But whenever Annabeth talked about the time she’d spent with them, I kind of felt…I don’t know. Uncomfortable? No. That’s not the word. The word was jealous.
I mean, she looked good. Really good. I probably would’ve been tongue-tied if I could’ve said anything except reet, reet, reet. But there was also something totally wrong about it. It just wasn’t Annabeth.
Before I could figure out how to apologize for being such an idiot, she tackled me with a hug, then pulled away just as quickly. “I’m glad you’re not a guinea pig.” “Me, too.” I hoped my face wasn’t as red as it felt.
“Don’t untie me,” she said, “no matter what happens or how much I plead. I’ll want to go straight over the edge and drown myself.” “Are you trying to tempt me?” “Ha-ha.”
And you start thinking the way Luke does: ‘If I could tear this all down, I would do it better.’ Don’t you ever feel that way? Like you could do a better job if you ran the world?”
A minute later Annabeth hit a slippery patch of moss and her foot slipped. Fortunately, she found something else to put it against. Unfortunately, that something was my face.
I just propped up Annabeth so she wouldn’t fall off, covered her in the Golden Fleece that we’d been through so much to get, and said a silent prayer of thanks. Which reminded me…I still owed the gods a debt. “You’re a genius,” I told Annabeth quietly.