by L. E. DeLano
“No promises,” he says, mashing my lips with his finger to shush me. “It’s okay, St. Clair. I don’t know where this is going, either. This is for sure fixing to be the craziest ride I’ve ever taken.”
“For sure,” I agree. “Anytime you want off, I totally understand.”
“You’re not getting rid of me that easy. Besides, I can’t go back to my country. You can’t imagine the living conditions.…”
I laugh, and he leans in to kiss me again. “See ya tomorrow.”
“See ya,” I say, and I turn to wave before I walk into my house. My brother is in the living room, and he doesn’t seem to hear me come through the door.
“Danny, where’s Mom?”
He doesn’t look away from the movie he’s watching, and he answers me around a mouthful of popcorn.
“She’s at the store. We don’t have Go-Gurts.”
“Okay, well … tell her I’m back when she comes home.”
He doesn’t answer me.
“Danny?”
“Uh-huh,” he replies, clearly engrossed in his movie. “She’s going to get the SpongeBob ones.”
“Okay, but let her know I’m home. I’ll be up in my room.”
He doesn’t answer me again, so I give up. She’ll figure it out eventually. I drop my sweaty leotard and tights off in the laundry room, pour myself a glass of iced tea, and plod up the stairs to my room, with Ben’s words playing over and over in my mind.
Maybe you need somebody to help you pick up the pieces, he’d said.
I had a whirlwind romance and it left me in pieces. I’m in too many pieces. And they’re scattered so badly, I don’t know that I can find them to even give them to Ben if I wanted to. But I recognize what it took for him to make the offer, especially after all I’ve put him through. He’s stuck by me, even though my life has taken a serious turn for the crazy.
I open the door to my bedroom, dropping my dance bag on the floor.
He’s still Ben, and he’s still here. The thought makes me feel … good. Better than I’ve felt in a long while. I’m moving forward, and that’s a good thing. Ben is a slow and peaceful river that flowed into my life, and I’m finally brave enough to take the plunge and see where it carries me. Peacefully.
I flip the light on, and a bare second later, that peace is shattered when reality slams into me like a freight train powered by two little words:
“Hello, love.”
11
Assigned
I am frozen in the doorway. I am finding it very, very hard to believe my eyes, but there is most definitely a pirate in front of me. He’s lounging on my bed as though he owns the place, one booted foot crossed over the other. His black shirt is tucked into his black leather pants, and his green eyes are staring at me just as intently as I’m staring at him.
Finally, I find my voice.
“How did you get in here?” I manage to choke out. I clench my fists and force myself to stay and not run, even though running is exactly what I want to do. I want to run and keep on running from him.
He swings his feet off the side of the bed, and he sets his elbows down on his knees.
“Your brother was kind enough to let me in,” Finn says. “That’s the easy answer.”
“There’s a harder answer?”
He takes in a breath. “Mario thought it was time.”
“Time for what?”
He’s not making any sense. If Mario wanted me to run into Finn again, he could have sent me to any one of hundreds of realities—even back to that train platform to finish what I’d started with that Jessa. Why send a Finn to find me?
Why send this Finn to find me?
“It’s time for you to have a protector close at hand,” he answers. “And I’m the man for the job.”
I look at him warily. “You’ve got your own Jessa to protect.”
The awful knowledge shows plainly on his face. He says nothing, but his jaw tightens and he looks away.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, reaching back behind me to close the door.
He’s still looking away, and I have a moment to study him, my eyes playing over every beloved feature, from the angular jaw to the line of his brow, the way his bottom lip is slightly fuller than the top, the way his dark hair falls to the right just so over those forest-green eyes. He’s got a slight scruff of a beard, unlike the Finn I lost, but still … that face is that face. Finn is Finn, or so he always assured me. And this Finn is still as captivating as ever—maybe more so with the rawness of my loss.
And his loss is no less painful. He wears it on his face, in his eyes, probably in his bones, like I do. I sit down beside him.
“How?” I ask.
His lips purse, as if he can’t form the words, and I feel bad for asking. Finally, he gets it out.
“The night of the ball, shortly after you and I said good-bye. You went into the ladies’ salon to get your corset laces adjusted, and someone knocked over a gas lamp near the door. It ignited the carpet and wallpaper. Twenty-three people perished in the blaze.”
My stomach flips at the realization of how close I came to dying without knowing it, and then flips again when I realize that I sent my other self to her death. If I hadn’t been so picky about that corset—if I hadn’t been the target of a deranged Traveler to begin with—his Jessa would be alive and well.
I bury my face in my hands. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“You couldn’t have known,” he says.
I shake my head. “I knew there was someone trying to kill me. I should have told you.”
“I knew it as well. Why do you think I was at the ball that night? I should have never let you out of my sight.”
“And I shouldn’t have even been there that night,” I say, pushing to my feet. I’m pacing, I’m so upset. “I should never have traveled. I wasn’t even on a job!”
“I knew that, too, love. You were there because I was irresistible.”
He gives me an attempt at a smile, but it still doesn’t hide the pain in his eyes. “And now Mario tells me that you’ve lost me, just as I’ve lost you. Perhaps it’s a good thing for us to find each other again.”
I pull my arms in across my body as if they’ll shield me somehow. “No. I don’t know what Mario was thinking. You shouldn’t be here. I’ve got enough going on—”
“Which is exactly why you need me,” he interrupts. “Rudy will surely make his move soon. He can’t hide forever.”
“He’s a Dreamer,” I remind him. “He can absolutely hide forever. He can wait until I’m dead and come after my descendants five generations from now.”
“Not when he feels things are already out of hand,” Finn points out. “He sees the convergence as the only way to control a universe of realities that have grown and expanded out of control—at least, that’s what Mario has told me.”
“How long have you been talking to him?” I ask. “Mario?”
“Since shortly after the night you perished,” he said. “I had to know which of you was gone—if you’d made your transfer before or after the fire. Rudy, as you know, was nowhere to be found, but a few nights later, Mario was waiting for me in the dreamscape. He told me what had happened with Rudy and let me know you’d made it back safely.”
“Eversor must have set up the gas lamp in your reality and then transferred through to plant the handbag your Jessa tripped over on the roof in my reality,” I say as I sit down next to him again. “She must’ve thought she was covering her bases, and that she’d end up getting me either way.”
“Eversor—that’s the Traveler?”
“She’s Rudy’s right hand. She killed … you. Here, I mean.”
“I’m sorry, love.”
His hand comes out to close over mine, and I am swamped with the warm familiarity of it to the point of feeling like I’m choking. I pull my hand away and rub my palms on my knees.
“Anyway, she’s surfaced again. And now she’s targeting people around me. So you�
�re better off steering clear.”
He grabs me by the shoulder. “Wait—you saw her? Here?”
“In New York City. We ran into each other.”
“That means she could be here,” he says, leaping to his feet and pacing. “She had to have followed you here. Think! Where would she hide?”
“I have no idea. And I’m certainly not going to go looking for her. Not until we know exactly what she’s planning to do.”
“She’s bloody well planning to kill you!” he fumes. “And all of us, if she gets around to it! What more do we need to know?”
“We need to know what she’s up to—and I’m working on that. She’s after someth—”
“What? What is she looking for?” he snaps.
I hold up a hand to shut him up. “I don’t know!”
“But you must have some idea? Any link to that is a link to her, and we can find her!”
“I know that!” I say, jumping to my feet to get him out of my face. “Don’t you think I know that? We’re working on it! And we don’t need you here making things difficult!”
“Difficult?” He’s good and offended now, and I couldn’t care less. “I’m supposed to be helping you—and at Mario’s request.”
“I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“I’m to continue your training,” he says. “Mario says your skills have grown stronger but still need some refining.”
“I don’t need you here!”
We stare at each other in the awful silence, and I realize my words have struck their mark. He’s looking at the ground, and a muscle in his jaw is ticking furiously.
“Look … I just—” I break off, shaking my head and biting down on my lip. I know what I want to say. What I want to shout, really. I take a deep breath and try again. “I can’t do this. I can’t … have you here.”
His eyes widen slightly. “You think this is any easier for me to bear? Seeing you?”
I tamp down on the little flutter that comes with his words. This is Finn, but he’s not my Finn. I can’t let him be.
“That’s just what I mean,” I say. “This isn’t good for either one of us. How does Mario expect us to do our jobs when we’re forced into a situation like this?”
He stands up in front of me. “D’you really think I was forced to come here?” he asks. “I’ve been trying to find you for weeks. Mario wouldn’t allow me to until he felt it was time. I think he finally realized I’d tear through the entire bloody universe if I had to in order to find you.”
There goes that flutter again, somewhere in the region of my belly. Whirlwind romances only tear you apart.…
“It’s not going to work—” I begin.
“Finding you means finding her! Eversor! And when I do, she will pay for what she’s done.”
“So that’s all this is to you? Vengeance?”
“And it’s not for you?” he snarls. “Or wasn’t I important enough over here?”
My open hand flies out and connects with his jaw, hard enough to turn his head.
“Get. Out,” I say furiously.
“I’m not going anywhere, love.”
“My room. My house. Get out!”
He stares at me and his eyes go from blazing to thoughtful. He reaches out, touching a strand of my hair in an entirely too familiar way.
“I suppose you need some time,” he says quietly. “I can’t give you much, but I’ll respect your need for it all the same.”
Why is my throat so tight? I manage a stilted good-bye, and then, with a nod, he’s out the door, down the stairs, and gone.
12
Under the Surface
I could tell I was in for it just by the way my mom was gnawing her lip. She always does that right before we’re about to have a heavy conversation. Like I need this on top of everything else. I sit down at the dinner table and wait for it.
“Jessa…,” she starts, and she slides the bowl of broccoli across the table to me before she reaches for the rice that Danny just finished helping himself to.
“What’s up?” I say lightly.
“Danny told me your friend Flynn is back?”
“Finn,” I correct her, and then I glare at Danny. “And yeah, he’s back.”
“Well…?” She gives me a very pointed look.
“Well what?” I really don’t have the patience for this.
I start stuffing chicken into my mouth, determined to get through this dinner as quickly as possible. I swear, this is a setup. Mom suddenly decided a few weeks ago that we should have more sit-down family dinners instead of eating in the living room, and now two nights a week I’m part of a captive audience. I think she was secretly hoping something would come up so she could give me the third degree over it.
“Mom says Finn is a criminal,” Danny blurts out. “Did he rob a bank?”
“What? Mom!”
My mother gives Danny a glare of her own. “Danny, I said no such thing. I said that Finn had been involved with a criminal.”
“He wasn’t involved with a criminal,” I say through gritted teeth. “He left for another reason.”
“Did he say why? Because the school seemed to have no idea why he dropped out. And the police were unable to find or contact his parents.”
“He’s eighteen, Mom,” I remind her. “The police dropped the case. Why can’t you?”
“Because he’s visiting my daughter,” she says stonily.
“He just wanted to say hi,” I mumble. “And no one could find his parents because there was a family emergency, all right? He had to leave, and now he’s back. Despite what everyone thinks, there’s nothing more to the story than that.”
She looks like she wants to say more, but instead she’s cutting her chicken into minuscule bite-size pieces with a thoroughness that borders on manic. Danny is dipping his broccoli into a big glob of ketchup.
“Is that why he’s changed?” Danny asks. “’Cause of the emergency?”
I look at him warily, and once again I’m flummoxed by the way he seems to see right through the Traveler thing.
“He’s just had some different experiences.” My eyes dart to my mother, who’s still cutting chicken. “Since he’s been gone, I mean.”
“So is he back for good?” Mom looks up from her chicken, and she’s clearly not happy with this thought.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Things at home for him are … sort of unstable.”
Mom’s eyes show her concern. “Is everything okay? Does he need help? Police intervention?”
“No, it’s not like that. It’s just that things are kind of up in the air for him, and they may be for a while. He only came by to say hi.”
I shovel in the last mouthful of my chicken, wash it down with a gulp of iced tea, and then stand up.
“May I be excused? I have homework to work on.”
Mom eyes me for a moment before she sighs. “Go ahead.”
I run for my room and hesitate in the doorway after I switch the light on. It’s empty. I close the door and then sink down onto the bed. My brain is in such a state of turmoil right now, it’s hard to think. I yank my messenger bag up from the floor, getting out the snow globe I bought for Danny so I can wrap it later and setting it aside, and my fingers brush the edge of my journal. I pull it out, laying it on the bed in front of me, and I just stare at it.
My fingers itch to slide the pen from where it’s clipped to the cover, open it up to a crisp, white page, and work out everything that’s inside me with swirls of ink across the paper, but I still can’t do it. I don’t think I can, anyway.
I open it up to the angsty poem the other me wrote, and I can’t help the half smile that touches my lips as I read it again. I mean, it’s not all bad. If she reworked it, took out some of the drama, and fleshed out the ideas behind what she was really trying to say, maybe it could be salvaged.
The fact is, I have another creative writing assignment due, and I’ve got to put something down on paper. I’ve held my own for weeks by tur
ning in old stories and poems I wrote back in middle school, but I’ve run out of stuff. I have to turn in my piece by Monday on the theme “Beginnings,” for the January issue of The Articulator, which is stupid because come January, I won’t be in creative writing anymore.
I feel a weird pang at that thought, but I know it’s for the best. I’ve lost it. Whatever it was that made me write—drove me to write—it’s gone now.
Maybe I could turn the poem in and title it “The Inner Turmoil.” Our new teacher, Miss Hawthorne, would probably eat it right up. She’s fresh out of college and used to work as a sub until she had to stand in for Ms. Eversor. She has a degree in political science and has no idea what she’s doing, so she thinks everything anyone does is “just great.”
And it’s not really cheating to turn this in. I wrote it, didn’t I?
I pull my laptop out of my bag so I can transcribe the poem, but a tap at the door interrupts me.
“Jessa?”
Ugh. What does she want now?
“What?”
“I’ve got your laundry.”
“Okay,” I call out. “Come on in.”
Mom opens the door, balancing the laundry basket against her hip, and then she walks over to set it down on the bed.
“I don’t know what you got on the bottom of this shirt,” she says, handing me my stack from the basket. “Looks like mustard?”
“Yeah.” I take the stack and pull the shirt off the top to look at it. “Ben dropped his pretzel on me.”
“How was the trip?” she asks. “You didn’t tell me about it.”
“Nothing much to tell. Spoke some Spanish, saw some dinosaur bones.…” I shrug, and then I pick up the snow globe. “Check out Danny’s present.”
Mom takes it from my hand and gives it a shake. “Oh, he’ll love this.”
“I hope so. It cost me enough.”
She sits down on the bed next to me and holds the globe out for me to take.
“Hey,” she says. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. I’m not trying to talk bad about—”
“Don’t call him Flynn,” I interrupt, holding up a finger.