Sidetracked: Part 1

by S. K. Kelley

  Even if he’s taking feline form, this is the person I’ve been sharing a bed with. It hurts... But I suppress my disappointment, take a deep breath, and tap him on the arm.

  “Hey. Ice.”

  He makes a soft noise before opening one eye. “Do you need something?”

  “Just, um—” I avert my gaze. “Can you scoot over a little?”

  His other eye opens. He glances at the alarm clock. With a tired laugh, he sits up and runs a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face.

  “Of course,” he says.

  I catch a brief flash of a smile before he morphs. His paws sink into the comforter as he retreats to the far side of the bed, where he lies down again, facing the wall.

  “Better?” he asks.

  I stare at the queen-sized bed. At the fluffy white cat curled on top of the comforter. At the wide spot left for me.

  He moved so far away.

  Why does that bother me?

  forty-five

  THE LOW RUMBLE OF THUNDER rouses me from sleep.

  I don’t open my eyes, having noticed a small, gentle weight pressed against my back through the comforter. I can just make out Ice’s soft breathing over the rain thrumming on the roof. There’s something nice about it—the sound and the rhythm and the warmth transferred through the blanket.

  Can he purr like a normal cat?

  A second roll of thunder—a louder, crackling boom—finally snaps my eyes open. The red numbers on the alarm clock blink. The power must have gone out at some point overnight, so I check my phone. It’s 8:34AM.

  I could probably get another hour or two of sleep, but waking up at a decent time feels like the one aspect of my life I can still control.

  I am not ready to give that up yet.

  Careful and slow, I crawl out of bed. The movement didn’t bother Ice. His feline form remains lying on its side in the middle of the bed, dead asleep.

  I grab my phone and a change of clothes.

  The room lights up for an instant—a flash of lightning through the window. More thunder as I step into the hallway. The house is quiet. I check, but neither of the twins are up, so I shower, pull my hair into a messy bun, and wander into the great room.

  The house smells like peaches, and I’m no longer alone.

  A small cat with short, black fur is seated in the bay window’s deep sill, staring out at the rain. A tall, orange candle burns on the table. The cat turns to me with large, blue eyes as I approach.

  “Good morning,” Night’s clear voice says.

  “You’re up early.”

  She laughs. “Am I? What about you?”

  “I’m fine. Bored, I guess.”

  “Considering the weather, I imagine most of Riverview is bored,” she says, turning back to the window.

  Her tail curls over her dainty paws, and she gazes up into the grey clouds. The rain is heavy and unrelenting, falling at an angle. A bolt of lightning illuminates the sky, far in the distance. Thunder rumbles through the house a moment later.

  I step away to get a glass of water. When I return to the table, it seems she hasn’t moved at all. She’s just...staring. I look through the window, but I don’t see anything noteworthy.

  I slide into the bench seat. “Is something wrong?”

  “Wrong?” She glances over her shoulder. Then she shrugs and turns away again. “I can’t say if anything’s wrong. I suppose I’m just thinking. Or...listening?”

  A chill runs down my spine, but I shake it off.

  “Listening for what?”

  “I had a strange dream this morning. It could be nothing—as many dreams are—but today does feel off somehow. It’s difficult to explain.”

  “The storm, maybe?”

  She sighs. “Perhaps. Even so, a troubling dream and lingering sense of unease don’t automatically mean tragedy will strike.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Well... Yes. And no.”

  Are you psychic or not? Should I be concerned?

  She morphs. Her human form, dressed in pajamas, sits in the sill of the bay window with crossed legs hanging over the edge. She watches the rain. Then she faces me, her expression careful—guarded.

  The constant drumming on the roof shifts, growing tinnier and more pelting as the wind picks up and the rain turns to hail. Pellets of ice bounce in the street as they fall. More thunder.

  Our eyes meet again, and she offers me a warm but tired smile.

  “Life is a mess, Jayde. An uninterrupted series of events and decisions. Actions and reactions. Even with my ability, the future is impossible to predict with much accuracy. There are simply too many variables. A single impulsive move on the part of one person can change everything. Not to mention how easily a dream can be misinterpreted—”

  Chin held in her hand, she cuts herself off with another sigh.

  “I guess what I’m trying to say is that surprising things happen often—things you never would have seen coming. But change isn’t always bad. We shouldn’t be afraid of something simply because it’s different.”

  Is she talking in riddles?

  “What does this have to do with your dream?”

  She hesitates for an instant. Then she laughs and shakes her head. “It doesn’t...exactly. I can’t explain the dream well. It was mostly emotions. Abstract thoughts. Nothing specific. What I said is just something to consider.”

  I frown. For some reason, this reminds me...

  “After what happened with James, do you think Ice is right? Do you think I shouldn’t talk to other immortals?”

  “Of course not.” She rolls her eyes and folds her arms over her chest. “Ice may act like it, and he may even sound convincing at times, but I assure you he does not know everything.”

  “I know that.”

  She gazes out into the rain, her expression growing pensive. “Don’t worry about Ice. Do what you think is right.”

  What I think is right?

  Is staying here right?

  ICE DIDN’T COME OUT for lunch. I ate with Night and Smoke at the breakfast nook. Neither of them mentioned him, so I didn’t either.

  We talked about the weather. The rain is still heavy, the street outside slick as water streams into the storm drains. There might be another bout of thunder tonight, but the worst of it should be over by morning. The rain will only last a couple more days.

  My phone’s weather app agrees.

  It’s almost dinnertime now. The twins are in the great room, preparing to cook, but I haven’t heard a peep from Ice’s bedroom all day. Should I check on him? Night and Smoke aren’t concerned, but it’s weird to sleep all day without coming out to eat or do literally anything else.

  Isn’t it?

  I don’t know.

  Moving into the great room, I sit at the table and watch the twins work in the kitchen. They chat between themselves, laughing at things the other never said out loud. They’re having fun, and I don’t mind watching.

  But I keep thinking about what Night said this morning.

  She never clearly explained what she meant or what abstract emotions her dream conveyed, but I feel something now too. The energy isn’t overwhelming like it was on the Fourth of July. It’s not scary. It’s just...off. A little itchy. A little strange.

  Maybe it is the storm. The static electricity in the air. Maybe it’s nothing. She doesn’t seem uncomfortable anymore, and she hasn’t mentioned it in hours.

  When she finishes cooking, Night takes a plate to Ice before she returns to the dining table.

  “Did he wake up?” Smoke asks.

  She tips her head as though confused. “He wasn’t asleep.”

  “He wasn’t?” we both ask in surprise.

  “No,” she says with a mild laugh. “He was staring up at the ceiling with this blank look on his face. Like he was thinking about something. Anyway, he thanked me for the food and told me to leave.”

  Kind of rude, but that sounds about right.

  He’s had a f
ew moments when he’ll talk and smile normally, but the storm-induced lethargy has made him moody. He doesn’t want anyone to bother him. Our presence is an inconvenience that interferes with him sleeping all day.

  Night says he hates people seeing him like that, but he can’t control the way his body reacts to the weather. Either way, hiding in his bedroom 24/7 is a little dramatic.

  She laughs when I say that.

  “Ice? Dramatic?” Smoke’s eyes flick in my direction, and he flashes a well-humored but crooked smile. “Impossible.”

  Well, they know him better than I do.

  THE CREDITS ROLL, AND Night sighs from her spot on the other end of the loveseat. She looks tired, and she leans against the arm of the couch with her head propped up by her hand.

  Smoke went to bed before the movie began, and it’s starting to get late—by storm standards, anyway. I’m surprised she stayed up this long considering how early she woke up this morning.

  “Everything okay? Are you still worried about your dream?”

  She cracks an uneasy smile. “My dream? I still can’t say it meant anything, but it reminded me of things I wish it hadn’t.”

  Oh?

  Before I say anything, her expression shifts. She frowns. Then she picks up the remote and turns the TV off.

  “Do you ever wish you could forget something?” she asks, not looking at me or the dark TV screen or anything in particular. “And I mean truly forget it forever—to have the memories wiped from your mind with no trace?”

  “Um...” A handful of unpleasant events come to mind—some recent, others not. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  She looks at me then, her expression unreadable. “Would you still want to forget it if it wasn’t always bad? If parts were good?”

  “I don’t know.” How am I supposed to answer this question? “Your experiences make you who you are as a person, right? Good or bad.”

  “What if the bad parts were unspeakably awful?” she asks, her jaw strained as she watches me with a more careful, nervous intent.

  I frown. “What is this about? Are you sure you’re okay?”

  The tension leaves her shoulders as she glances away. With another sigh, she stands from the loveseat and smooths the front of her muslin dress.

  “Yes, I’m okay,” she says, her voice level. “Never mind what I said. I’m glad you haven’t gone through anything like that. You’re lucky.”

  I’m not convinced I haven’t experienced things I wish I could forget, but something leads me to believe I haven’t gone through anything quite as traumatic as whatever she has in mind. But, even being so terrible, it wasn’t all bad? Parts were good?

  Ugh. It’s more confusing than our conversation this morning.

  “You sure you don’t want to talk about it?” I ask, both because I’m concerned and because I’m dying to know what she’s talking about.

  But she shakes her head, one arm drawn across her body to hold the other. “One day, perhaps.” She glances over her shoulder to offer an apologetic smile. “But it’s a long story, and it’s pretty boring.”

  Uh-huh...

  I give up and ask if she’s heading to bed. Her smile brightens.

  “I think so,” she says. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

  “I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

  She laughs, looking more like her usual self, before she retreats to her bedroom and leaves me alone in the dimly lit den.

  You know... I think I’ll sleep out here tonight.

  Before I left Ice’s bedroom, I found myself lingering beside the bed. He didn’t wake up when I opened the door or walked inside. He didn’t wake up when I unzipped my duffel bag to find pajamas.

  So I stood at the foot of the bed, and I watched him sleep for a minute, fighting the urge to pet his fluffy feline form.

  His small body shifted with each steady breath, and I just...watched him, and I let myself wonder. Is he as soft as he looks? He looks like a normal house cat. How would it feel to run my fingers through his fur?

  How would it feel to run my fingers through his hair?

  I doubt I’ll ever find out.

  Because he doesn’t like me.

  I tried to convince myself I was fine, but a small pinprick of hurt followed me. As I stepped out of the room. As I took a shower. As I dried my hair with a towel to avoid waking anyone with the blow-dryer. It bothered me as I watched the rain through the sliding glass door before I closed the curtain.

  I stared at my dark silhouette in the mirror on the wall behind the loveseats. Then I took the River Sapphire off and set it on the edge of the TV stand beside my phone. I lay down, and I pulled the blanket up to my chin, and I shut my eyes.

  At least an hour has passed, but the thought is still there.

  Ice will never like me as much as I liked him in June.

  The thunder’s supposed to start soon.

  Will I fall asleep before it does?

  forty-six

  IT’S LATE.

  I don’t know how late, or what woke me, but it’s still raining, and only a dim light filters into the den through an uncovered sliver of sliding glass door.

  With a quick stretch and yawn, and without leaving the warm comfort of the oversized throw blanket, I reach, reach, reach for my phone on the TV stand. The screen is too bright, but I manage to catch the time before locking the phone and dropping it to the floor.

  1:48AM.

  Thunder rolls through the house—a loud, crackling rumble that startles me. Is that what woke me? The storm?

  I sit up and listen to the rain. The heavy patter on the roof I’ve grown so comfortable with over the past few days. It’s familiar and strangely...nostalgic?

  Then something intersects it. Another series of sounds.

  This new sound is just audible over the rain and, like the rain, comes from outside. Slow footsteps on the wooden patio. They stop somewhere in front of the sliding glass door, which is still obscured by the thick blackout curtain.

  A pang of anxiety.

  Could it be Ice? No. There’s no way. I haven’t seen him step outside once since the rain began.

  Night? Why would she be up so late? And outside?

  Smoke? I seriously doubt it.

  I freeze momentarily as the door engages with a soft click and creeps open. Slow. Quiet. The light shifts, the curtain disturbed by a hand.

  And I recover. I drop from the couch and duck behind the TV on its low stand. My heart races, but I reach for the remote.

  Someone pokes their head into the house. I hold my breath as the intruder glances around the den. Then they step through the door. They wear dark clothes with a hood pulled over their head. I can’t make out any details in the low light, but I don’t dare move from behind the TV stand.

  They haven’t noticed me yet.

  The door slides shut but doesn’t latch, and the intruder takes another careful step inside. They move slowly, glancing around, their posture stiff and hunched.

  I position my thumb over the power button on the TV remote.

  Whoever it is, it’s definitely not one of the Monroes.

  After a deep breath to steel myself, I pop up from the floor and jam the button with unnecessary force. The TV menu’s blue light reflects off the large mirror behind me, illuminating the room and the intruder, who turns to figure out where the light came from.

  A man with wide, shadowed eyes.

  No way—

  The remote falls from my hand. It lands on the carpet with a soft thud as I draw my arms close to my chest.

  James.

  He stares at me like a deer in the headlights. Silent. Unmoving.

  I glance down the hallway, but both bedroom doors are closed. All is quiet. For now.

  He shouldn’t be here. I can’t believe he’d come back.

  Stepping past the corner of the TV stand, I open my mouth to yell at him, but I freeze again. A second look at his pale face brings with it a sinking realization that steals the air from
my lungs and shuts me up.

  Even from this distance with only the blue light reflected by the mirror...

  Thin, dark lines hatch the right side of his face. Another scab stretches across the bridge of his nose. A split lip, only partially healed. Altogether, the obvious remnants of a beating.

  Smoke was right. Ice punched more than brick that day, and his fists weren’t the only thing to hit the wall.

  Injuries aside, both his dark, hooded jacket and beanie cap are soaked. Water drips from strands of short, orange hair poking out from beneath the hat. He must have been in the rain a long time to end up this wet.

  Miserable. He looks miserable.

  He absolutely should not be here, but I can’t risk alerting the rest of the house now. What would Ice do if he found James here again—and inside?

  “It’s you,” he says, his voice blank.

  Me?

  “What do you want?” I ask, careful to keep my voice low.

  I inch a bit closer, positioning myself between him and the River Sapphire on the TV stand. Just in case.

  “I don’t know.” His wide eyes turn downcast as he scratches the short stubble on his jaw. “I think... Maybe I hoped to find you here. To see you. One last time, I guess.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Ah...”

  He glances at the door, clearly uncomfortable. Then he looks to me again. He takes a step forward, but he freezes in place with his hands held at chest level as I adopt a more defensive posture.

  For a long moment, neither of us move.

  I listen to the storm outside—to another rumble of distant thunder. As I watch the anxiety playing about on his face, the tension in my muscles slowly dissipates.

  He lowers his hands and sighs disparagingly. “Calm down. I’m not here to hurt you or anything. I swear.”

  Strangely, I don’t not believe him. There’s no way he’s looking for a fight in this condition, but I certainly don’t trust him, and he should not be here.

  “You need to leave.”

  He shakes his head. “Not yet.”

  “Shh,” I hiss, holding a finger to my lips as I peer down the dark hallway behind him. “You can’t be here. What if—”