“Grace, no!”
I clench my hands together so tightly that my nails almost draw blood.
“Grace, stop!”
The voice is too deep, too close. Too real. And that’s what makes me spin. As I do, the rocks beneath my feet shift. I’ve ventured too close to the edge and I can feel the ground beneath me giving way, crumbling, and soon I, too, am falling. The wind rushes up to greet me, and for one split second, I am free.
But then a hand reaches me. It grasps my arm and I’m jerked back. Instead of stone, I slam against a hard, broad chest, and then we topple to the ground. Arms come up to hold me, squeezing me so tightly I can’t fight. I am frozen. Trapped. Then the boy beneath me rolls, forcing my back to the ground as he looms overhead, making certain there is no place left for me to fall.
I don’t understand what Noah says next, but I’m pretty sure it’s in Portuguese and probably vulgar. He’s breathing so hard and we’re so close that I can actually feel his chest rise and fall. Even though we’re lying on the ground, it’s like he’s run a marathon — like he’s still running. Chasing after me.
He curses again and then spits out, “What were you doing, Grace? What were you thinking?”
He isn’t angry, I can tell. He’s terrified. Even after he leans back and lets me go, his hands are still shaking.
“You told me you’d never jump off of here again. You promised!”
“I wasn’t jumping,” I say — but Noah doesn’t believe me. He wants to, but he can’t.
It’s not his fault that he’s not stupid.
I try again. “I wasn’t going to jump, Noah. I swear.”
When he leans toward me, I can’t help myself; I scoot away.
“You’re lying,” he says.
“No. I’m not. I just come up here sometimes. To think.”
“To think about what? Jumping?”
“No!” I stand, and the wind blows in my face again. There are no more traces of smoke. The air is salty and brisk, slapping me awake. Still, it’s almost like a dream when I say, “My mom, okay? Sometimes I come up here and think about my mom.”
“Oh.” Noah eases back.
“What are you doing here, Noah?” I ask, suddenly worried that maybe Dominic isn’t the only person who has been watching my every move. Maybe I’ve just been too sloppy to notice.
“What am I doing here?” Noah throws his hands out wide then rests his elbows on his bent knees. “Well, I haven’t seen you in a week. You are my best friend. And sometimes I like to check and make sure my friends aren’t dead. There. Did I cover it all? I think I got it all.”
It sounds good, but I’m not buying it, so I ask again, “What are you doing here?”
Noah pushes to his feet and hastily brushes the dust off of his khaki shorts and dark T-shirt.
“What am I doing here?” he snaps. “What do you think I’m doing? I followed you! I saw you running down the street like a madwoman, so I followed you, because …”
He trails off, unwilling or unable to go on, so I finish for him.
“I’m a madwoman.”
“Because I was worried about you, okay?” Noah looks at the sea then back to where I stand, dusty and wind-blown. My arms and legs are scratched and probably bleeding. “Can you blame me?” he asks.
I can’t, but I don’t dare say so.
“I’m not going to leave, you know,” Noah says when my silence is too much. “You can’t run me off. It’s too late for that. We’ve done international espionage together. We’re bonded for life.”
I laugh in spite of myself, because even though Noah can’t make me happy, every now and then he makes me forget to be sad. And sometimes I try to tell myself that it’s enough.
Then he looks at me again, joking aside. “What is up with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Where were you? What made you so upset?”
I want to tell him — I really do. Noah is good and kind and safe — a diary in human form — and I want to pour out all of my secrets. But they’re secrets for a reason, and Noah can never, ever know. Not about Lila or the Society or the Scarred Man or me. Especially me. It’s taken sixteen years for me to find a best friend; I can’t risk losing him now.
“Nothing, Noah. I’m fine. Really.”
I turn from the cliffs and start toward the rough path that leads to the street below. But before I get far, Noah reaches out and grabs my hand. As he spins me toward him, he is heartbreakingly serious.
“Just don’t jump, Grace. Okay? Please don’t jump.”
“Yeah. Okay,” I say, and move again toward the path, but Noah keeps my hand too tight in his own and pulls me closer.
“I mean it. Don’t get yourself … hurt. Okay?”
I’ve only lived on Embassy Row for a few weeks, and already Noah knows this about me — that I’m reckless, that I’m dangerous. That I can never be trusted. And that’s the problem.