by L. E. DeLano
“All of us?” Ben asks carefully.
I don’t even bother looking at Finn because I know just what look he has on his face.
“Come on.” I stomp to the door and out.
In the last hour I’ve been terrified, pissed off, flooded with heart-wrenching sentiments, and right back to pissed off again. I could hop through a dozen mirrors to a dozen different lives and not feel as exhausted as I feel just bouncing between three different emotions. How the hell did I end up in this roller coaster of a life?
I don’t have time to feel sorry for myself, because Danny is running up to hug me, and he pulls me along toward the door, telling me all about the recital—which probably seems odd to passersby, but as usual, Danny knows I wasn’t myself today.
We get to the car and my mother gives me a wide-eyed look as she sees Finn and Ben standing behind me, pointedly ignoring each other.
“Want a ride to the ice cream place?” Ben asks.
Danny unwinds his arm from around my shoulders, and says, “Sure I do, Ben!”
Ben manages to paste on a smile and awkwardly tells me they’ll meet us over there. Finn looks a little too smug as they walk off, and I swear to God, I’m ready to smack him again. I slide into the passenger seat next to my mom and slam the door as he gets in behind us.
Mom gives me another worried glance, but she’s wise enough to stay the hell out of it. The ride to the ice cream place is mercifully short, and then we all spend the next twenty minutes making awkward, stilted small talk—all except Danny, of course, who’s blissfully oblivious to the two pillars of simmering testosterone at the table. My mother’s eyebrows are going to become a permanent part of her hairline if we don’t get out of here soon.
Ben finally decides he’s had enough and pushes his chair back from the table.
“Leaving so soon?” Finn asks.
Ben gives him a narrow-eyed look and asks me to walk him to his truck. He scoops up my flowers from where I laid them on the table, holding them out to me once again.
“You were amazing today,” he says as we walk out to the parking lot.
“It wasn’t me,” I remind him.
“I’m not talking about the dancing. I saw you with your mom. You did a really nice thing.”
I take the flowers, and I bury my nose in them. “Thanks again for coming. And I’m sorry about today. I should have warned you.”
“Yeah, well … I guess you had enough to worry about, with Eversor showing up again.” He smacks his forehead. “Speaking of which—I did some research on that theft in Mexico—at the museum.”
“Was it her?”
“It was a woman who matches the description—and she got away. I didn’t get to dig much deeper yet, but I’m fixing to go home and put my head into it.”
“Thanks, Ben. I really appreciate your help. Let me know if you find out what she was after—and how it ties in with New York.”
He glances through the windows into the dining room to where Finn is sitting. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow when Captain Reflecto isn’t around.”
“Captain Reflecto? That’s the best you could come up with?”
“I’m not at the top of my game,” he grumbles.
“We need to keep him in the loop. He’s working on this, too, Ben. Like it or not.”
“How about not?” He sighs and reaches out and takes my free hand. “Sorry. I’m being a jerk. This can’t be easy for you, either.”
“You’re not a jerk.” I bat the tip of his nose with my flowers and a smile lights his eyes—and then slowly fades into a look of annoyance. I don’t have to guess who just walked up behind me.
“Time to go, love,” Finn prompts. The endearment makes me grit my teeth.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I say over my shoulder, without really looking at him. I hold my breath until I hear him walk away. “Sorry,” I say to Ben.
Ben takes a calming breath of his own and forces the smile back to his face. “We’ll talk tomorrow,” he says. “Hey, that new sci-fi movie is out. The one with the exploding space eggs. The theater runs a five-dollar movie at five tomorrow. You in?”
“You had me at exploding space eggs,” I answer. And before I can get another word out, Ben leans in and kisses me, right in front of the world. And Finn. I give my flowers a self-conscious shake as we pull apart, making sure they didn’t get crushed or bent.
“Later, St. Clair,” he says, climbing into his truck with a satisfied grin.
Finn says not one word to me as I walk over to the car. I toy with the idea of telling him to get lost, but I can’t. Even though I’m pissed at him, I still worry that Eversor isn’t done for the day.
I open the back door and climb in, then he flounces down into the seat next to me, crossing his arms over his chest. Danny turns around from the front seat to address the situation.
“Is Finn mad ’cause you kicked yourself in the face?” he asks me.
17
Beginnings
“Just how long are you going to ignore me?” Finn asks, steepling his fingers together and looking at me from across the table.
It’s Sunday after dinner. Danny’s in the other room playing on his Xbox, Mom has a late shift at the drugstore because Christmas is only a couple of weeks away, and I have an assignment due tomorrow that I can’t seem to finish because I’m being irritated by a pirate.
“I’m trying to work,” I say, forcing my eyes back to the blank paper in front of me.
I can hear him sigh.
“Jessa, I apologize.”
I don’t look up from my paper. “For what, exactly?”
“I had no idea your friend would be in such a snit over the sight of me.”
I put my pen down and look at him. “Is that what you think this is about? And Ben wasn’t in a snit. Nobody uses that word here. It’s archaic.”
“Oh, but they use words like archaic, do they?” he snaps back. “And how was I to know he’d behave that way?”
“I told you to stay home—or at least out of sight!”
“Perhaps it slipped my mind as I was injured and nearly killed by a maniac in a motorized conveyance! You didn’t ask me how I’m feeling now, by the way,” he points out.
“I’ve been too distracted by a sulking pirate!”
Now he looks really offended. “What I do is perfectly within the bounds of the law.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I suppose I do,” he says grimly. “It seems to boil down to the fact that I’m not him. Not your Finn.”
I shake my head. “That’s not the issue here.”
“Isn’t it?” His eyes are blazing with anger. “You think my way of making a living is beneath you? I’ll never live up to his sainted memory because I’m just not him.”
“That’s not fair! I’m not her, either!”
“Yes, you are! You’re a part of her, you’ve lived in her skin!”
“So what?” I demand. “You want me to be some kind of replacement?”
“Why are you fighting?” Danny asks, appearing in the doorway. “You shouldn’t be fighting.”
Finn takes a deep breath and sits back in his chair. I pin a smile on and look up at Danny.
“We’re just discussing something,” I explain.
“No, you were fighting,” he says. “And you’re going to get in trouble for fighting, Jessa Emeline St. Clair.”
I groan inwardly at the use of the dreaded triple name. “We’re fine, Danny. Everything’s okay.”
“You should both say sorry,” he says, “when you fight.”
“He’s absolutely right … Emeline,” Finn says. I look over at him with serious irritation that only gets worse when I see his smile.
“You can go back to playing Xbox,” I say to Danny. “We won’t be shouting anymore.”
“I certainly won’t be,” Finn says.
Danny shrugs and returns to his game, and I pull my notebook closer and give Finn a disgruntled look.
&n
bsp; “If you don’t mind,” I say stiffly, “I need to finish this.”
“By all means,” he says a bit too formally.
“Fine.”
“Fine, then. Damn.” He swears softly under his breath and he rubs his hand across the back of his neck. “Jessa, I’d like to apologize for both my careless words and my anger at you earlier. I know you couldn’t have seen the way our outing would play out. I was just bloody furious that she came so close, only to dance away unscathed.”
“I understand the anger,” I say. “I feel it, too. But I’m not going to apologize for taking care of an injured friend.”
“And you consider me a friend?”
I let that hang there a minute. “I guess.”
“Jessa—I need to know. You and Hastings. Are you…?”
I raise my brows and give him a pointed look. “Am I…?”
“Bloody hell, you know what I’m asking.”
“Would it matter to you if I say yes?”
“Is that a yes?”
“I don’t see how my life in this reality is any of your business.”
“Not my business?” he splutters. “I only tore through the universe to get to you!”
“And now you’re tearing into someone I care about!” I fume. “And for your information, he’s working with us now. He was with me when I lost … when the other you died,” I get out. “So he knows. And he’s an absolute wiz when it comes to history.”
“A wiz? Does that have a different meaning over here?”
“Oh for … it can also mean someone’s very good at something,” I explain. “Ben’s dad is a history professor, and he’s really well-informed on the subject. Ben also loves a good mystery. If anyone can track down what Eversor is looking for, he can.”
“All right, all right,” he says, holding up a hand in surrender. “If you say we need him, I’ll defer to your judgment.”
“Good,” I say, picking up my pen again. “Then it’s settled.”
“You didn’t answer my question about Ben.” His eyes are searching mine, and I fight the urge to squirm. I make myself hold his gaze.
“We’re trying it out,” I finally say. “He’s been there for me. I trust him. And he makes me laugh.”
“Well, there’s a ringing endorsement.”
“It is, actually.”
“Very well, then,” he says quietly. “I’ll do my best to work with him in a civil fashion. He can do the research while I watch your back.”
“Watch it from the other room,” I say, gesturing with my pen. “I need to get this done.”
“Perhaps I can look through this,” he says, reaching over to the end of the table and pulling our local newspaper toward him. “The Hudson River Round-up,” he reads. “Sounds riveting.”
“All twelve pages of it,” I snark. “You’re not going to find any breaking news about psychopathic Travelers in there.”
He leans back, shaking the paper open and laying it on the table in front of him. “It’ll give me a feel for the area,” he says. “This is a charming little town.”
“You think?” I crinkle my nose at him.
“It’s easy to long for unseen shores, but home can hold its beauty in the simplest of things.”
I blink at him slowly. “Do you rehearse this stuff? I swear, nobody talks like you.”
He gives me a cheeky grin. “Saw it embroidered on a sampler once. Still true, though.”
I return to my work. The minutes roll by and I’m doing my best to stay focused, but I find myself looking up entirely too often. Worse, I’m meeting his eyes when I do it most of the time. I force myself to look back down.
I’m staring at the paper, and this is hopeless. I’ve tried to rework that crummy poem four different times, and it’s just not falling into place. Poetry has never been my thing, but still, I should be able to write something.
I’m not a writer. Not anymore.
I let out a huff of air and shove my face into my hands.
“Problem?”
“Yeah. I think I broke my brain.”
“I have no doubt your brain is as sharp as ever. Which area of study is this for?” he asks, gesturing at my paper.
“Creative writing. I have to write something about beginnings.”
“Perhaps I can help?”
I shake my head. “I don’t see how. Unless you want to write it for me.”
He smiles slightly. “No, that’s your forte. I’m the one with all the stories. I’ve been traveling—both on sea and otherwise—for quite a long time, you know.”
“I wrote? I mean … she wrote?”
“She kept a journal, as do most young ladies of her station. I always felt she had a gift for words.”
“Really?” I don’t know why, but I’m pleased by that.
“Perhaps you could write something of your other lives. It seems to me you have a circumstance a writer would envy, being able to see yourself in so many ways.”
You have something that any writer would kill to have, my Finn told me once. Unlimited worlds to explore.… Before I met him, that’s all I did—I wrote about my other lives. Of course, I had no idea I was writing the truth back then—I thought they were all remnants of my dreams.
“That’s a good idea,” I say begrudgingly. “Thanks.”
“I’m not entirely useless, love.”
“I never said you were.”
A pause hangs between us before he gives me an encouraging nod. “Back to work,” he says as he gets out of his chair to refill his mug of tea.
I look down at my notebook and let my mind drift, sifting through memories, both here and elsewhere.
I touch my pen to the paper and write the word She.
I live so many lives, have access to so many memories while I’m in those lives. Surely there must be something.
A dancer. A deaf girl. Living in a crime zone, and in glittering opulence. Facing the actuaries. Swimming with talking dolphins.…
That memory brings me back to a cozy little restaurant on a dock, strange green bread, and Finn—my Finn—warm and alive as we talk about how the smallest of actions can ripple into the largest outcomes.
We are what we are, and who we are. Infinite Jessas and infinite Finns, just stumbling our way through so many of our lives, and doing the best we can. Maybe we’re more resilient than most, he’d said.
I think of Finn as he is to me now, kicking down doors between realities until Mario gave in and let him through. I know they’re different, but very much the same in the things that make them who they are. Or were.
My pen touches the paper again, striking a line through the s in She, changing it to He. And for the first time in what feels like a very long time, I fill myself up with the memories my Finn once shared with me.
I can’t tell my stories so well right now—but maybe, maybe I can tell his.
My pen begins moving against the paper, slowly at first and then with more determination as the words begin to flow.
He was born in a time of growing darkness. A time of cold dirt and fallen logs, lifeless seas and empty skies. Each day was just like the last, waking in fear at every stray sound, finding a safe place, just for now (because safe places never stayed safe—this he’d learned long ago), and if he was lucky, something to put in his stomach.
He was walking that day to nowhere in particular. Each place was always like the last, picked over, scattered, broken glass and the same bland smell of a town or a house full of nothing to sustain him. He’d woken from a dream that morning, vivid and full of warm sun on his back, the sound of water rushing by.
And her face. He didn’t know her—surely she was a construct of his dreams to keep the loneliness at bay—but she was so much a part of his nocturnal world, she felt real. As if he might truly know her, perhaps meet her someday, when he was older.
He made a scoffing sound that was almost a laugh. He couldn’t be sure as he hadn’t heard laughter, particularly his own, in a very long time. But it was f
oolish to the point of madness to entertain dreams of growing old in this place. No one grew old here. Even if he should keep going another day and another and another after that, the world was dying as fast as he was.
He trudged up the rocky hill, covered in scraggly, yellowed mounds where patches of grass once covered the ground. If he grew any hungrier today, he’d dig some of them up and eat them, grimacing at the grit of dirt in his teeth. It wasn’t nourishing, but it would keep his belly from hurting.
He crested the hill and staggered back, reeling from the sight below. He even shook his head, wondering if he was seeing things that weren’t really there. It happened every so often, usually when he’d gone too many days without food, but this was no hallucination.
It was a tree, and it was still green.
The oak stood alone on the bank at the bend of a small river—or perhaps a wide creek. He wasn’t sure because he had no knowledge of where he’d wandered to. Maps were a bygone thing.
He stumbled down the side of the hill on legs made rubber by the excitement, running full-on into the trunk and laying his fingers against it. He stared up through the branches at the glorious green; then, realizing his thirst, he threw himself down next to it to scoop handfuls of cool water into his mouth.
He saw no fish, which was a disappointment but not a surprise. The soil had eroded away to the point that he could see the tree’s roots as they grew into the water, splitting as they branched out up and down the bank. Between the split lay a pool created by curve of the roots, and the water within was still as glass.
He lay down, pillowing his head on one of the larger roots, trailing his fingers through the water as he listened to the sound of wind rushing through the leaves above him, wondering if this was what it used to be like, in the time of his parents, when trees were lush and full and grass was everywhere, green and soft beneath your feet.
His eyes met his reflection, and within the depths of the pool he saw his life play out, as it should have been. Could have been. Running across grass, sharing meals with a family, laughing with friends, traveling by car, or train, or ship. Walking the good green earth and never feeling hungry or afraid. Growing old with her at his side.