Melissa Marr - Made For You

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Contemporary, racy thriller packed with chilling twists, unrequited obsession and high-stakes. From New York Times bestselling author Melissa Marr.Eva Tilling wakes up in the hospital to discover an attempt has been made on her life. But who in her sleepy town could have hit her with their car? And why? Before she can consider the question, she finds that she's awoken with a strange new skill: the ability to foresee people's deaths when they touch her.While she is recovering from the hit-and-run, Nate, an old friend, reappears, and the two must traverse their rocky past as they figure out how to use Eva's power to keep her friends -and themselves – alive. But the killer is obsessed and will stop at nothing to get to Eva…

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Reid doesn’t even pretend he’s interested in dating. As he so bluntly put it late one night after everyone had either passed out, left, or retreated behind closed doors, “My grandmother would have to mainline Xanax before she’d allow me to date a non -Southern girl … especially an Asian one.” I couldn’t decide whether to give him points for honesty or slap him for being an imbecile.

Mr. Ellsworth walks into the room, so I go to my seat. Listening to him drone on about the exam schedule is almost soothing. I don’t understand a lot of Eva’s friends or her boyfriend. Half the school seems desperate to let me know that they care about Eva—whether or not they do, I can’t honestly say—but her actual boyfriend seems just as determined to be clear that he isn’t going to worry about her. Part of me wants to stop and ask Reid to explain. He’s been friends with them since birth so he must have some sort of insight.

Understanding Robert’s idiocy won’t fix it though, so I settle for hoping that this is the thing that will convince Eva to end things with him. If not, I may end up going native and spouting things like “cad” and “reprobate.” If common sense won’t make her see that he’s a jerk, maybe some Jessup-isms will get it done.

DAY 6: “THE SURPRISE”

Eva

MY ROOM IS GETTING dangerously close to smelling like a perfume shop. Apparently my no-visitors lie was interpreted as an invitation to send arrangements. A few flowers are nice, but after a dozen or so bouquets the scent is nauseating. I blame the smell for giving me a headache and have the nurses give away all of them—except the orchids my parents sent. They called late last night—apparently after all these years they still can’t master time-zone math. They think they can finally get a flight out, so I guess they’ll be here soon—and I’ll go home. I guess it’s good. I’m already feeling caged.

I’m off the antiseizure drug, but I’m still on the muscle relaxer. I can even have narcotics too now that my brain seems okay. The doctors and nurses focus on my brain, my leg, and nerve damage. They tell me how lucky I am that I haven’t lost any sensation in my face. They tell me how fortunate I am to be awake and seemingly not experiencing any mental degradation. They’re right. I still asked them to hang a towel covering the mirror in the bathroom. The scars horrify me.

Robert still hasn’t visited. He should know that I don’t include him in my no-visitors request; Grace knew it didn’t apply to her. Robert hasn’t even asked to see me. Of course, I haven’t asked him to visit either. I’m afraid of what he’ll think. Although neither Grace nor my grandfather looked at me like I’m ugly, I’m not sure I want to see what Robert’s expression is when he sees my face. Status matters to Robert. He has only dated girls who are pretty and from what his mother calls “the right families.” My last name alone wasn’t reason enough for him; it would be for her, but he’s told me frequently that he likes the way I look. Maybe he’s hoping that if he waits, I’ll be prettier. I don’t want to tell him how wrong he is.

I realize, however, that it doesn’t make sense to flinch away from the nurses or the doctors when they do their rounds. They aren’t flinching away from me. Living in the hospital means having someone come into my room to poke, prod, or check on me every couple of hours all day and all night. They’re mostly nice people, trying to be quiet when I’m napping and not staring at the mess that’s now my face. I suspect it’s easier for them because they’ve seen worse—at least I hope they have.

It makes me feel like a lousy person for thinking that, and if my father heard me, there would be a lecture on “counting my blessings.”

I hate thinking about all of this, but there’s not a whole lot else to do in the hospital. I read. I watch television. I text Grace, Robert, Piper, CeCe, and a few other people. It’s lonely, but I can’t deal with most of them seeing me yet.

I don’t even want to see me yet.

My nurse today, Kelli, is cool. She was here yesterday, too. She’s the youngest nurse I’ve had, only a few years older than me, but she’s not so old that she has that parent-vibe.

“How about a change of scenery?” Kelli busies herself opening the curtains, letting bright light pour into the room. “You could get the grand tour of Peds.”

They aren’t letting me walk yet because of the traumatic brain injury, but I don’t want to walk either, so it works out just fine. “No thanks,” I say.

“You’re moping. It won’t help to hide away in a dark room.” Kelli levels a look at me that would do Grace proud. It’s the keen gaze of someone who isn’t going to accept my excuses or whining. I’m torn between smiling at it and wishing the day nurse was the one from two days ago. She didn’t care that I was wallowing.

“Be right back.” Kelli leaves, and when she returns, she’s pushing a wheelchair. “There’s a great view down in the lounge.”

“Maybe later,” I hedge.

Kelli crosses her arms over her chest and looks at me. “You’re one of three patients I have right now, and I just checked on them. Now’s a good time.”

“Fine. Give me the grand tour.”

I reach out to grab her arm, and she helps me as I turn my body ninety degrees on the bed so I can get down. Then, she steadies me as I lower my good leg to the floor. It takes longer than I think it should every time I do this, but at least I’m getting out of bed.

After Kelli helps me into the chair and hangs my IV bag on the pole, she quietly hands me a tissue. “Do you want something for the pain?”

“Nope.” It hurts more than I expected, but I’d rather hurt than feel like puking. The muscle relaxers already make me queasy, and I’m trying to avoid as much of the pain meds as I can. I dislike the oxycodone they added on what they call “PRN” dose, which, I learned, just means “take as needed.” As far as I’m concerned, it’s not needed at all. I tried it, but it made me feel fuzzy-brained. Even without it my tongue feels fat, and my brain feels slow.

Kelli hands me the lap blanket Mrs. Yeung brought me. It’s something she made herself, and I can tell that it’s one of her more recent attempts. The stitches in this one are more even than the others I’ve seen. After I cover my cast and my bare leg with the puce and lime blanket, Kelli wheels me out of the room. It feels a little strange to be in public wearing a blanket, pajamas, and a robe, but it’s either this or have someone bring me a skirt because jeans won’t go over my cast, and even if they did, balancing on one foot to unhook jeans when I need to use the bathroom sounds like a bad idea. So, a nightgown it is.

The floor is flooded by natural light because of skylights and large windows, and the walls are decorated with photographs of nature. Huge potted plants—that I think are probably fake—add to the overall sense that the designers were trying to bring a little of the world outside into the hospital. The common area has chairs and game stations, racks of books, and a few tables. It’s as inviting as it could be considering where we are.

“This is the playroom,” Kelli says as she points to the left. “Over here is the Teen Zone.”

I snort. I don’t mean to, but I do. Then I quickly say, “Sorry.”

“I didn’t name it.” She sounds unoffended, almost happy.

We’re quiet as she pushes me through the hallway. Most of the patients’ doors are closed. A few rooms are vacant, and a few have doors wide open with families visible inside. I try not to stare. I wouldn’t want strangers invading my privacy. There are a few different types of cribs, and I guess that means that there are different ages of babies in them. That makes me feel sadder. It sucks to be in the hospital, but at least I’m old enough to ask questions and make some sense of everything. Babies can’t do that.

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