Imagine Me

He shrugs, and empties half the flask into his teacup.

“Listen,” Brendan says gently. “Ian is a beast with no bedside manner, but he’s not wrong. It’s time to think of a new plan. We all still love Juliette, it’s just—” He cuts himself off, frowns. “Wait, is it Juliette or Ella? Was there ever a consensus?”

I’m still scowling when I say, “I’m calling her Juliette.”

“But I thought she wanted to be called Ella,” Winston says.

“She’s in a fucking coma,” Ian says, and takes a loud sip of tea. “She doesn’t care what you call her.”

“Don’t be such a brute,” Brendan says. “She’s our friend.”

“Your friend,” he mutters.

“Wait— Is that what this is about?” I sit forward. “Are you jealous she never best-friended you, Sanchez?”

Ian rolls his eyes, looks away.

Winston is watching with fascinated interest.

“All right, drink your tea,” Brendan says, biting into a biscuit. He gestures at me with the half-eaten cookie. “It’s getting cold.”

I shoot him a tired look, but I take an obligatory sip and nearly choke. It tastes weird tonight. And I’m about to push it away when I realize Brendan is still staring at me, so I take a long, disgusting pull of the dark liquid before replacing the cup in the saucer. I try not to gag.

“Okay,” I say, slamming my palms down on my thighs. “Let’s put it to a vote: Who here thinks Ian is annoyed that J didn’t fall in love with him when she showed up at Point?”

Winston and Brendan share a look. Slowly, they both lift their hands.

Ian rolls his eyes again. “Pendejos,” he mutters.

“The theory holds at least a little water,” Winston says.

“I have a girlfriend, dumbasses.” And as if on cue, Lily looks up from across the room, locks eyes with Ian. She’s sitting with Alia and some other girl I don’t recognize.

Lily waves.

Ian waves back.

“Yes, but you’re used to a certain level of attention,” Winston says, reaching for a biscuit. He looks up, scans the room. “Like those girls, right over there,” he says, gesturing with his head. “They’ve been staring at you since you walked in.”

“They have not,” Ian says, but he can’t help but glance over.

“It’s true.” Brendan shrugs. “You’re a handsome guy.”

Winston chokes on his tea.

“Okay, enough.” Ian holds up his hands. “I know you guys think this is hilarious, but I’m being serious. At the end of the day, Juliette is your friend. Not mine.”

I exhale dramatically.

Ian shoots me a look. “When she first showed up at Point, I tried reaching out to her, to offer her my friendship, and she never followed up. And even after we were taken hostage by Anderson”—he nods an acknowledgment at Brendan and Winston—“she took her sweet time trying to get information out of Warner. She never gave a shit about the rest of us, and all we’ve ever done is put everything on the line to protect her.”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Winston says, shaking his head. “She was in an awful position—”

“Whatever,” Ian mutters. He looks down, into his tea. “This whole situation is some kind of bullshit.”

“Cheers to that,” Brendan says, refilling his cup. “Now have more tea.”

Ian mutters a quiet, angry thank-you, and lifts the cup to his lips. Suddenly, he stiffens. “And then there’s this,” he says, raising an eyebrow. As if all that weren’t enough, we have to deal with this douche bag.” Ian gestures, with the teacup, toward the entrance.

Shit.

Warner is here.

“She brought him here,” Ian is saying, but he has the sense, at least, to keep his voice down. “It’s because of her that we have to tolerate this asshole.”

“To be fair, that was originally Castle’s idea,” I point out.

Ian flips me off.

“What’s he doing here?” Brendan asks quietly.

I shake my head and take another unconscious sip of my disgusting tea. There’s something about the grossness that’s beginning to feel familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.

I look up again.

I haven’t spoken a word to Warner since that first day—The day J got attacked by Emmaline. He’s been a ghost since then. No one has really seen him, no one but the supreme kids, I think.

He went straight back to his roots.

It looks like he finally took a shower, though. No blood. And I’m guessing he healed himself, though there’s no way to be sure, because he’s fully clothed, wearing an outfit I can only assume was borrowed from Haider. A lot of leather.

I watch, for only a few seconds, as he stalks clear across the room—straight through people and conversations and apologizing to no one—toward Sonya and Sara, who are still talking to Castle.

Whatever.

Dude doesn’t even look at me anymore. Doesn’t even acknowledge my existence. Not that I care. It’s not like we were actually friends.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

Somehow I’ve already drained my teacup, because Brendan’s refilled it. I throw back the fresh cup in a couple of quick gulps and shove a dry biscuit in my mouth. And then I shake my head. “All right, we’re getting distracted,” I say, and the words feel just a little too loud, even to my own ears. “Focus, please.”

“Right,” Winston says. “Focus. What are we focusing on?”

“New mission,” Ian says, sitting back in his chair. He counts off on his fingers: “Save Adam and James. Kill the other supreme commanders. Finally get some sleep.”

“Nice and easy,” Brendan says. “I like it.”

“You know what?” I say. “I think I should go talk to him.”

Winston raises an eyebrow. “Talk to who?”

“Warner, obviously.” My brain feels warm. A little fuzzy. “I should go talk to him. No one talks to him. Why are we just letting him revert back into an asshole? I should talk to him.”

“That’s a great idea,” Ian says, smiling as he sits forward. “Go for it.”

“Don’t you dare listen to him,” Winston says, shoving Ian back into his chair. “Ian just wants to watch you get murdered.”

“Fucking rude, Sanchez.”

Ian shrugs.

“On an unrelated note,” Winston says to me. “How does your head feel?”

I frown, gingerly touching my fingers to my skull. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Winston says, “that this is probably a good time to tell you I’ve been pouring whiskey in your tea all night.”

“What the hell?” I sit up too fast. Bad idea. “Why?”

“You seemed stressed.”

“I’m not stressed.”

Everyone stares at me.

“All right, whatever,” I say. “I’m stressed. But I’m not drunk.”

“No.” He peers at me. “But you probably need all the brain cells you can spare if you’re going to talk to Warner. I would. I’m not too proud to admit that I find him genuinely terrifying.”