he’s offended. I don’t need my empathy to see the hurt on his face.

Every day I sense Christian somewhere nearby. Not trying to talk to me. Not pushing anything on me, any kind of response. Just near. He lets me be alone, but he’s also there, on the edges, in case I don’t want to be.

How does he understand to do that? He was only a kid when his mom died, but still, he gets it. Is it the same for everybody, I wonder, or is Christian so in tune with me that he understands what I need on some other level?

On the third day, Tucker confronts me, not in a mean sort of way, but in a please-let-me-help-you-why-won’t-you-let-me-help-you sort of way. I’m lying in bed, not sleeping, not doing anything, and he suddenly comes into my room.

“I want to be here for you,” he says, no hello or anything. “It’s that simple.”

My eyes dart to the window. No Christian.

“Okay.”

“But you won’t let me. You won’t let me in, Clara. You’re pushing me away. You won’t tell me what you’re feeling.”

“I’m not feeling anything,” I tell him. “I don’t mean to push you away.”

But the truth is, I do mean to push him away.

He doesn’t accept this. “You’ve been pushing me away for months. You don’t tell me things, like you didn’t tell me about that bad angel. I’m still waiting, you know, for you to tell me about what happened with that guy, but you don’t say anything. You think I can’t handle it.”

“Tucker.”

“Why do I get the feeling lately that you’re just biding your time with me? That you’re going to break this off.”

“My mom died,” I snap, sitting up. “I’m not really thinking about anything else.”

He shakes his head. “What aren’t you telling me? Why don’t you think I can handle it? Haven’t I handled everything you’ve ever thrown at me?”

“Okay, fine.” I know I must sound angry, but I’m not. I’m tired. I’m tired of hiding things, tired of being what people want me to be in this moment, tired of being that girl whose mom has died and we better tiptoe around her. In some ways, Tucker talking to me this way is a relief. At least he’s not walking on eggshells anymore.

Tucker waits.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” he answers simply.

“All right. Let’s start here. I thought you were dying, for a while. I’ve been having visions of Aspen Hill Cemetery, everybody there because someone was dead, and you weren’t there. So I thought it was you. I didn’t want to tell you because, what if I was wrong, how would you feel about that, and it turned out I was wrong, so I’m glad I didn’t tell you.”

“But you told Christian,” he says.

“Yeah. He can see into my mind, so he knew.”

“Huh,” he says, but I can tell he’s very unhappy at the idea of Christian and I mind-melding.

“And I can read people’s feelings. Sometimes an image or a thought or two, but mostly feelings.”

It feels better, confessing. I feel something. “And there’s more, of course.”

He blinks, startled. “Okay, shoot.”

Funny that he should phrase it that way, when what I say next is like a bullet, traveling at the speed of sound straight from my mouth to his heart. I don’t know why I do it. I only know that I don’t want any more pretense between us. It’s against my nature.

“My purpose isn’t over. I don’t know what it is exactly, but I know that it involves Christian. It’s like we’re meant to be two sides of the same coin. I don’t . . . love him the way that I love you, but we’re the same, him and me. We make each other stronger.”

Storm clouds in Tucker’s blue eyes. He stares at me. He doesn’t want to know this next part.

But I tell him anyway. Because part of me realizes that, as much as I love him, as much as I want to grab on to him now and never let him go, he’ll be better off without me, safer, away from my crazy world of rogue angels and mysterious duties that are going to pop up all my life, happier without me having to lie to him or withhold stuff from him for our entire relationship. I know that telling the truth right now, and especially this next part, will probably ruin things forever for us and as much as I don’t want that, I think it might be the only way to ensure that I don’t wimp out.

So here goes.

“I kissed Christian.” My voice breaks on his name. “Well, actually, he kissed me. But I let him. He said it was part of his purpose, and I let him. Because we’re connected. Because in my dream, when my mom dies, when we’re at the cemetery, it’s him who holds my hand and comforts me and supports me. Because you’re not there.”

Tucker’s expression has gone stony. The muscles in his back are tight. He flexes his jaw.

“When?” he asks huskily. “When did he . . .”

“Two days before my mom died.”

He stands up. “I have to go.”

“Tuck.”

He closes his eyes. His fists clench by his sides, then release. When he opens his eyes again, I see a hint of tears. He lets out a ragged breath. “I have to go.”

What have I done? I think dazedly. I follow him out of my bedroom, down the stairs. “I’m sorry, Tuck,” I say. Like that can fix anything.

My words don’t faze him. He blows right past the group of sympathizers in the living room, past Wendy and Angela, who are sitting together on the couch.

“Wendy, let’s go.”

She jumps up.

“Tuck,” I call again. But then I stop. I resolve to let him go, even if he never talks to me again. The ache in my chest doubles, makes me feel short of breath. I lean against the living room wall and watch Tucker helplessly as he nearly runs out of my house.

He stops at his car, fumbles in his pocket for keys. Wendy catches up to him, grabs his arm, says something, and flicks her head back to the house. He nods. Then he looks back and sees Christian standing on the front porch, and everything seems to slow down.

“You.” He shakes Wendy off and takes a few slow steps toward the house.

“Tucker,” Christian says quietly.

“What kind of person are you?” Tucker practically growls, advancing on him. He ignores Wendy as she pleads to go home. “You wait until she’s at her most vulnerable and then you make your move?”

“Is that what she told you?” Christian asks, not in any threatening sort of way, but also not backing down one bit.

I want to get out there, stop this before someone gets hurt. I have the feeling that someone could really get hurt about now. But as I take a step toward the door, Angela grabs my arm.

“Don’t,” she says. “You’ll make it worse.”

“She told me you kissed her,” Tucker says.

“I did.”

“It doesn’t matter to you that she has a boyfriend? That she loves me?” Tucker is close to Christian now, climbing the steps to the porch. He stops a few feet in front of Christian and stands with his hands in fists, waiting for the excuse Christian is going to give him to hit him.

I can’t see Christian’s face from this angle. His back is turned to me. But somehow I know that his face is impassive, his eyes cool green emeralds that glitter unnaturally in the light. There’s no warmth in him at all when he says, “I always liked you, Tucker. I think you’re a decent guy.”

Tucker laughs. “But what, I’m not worthy of her? She’s out of my league, just because—”