Forever by Maggie Stiefvater Page B

toxic.”
    â€œToxic?” I echoed. Actually, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered. There was a strength to that word that was tempting. Toxic. “Yes, toxicity. It’s one of my finer features. Is this because I didn’t sleep with you? Funny, normally girls yell at me because I did screw them.”
    She gave her hard little laugh: Ha. Ha. Ha. Her heels clicked as she strode around the counter to stand right next to me. Her breath was hot on my face; her anger was louder than her voice. “This look on my face is because I was standing this close to you two nights ago, watching you twitch and drool because of whatever you’d stuck in your veins. I pulled you out of that hole once. I’m on the edge looking in anyway, Cole. I can’t be around someone else who is. You’re dragging me down with you. I’m trying to get out.”
    And again, this is how Isabel always worked her magic on me. That little bit of honesty from her — and it wasn’t that much — took the wind out of my sails. The anger I’d felt before was strangely hard to sustain. I took my legs off the counter, slowly, one at a time, andthen I turned on the stool so I was facing her. Instead of backing up to give me more room, she stayed right there, standing between my legs. A challenge. Or maybe a surrender.
    â€œThat,” I said, “is a lie. You only found me in the rabbit hole because you were already down there.”
    She was so close to me that I could smell her lipstick. I was painfully aware that her hips were only an inch away from my thighs.
    â€œI’m not going to watch you kill yourself,” Isabel said. A long minute passed where we heard nothing but the roar of a delivery truck as it drove down the street outside. She was looking at my mouth, and suddenly she looked away. “God, I can’t stay here. Just tell Sam I’ll call him.”
    I reached out and put my hands on her hips as she tried to turn. “Isabel,” I said. One of my thumbs was on bare skin, right above the waist of her jeans. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”
    â€œJust chasing a high?” She attempted to turn again; I held on. I wasn’t holding tight enough to keep her, but she wasn’t pulling hard enough to get away, so we stayed as we were.
    â€œI wasn’t trying to get high. I was trying to become a wolf.”
    â€œWhatever. Semantics.” Isabel wouldn’t look at me now.
    Letting go of her, I stood up so that we were face-to-face. I’d learned a long time ago that one of the finest weapons in my arsenal was my ability to invade personal space. She turned to look at me and it was her eyes and my eyes and I felt a surging sensation of right ness, of saying the right thing at the right time to the right person, that too-rare sensation of having the right thing to say and believing it, too:
    â€œI’m only going to say this once, so you better believe me the first time. I’m looking for a cure.”

• SAM •
    She — Amy , I tried to think of her as Amy instead of as Grace’s mother — wrangled the door open and led me through a shady ante-room in a more muted purple than the front, and then into a startlingly bright main room full of canvases. The light was pouring in through the back wall of windows, which looked out onto a shabby lot with old tractors parked in it. If you ignored the view, the space itself was professional and classy — light gray walls, like a museum, with picture wires hanging from white molding along the ceiling. Paintings hung on the walls and leaned against the corners; some of them looked like they were still wet.
    â€œWater?” she asked.
    I stood in the middle of the room and tried not to touch anything. It took me a moment to put the word water in context: to drink, not to drown in.
    â€œI’m fine,” I told her.
    Before, when I’d seen Amy’s work, it had