I notice Jonah Grant among the players and dissect his mannerisms. His confidence shines far above anyone else on that field. I wonder what makes the other boys afraid of him. What is it about him that they continue to bow to? He has power here, although I can’t quite figure out why. He seems average in every respect, but there must be something.

There’s a skirmish on the field, and I narrow my eyes as I try to see who’s fighting. There’s also a flash of movement at the end of my aisle, but I’m fascinated by what’s happening in the game.

A ref blows the whistle just as a punch is thrown. The benches empty into a rumble on the sidelines. But Jonah laughs with another player as they watch the others fight.

“A bunch of fucking Neanderthals,” a familiar voice says.

I suck in a startled gasp and turn as Jackson sits next to me with a groan, his crutches awkwardly banging against the metal. He keeps his gaze on the field, his expression weighted and heavy. The smell of him fills my nose, followed by a wave of affection. Trepidation. Guilt.

So much guilt.

His dark hair is messy, stubble grown out on his chin. He’s wearing a long-sleeved black T-shirt and a brace on his leg. His crutches lean on the metal seat next to him.

He doesn’t look at me. It hurts how much I want him to look at me.

I’m stunned to see him, and acknowledging that, he nods, continuing to watch the game.

“You didn’t say goodbye,” he says simply, as if that’s the worst of my offenses.

“I had to go,” I respond, and watch as his Adam’s apple bobs.

“Clearly. I mean …” He glances over for the first time and we both pause, our breaths held when his dark eyes meet mine. He abruptly turns away and his voice tightens. “I ended up in the hospital, you know? Q drove me directly there, and once I was admitted, he told me what you said outside the car.”

I close my eyes.

“You didn’t …” He pauses to keep his tone steady. “You didn’t have to tell him all that. He fucking hated me for a minute. So, you know, thanks.”

“You would have told him eventually,” I say, knowing it doesn’t absolve me.

“Of course I would have,” he says. “He’s my best friend. Which is why you shouldn’t have used it to drive us—me—away. That was pretty cold, Mena.”

The fight on the field has been cleared up, and two players head to the bench as two new ones charge out. Jonah Grant claps his hands, shouting out some commands to the other players.

“How did you find me?” I ask Jackson.

“I just came from your apartment,” he says. “Brynn told me you might be here.”

Of course she did. Although, to be fair, any one of the girls would have told him. Despite the fact that he’s human, that he’s a boy, they trust Jackson. They trust him because I do.

“I have no idea why you’re here”—he motions to the game—“but I know you’re the one who called me the other night,” he adds, a bit softer. “So I went all detective and found out the phone number was still registered to a mall kiosk in fucking Connecticut. Got a ticket and flew out same day.” He adjusts his leg, wincing slightly when he does. “When I got to the mall,” he continues, “I convinced the guy to give me a description of the girl who bought it. Nothing’s ever really anonymous. Not even a burner phone.”

“He knew where we lived?” I ask.

“No,” Jackson says. “But he noticed Sydney. Noticed her enough to copy down the GPS info from the phone he sold her. He gave it to me after I made some very persuasive threats against stalking my friends.”

“Even mall kiosk guys are the worst,” I murmur.

Jackson nods that it’s true. He looks over at me, his expression sobering when our gazes lock. He lowers his eyes to the floor of the bleachers.

“Why did you leave me like that?” he asks quietly. “Did Imogene really kill her husband?”

“Yes.”

“I saw a different man die in front of me that same night; why did you think this was different?” he asks. “Why did you really want me gone?”

And I have to evaluate if I still want him gone. Jackson would leave if I asked him to. He’d leave and never look back if that’s what I really wanted. But I didn’t ask that of him. I lied to him, instead. I tricked him and ran away. He wants an answer that’s more complicated than I can give.

“You had to leave because Leandra was coming and I was scared for you,” I say.

Jackson looks sideways at me while I watch the field. “I don’t believe you,” he says.

Surprised, I turn to him.

“It’s true,” I say. “She came there and—”

“No, I don’t believe that’s the only reason you sent me away,” he clarifies. “I think that was just your excuse.”

He’s angry with me. No, he’s hurt. And I hate that I’m the one who did that to him when all he’s ever done is try to be my friend. But maybe … Maybe it was more.

“Why do you think I sent you away?” I ask, daring him to answer. My heart beats faster, anticipating, yet scared of, the answer. Jackson takes a long moment to respond.

“Philomena,” he says, “by the time I got to the hospital, I had a fever and an infection in my goddamn bone that was spreading. And do you know what I was worried about?” he asks. “You. You getting to my house and me not being there. You being afraid that I’d left you. But after talking to Q, after he cussed me out in a hospital room, I worried about why you would hurt me like that on purpose.

“And I was mad,” he admits. “But after a few days”—he swallows hard and lowers his eyes again—“I worried about where you were and if you were okay. But apparently, you never had that same worry.”

It’s not entirely true. I’ve thought about Jackson plenty. The difference is, I pushed the thoughts away before they could hurt me, disregarding how I’d hurt him.

“You sent me away because you were scared of what I’d think of you,” Jackson says in a low voice. “You’re scared that you’re not real because you’re not human. And you thought, correct me if I’m wrong, that if I saw another murderous girl, I’d put that on you. Use it to generalize about you. And who knows?” He shrugs. “Maybe I would have had a moment like that. I’m not fucking perfect. I’m a mess. But don’t sit here and tell me that you lied to my face because you were scared for me. You were scared for yourself.”

Little pricks of heat pass over my skin, part exposure to the truth, part embarrassment. He’s right. He sees right through me in a way that most people can’t. And maybe that counts for something.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“It’s not about being sorry,” he says. “Just …” He stops himself, and when he talks again, his voice is softer. “You ruined me,” he adds. “You could … You could have called me. You could have checked on me. You could have told me you weren’t dragged back to that academy and lying on a metal slab.”

He’s right. I should have been honest. But I didn’t consider that Jackson would think the girls and I had been caught and destroyed. He looks more miserable than when he first sat down.