The Healing (The Things We Can't Change Book 3) by Kassandra Kush

being able to get myself over the stupid, irrational fear that touching him will bring about harm. I can’t beat it, and every time I go out into public, feel that accidental brush or am unable to step away before someone hugs me or takes my hand, they all realize how crazy I am when I jerk away so violently.
    Zeke had seemed to understand the frozen look in my eyes immediately, and he had pushed Koby’s hand down and given him a look that clearly said, leave it be . I had to give Koby credit again—he’d taken one step back, given a smile that wasn’t forced, and smoothly recovered, asking me if driving with Zeke scared me as much as it did him, especially in the rain.
    I’d actually laughed, surprising even myself, because even though I’d been a sobbing, angry wreck in the car, there had been a moment or two when he’d taken a corner so fast I’d been pulled from my problems into concern for my life. Zeke had punched his friend in the arm and dragged him away, but not before looking at me over his shoulder, checking to see if I would be all right left alone. I gave him a quick nod, because I was fine—for now.
    Zeke is fascinating to watch in conversation; his face is so expressive, and I wish I had his talent for drawing so I could capture his different expressions. His eyes light up when someone brings up a topic he’s familiar with, and he talks with his hands a lot, jokes a lot. This is a… brighter Zeke than any of the others I’ve encountered, and I’m not sure if it’s part of the real him, or just yet another persona that he is able to slip on and off, easy as a glove.
    And then I realize with complete shock, so much so that I sit straight up in my chair, that Zeke and I have that in common. I remember that feeling all too well—different Evies for different situations, different groups of people. There was the happy, easy me around my dad, the one in which I felt most comfortable. The prim and proper me around Clarissa, at the country club, the one with slight disdain for times with my so-called friends. The one who was more relaxed but had to keep so many secrets around Jenny, and the scared, terrified girlfriend I was around Tony, relying desperately on any and all tricks I had developed over the years to try and keep him not under control, but controlled .
    I watch Zeke, trying to figure out if maybe he is as lost as I am about who he really is, which persona he adopts is closest to the truth. I remember thinking, not too long ago, that Cindy’s death and Tony’s accident should have brought us closer together, but only sprang us farther apart. If those two incidents didn’t bring us closer, then the death of my father should have. But we still went on, blindly ignoring each other, even though we are so sensitive to each other’s pain—whether we want it or not.
    I feel safe around Zeke, as safe as I did around my dad, and I know that means something. I’m just not sure what. I just know I hate what I’ve become, am filled with self-loathing for what I do to myself and how I’ve handled everything, and yet I feel helpless to get myself out of it on my own, but I have no one else. I can’t help but wonder if Zeke feels this way too, disgusted with himself, wanting to move on but seemingly stuck where he is forever, or if he’s completely satisfied with himself right where he is, not really living, not exactly dying, just… existing.
    I want to change. I just don’t know how. But the more time I spend with him, the more I watch him, sitting here, the more I think Zeke is the key to getting better. The catalyst for improving, for healing.
    The problem is convincing him of that.
    “Look what the cat dragged in. Slumming with us menial minimum-wagers, Miz Parker?”
    The cold, sarcastic voice drags me from my thoughts, which I now realize I had sunk into so deeply my eyes weren’t even watching the room anymore. A girl has appeared before me, a tall girl with shoulder-length blonde hair