Anastasia Forever Read Free Page B

just the right bit of low on his hips and a white polo shirt and sandals. His hair is a little shorter than it used to be, but the bangs, even when they sort of part in the middle, still fringe his eyes. It still looks good on him.
    I try not to hyper-focus on the fact that Ethan had probably been to Wrigley before there were night games. These are the kind of moments that most girls don’t have to deal with. Girls whose boyfriends—yes, I guess that’s what he is now—weren’t immortal for like a hundred years and now aren’t. Girls who aren’t me.
    â€œI like night games,” I say. “But sometimes my father would let us cut school for a day game. That was always the best.” I don’t add that he stopped doing that after my brother died. Or that since last fall, we haven’t done much of anything as a family except deal with the fallout of my crazy life—something that Mom and I still haven’t found the right time to fully explain to my father. He still thinks the jewelry store where Mom works was hit by another unfortunate freak lightning storm. Or possibly a gas-line explosion.
    I push these thoughts aside. It’s a gorgeous day. We’re at a Cubs game. I’m wearing a new pair of khaki shorts and a gauzy, slightly sheer pink short-sleeved top with a pink lacy bra underneath that shows just the right amount. Other than the potential that the Cubs will lose this last game of the series to the Phillies, there will be no gloom-and-doom pondering today. No supernatural wackiness allowed.
    â€œHey,” says Ethan. “I thought we were sharing.” He snatches the peanut bag, then drapes his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. The clean scent of Ethan’s soap mingles with the smells of the peanuts and beer from the guys behind us, who are on their third round already, and the hot dogs that the kids in front of us are shoving into their mouths. Baseball makes me happy.
    I let Ethan kiss me even though I’m not big on public displays of affection. Our lips are salty from the peanuts. He nuzzles the side of my neck and traces his fingers down my bare leg, rubbing his thumb just under the bend of my knee. I shiver pleasantly. Kissing is something that Ethan does very, very well.
    â€œYou taste like peanuts,” he says into my ear. The feel of his mouth makes my stomach tighten and sends tingles to every part of my body. God, I love baseball.
    Ethan kisses me again, and I forget about the peanuts. His lips graze lightly against mine and the feathery feel of his mouth on mine sets off sparklers low in my belly.
    When the world begins to dip and shift and bend, at first I think it’s the kissing. Damn, I think. This is one spectacular kiss.
    â€œAnne,” Ethan says. It takes me a few seconds to register the alarm in his voice. Has something happened to the peanuts? Has he had some kind of mystical premonition that the Cubs are actually going to pull this out and win?
    The plastic sack tips off his lap. Peanuts tumble out, bouncing on the concrete and falling under the seats of the hot-dog-eating kids in front of us. The sounds of the ballpark stretch out as if in slow motion—like how a siren wail changes as the ambulance streaks by. Everything contracts. Like paper cranes, I think suddenly. Our world is folding like we’re pieces of origami art.
    â€œHold on.” Ethan grips my shoulders, and I feel the hard pressure of the chair arm against my belly as he clutches at me. The world tilts again. Wind roars in my ears.
    â€œEthan.” The word draws itself out for long seconds, then seems to catch on the wind and disappear. My stomach dips. Nausea rises in my throat. So much for baseball. You suck, baseball. Just like the Cubs.
    Above us—I think it’s above us—I hear an all-too-familiar howl. Are you kidding me?
    â€œGuess she’s a White Sox fan,” I say. I think it’s a pretty clever comment,