by Jaime Loren
“What?”
“How many women?” I looked up at her. “I’ve never seen Scott with anyone but you.”
Pity flooded her eyes before she looked away. It was then that I realized what was going on, my heart receiving the final, crushing blow. “Oh.” I looked around his room. “He brings them here.”
Stella spends her weekends with Joshua, while Scott …
Nauseated, I grabbed the end of Scott’s bed for support before receiving another vivid flash of a naked woman wrapped up in white sheets. I let go and stumbled back.
“He’s a nice guy, Red, but whatever’s going on with the two of you, you have to snap out of it and take a look at what you’re risking. Rowan adores you. He’ll treat you the way you deserve to be treated,” she said, placing a cold hand on my arm. “Scott’s not boyfriend material. He’s a player.”
I pulled away. “Don’t.”
After a moment, she nodded and turned for the door. “I’m sorry you had to find out like this, but at least you found out before you did something stupid.”
Great. Like fall for him?
I closed my eyes. “Please, just … go.”
She left the room, her footsteps echoing through the cabin as she bounded down the stairs. The front door rattled as she slammed it shut. I drifted numbly down the stairs and watched her through the living room window, casting her gaze between the cabin door and the dirt road that led to the barn. She hesitated. God knows what she thought she could say to make me feel better about being blatantly lied to. Eventually—wisely—she chose the barn, and hurried toward it.
I was torn between fury and a feeling of complete loss. The cabin, his money, his denial about that conversation with Henry—this, though … this was the final straw.
Everything was a lie. Everything. How could he do that to me? How could he be so fake? So manipulative? I’d poured my heart and soul out to him over the last two years, and he’d given me nothing in return! Nothing real, anyway. He’d made me feel things I’d tried so hard not to feel—and it was all a game to him. He’d kissed me! He’d kissed me.
“You fucking bastard,” I seethed, pacing back and forth, remembering how he’d sweet-talked me into forgiving him for his behavior last night. That’s all he ever did—talk himself out of sticky situations. He lied to cover up lies.
Scott Parker was a liar—if that was even his real name.
Wait. Fuck …
What if it wasn’t? What if his family weren’t even dead? What if the whole premise of him coming to stay with Henry was a lie? But why would Henry be in on it? Maybe it was a witness protection thing—maybe that was why Scott called him Henry instead of Grandpa last night.
No. Scott had obviously lived here before. After all, he knew Daphne Porter. If he were in witness protection, he wouldn’t come back to a familiar place.
The grandfather clock ticked away, reminding me I didn’t have much time before he came back.
Frustrated, I went up to his room and emptied all of his drawers, hoping to find something of significance. Maybe one of those little black books filled with girls’ numbers. Maybe a photograph of his family, because I’d never actually seen one before.
What I found instead were clothes, watches, and an orange bottle of pills.
Wait. My pills?
I picked it up to read the label. My heartbeat quickened in horror. Scott took my pills? I shook with fury and threw the bottle against the wall.
“Fucking bastard!”
Who the hell did he think he was?
Breathless and with muscles drawn so tight I was sure they’d snap, I ran back downstairs, twisting and turning in front of the fireplace.
If I were a secret, where would I hide?
I closed my eyes, trying to match my heart rate to the ticking of the clock, when a vision of the box in Henry’s shed spilled beneath my eyelids.
Photos. Letters. Paperwork.
The grandfather clock seemed to be ticking faster.
Think, April! Photos. Letters. Papers … He wouldn’t keep everything in Henry’s shed. Not the important things like deeds and birth certificates. We kept those in Dad’s office.
An office! Jesus, I’m so mentally challenged sometimes.
The only end of the cabin I hadn’t ventured down was past the kitchen. I jogged down the passageway, past the second bathroom, then stopped dead in my tracks. There was a door on the right, just before a laundry room. A locked door.
Damn it.
The law-abiding citizen in me didn’t want to break it down. However, the enraged, deceived faux ex-best friend wanted nothing more than to break it down—to expose him for who he was and throw it in his face before storming away and never looking back.
After a short moral battle, enraged faux ex-best friend won.
There was a small fire extinguisher on the wall in the kitchen. I grabbed it, along with a knife, and headed back down to the door. It took a couple of swift blows, but I finally knocked the doorknob off. It only took a twist of the knife to open the door, and I was in.
Ohhhhh, it was an office, all right.
Jackpot.
There were notes and books everywhere—in no particular order—on the floor, on the chair, and on the desk. Some sat alone and were covered in dust. Others were piled four or five books high. A few of them sat open, colorful labels protruding from various pages.
Case Studies in Reincarnation …
Immortals in Folklore …
Quest for Immortality …
The adrenaline speeding through my veins suddenly turned ice cold.
There were at least five texts labeled simply “Immortality.” Another four were about reincarnation. And then there were the notebooks. With heavy legs, I staggered over to pick one up. It was simply titled: 1967–1982. I reached for another, titled: 1883–1891. On the desk there was a cherry wood box with an intricately carved horse on the lid. I dropped the notebook and lifted the lid.
It was filled with photos and other keepsakes. My stomach knotted. My vision blurred.
“No,” I wheezed.
My hand shook as I picked up the first photo. It was a watercolor picture of me atop a horse. I turned it over to read the inscription.
“April and Nutmeg, 1843.”
I gasped as my tears fell. There were so many photos, some black and white, some in color, some painted in color. But they weren’t all photos of me. Some were of Scott, and most were of the two of us together.
April and me, 1927 … April, 1811 … April and me, 1909 … April, 1862 … April and me, 1949 …
My limbs turned from lead to jelly. I dropped the photos and reached for one of the books, flipping it open halfway through.
June 14th, 1868
I wonder, what is the point of all this? Has this ever happened to anyone else? Is this Hell? If so, what am I being punished for? What is April being punished for?
No. This is not Hell. April would not be deserving of such a fate.
I flipped back.
August 23rd, 1862
I have failed you once again, April Anne Fletcher.
I slammed the book shut and shuddered. But, like witnessing a car crash, I couldn’t turn away.
I picked up another.
March 17th, 2013
It is time. I will introduce myself to her.
Seeing her alive again is bitter sweet. Sweet because she is alive again and bitter because she should never have died in the first instance. I pray this time will be different. Then again, I pray for that every time. I don’t think anyone is listening.
A tremor rocked through me, and I sank to the floor. I wasn’t sure if it was a conscious decision, or whether my knees had decided it for me.
June 6th, 2013
She is different this time. Guarded. I cannot help but think it is my own fault. Does she feel betrayed because of the events in 1949? Or is she innately angry with me for not being able to save her each time?
Henry and I have decided to throw a
barbeque. Perhaps that will give me the chance to talk to her. Perhaps, somehow, her soul will recognize mine.
1949? I wanted to scream again, but I couldn’t make a sound. There was no air. My lips tingled.
The sound of hooves thundered toward the cabin. I slowly rose and clutched the book against my chest. My shoes scuffed against the carpet as I made my way into the living room. My legs were numb. Everything was numb.
Scott burst in, fiery panic in his eyes. But when he saw what I was holding, he froze. He turned pale. There was only one word to describe the new expression on his face.
Busted.
I wasn’t sure how long we’d been standing, eyes locked, before Rowan and Stella burst in. Rowan took one look at my tear-soaked cheeks and the guilty look on Scott’s face.
He shifted his gaze between us. “What the fuck is going on?”
Scott didn’t answer.
Stella studied our faces, too. “April, I think we should go.”
Rowan pointed at Scott, but looked at me. “Did he hurt you?”
I looked deep into Scott’s eyes and saw a past I wasn’t ready to admit was my own …
That woman. His bed. Waffles on the floor and photographs on the wall … I held my stomach as I ran from his bedroom and down the hallway, passing photographs of places and horses and war … Photographs of Henry and Scott standing with other men in uniform as they gathered around a military tank.
I threw the door open and stumbled into the cold rain, leaving behind my umbrella.
His voice came from behind me. “April? Is that you? April!”
The air escaped my lungs faster than I could draw it in, and the torrent of rain washed the tears from my cheeks. How could he do that to me?
My name sounded from a distance, but I was on autopilot now. I tripped, slamming my knees into the pavement. A man came to my aid, but I collected myself and ran onto the road. My shoes were soaked through and noises of cars and people came together; I heard Scott calling my name again.
With the sound of his voice came the memory of his clothes strewn across the floor, his bed sheets in disarray, and the sight of Sue-Ann’s naked skin wrapped up in them not twelve hours after he’d held me. Kissed me. I sobbed aloud and swiped the wet hair from my face, only to see a flash of light from the corner of my eye. My broken heart stopped, along with my feet.
Scott’s voice rang out again with a painful urgency. “April!”
The oncoming driver didn’t even press his horn.
It was too late to run. I turned my head to see Scott running toward me, dressed in only slacks, his face filled with fear. He was yelling at me, but I couldn’t hear the words. People stood—shocked into the pavement like statues—unable to move except to cover their mouths or eyes. I simply stared at Scott, sobbing, and then closed my eyes.
It wasn’t a painful death. Shock is a beautiful thing sometimes. I didn’t hear the thud, or the smashing of glass. But I wasn’t so numb that I couldn’t feel Scott’s lips and the warm tears from his cheeks mixing with mine as he held me, limp and broken, in the middle of the road. His breath was warm against my ear; his plea was the most painful moment of my death.
“Please, don’t leave me.”
Chapter 11
(Scott)
April covered her mouth and shook her head.
My heart was beating so hard I could barely hear anything else. “Rowan, can you please take Stella home?”
Rowan looked at April for an answer. “April?”
She didn’t acknowledge him.
“Come with us,” Stella urged her, but she didn’t get through.
Stella frowned and reached for Rowan’s arm.
He shook her off. “I’m not leaving you here with him, April.”
April’s eyes were still glued on me. I couldn’t tell if it was horror or shock that filled them. Most likely both. Stella went upstairs. When April didn’t give Rowan a response for the third time, he shook his head and followed Stella.
The room was suddenly silent. April gripped the journal tight against her chest. The sight of it made my stomach turn. She didn’t even look at Rowan and Stella when they returned a few minutes later with their bags.
Stella walked past me, shamefaced. I couldn’t blame her for this, though. It had always been a ticking time bomb.
Rowan stepped in front of me, his back turned. I couldn’t see April’s face as he said, “April, this is it. It’s me or him.”
A moment passed. I lowered my head. Why would she choose me? I’d done nothing but lie to her.
“I’m not choosing between you,” she whispered, her words tripping my heart.
Rowan scoffed and moved toward the door. “You just did.”
As he stepped away, April dropped her eyes.
He paused and glared at me. “She’s all yours,” he said, before slamming the door closed behind them.
April slowly raised her chin, eyes glassy. I swallowed hard. “April—”
She flipped the journal open and read it aloud, her voice quivering.
“We argued last night. April feels she does not know me. She is frustrated at my inability to show her who I really am. I am filled with frustration, too, at the knowledge she knows me better than anyone. How do I tell her money means nothing to me, when it would appear otherwise when taking into account my possessions? How would one explain such a phenomenal set of circumstances?”
She flicked the pages back and forth.
“I kissed her. It was extraordinary to feel her lips against mine once more—like breathing again after …” She choked on her own sob, but pushed on. “After suffocating for so long. She whispered, ‘lavender.’ It fills me with such hope that she might remember that day in the field.”
Her hand again went to her mouth. She glanced up at me through tear-filled eyes. I looked away, my throat constricting.
“But I am also filled with dread that it would do her mind a great disservice to remember. I shouldn’t have kissed her, but perhaps my biggest mistake was bringing her here, to the cabin. I cannot help but wonder whether I should have stayed away from her altogether. After all, it is my own selfishness that keeps me here with her now, when it would appear she does not feel anything for me.”
Her hands shook so hard she dropped the journal. I moved to pick it up, but she was faster, scooping it up and holding out her hand to stop me. “Don’t … don’t come near me!”
I held up my hands. “I won’t.”
Her sight shifted quickly between me and the journal while she tried to find her place.
“Henry tells me she is quick-witted and very intelligent. Of course she is. Some things never change. I am bursting at the seams to see her again, but I must be patient. She is only fourteen, whereas I am almost twenty. She is too young. To think that we were once the same age …”
Her eyes widened with horror. “This is a joke, right? Like last night …you’re one of those people who make things up.”
My hands were still raised. “Let me explain.”
She threw the journal at me. It bounced off my chest and onto the floor. “The photos in there,” she said, pointing to the office, “they’re photoshopped. That’s not me. They can’t be … us.”
I closed my eyes.
“No,” she whispered, before dashing for the office.
“April!”
She emptied the photos from the cherry wood box onto the desk and picked up a handful to toss at me. “Please, explain. Explain to me how it’s a coincidence the girl in these photos looks like me and has the same name.”
“April—”
“You humiliated me in front of everybody for even considering there could’ve been a girl just like me!”
I tried to grab her hands. “April, please—”
“Don’t touch me!” She pulled away and slapped me hard across the face.
I closed my eyes and pressed my lips firmly together.
“Mother-ffffff!”
I looked down to find h
er clutching her hand to her chest; she must have split her palm open again. My instinct was to help her, but I couldn’t risk her splitting her other palm open on me.
“I trusted you, Scott, but everything you’ve ever told me has been a lie.”
“I did it to protect you.”
She gasped. “Protect me? From what? From you?”
My chest tightened. “You would never need protecting from me, April. Never.”
“How can I trust a single word that comes from your mouth?” she cried.
“I’m still the same man who has been your best friend these past two years.”
She clenched her good fist. “I don’t even know who you are!”
“You do,” I pleaded. “You know exactly who I am.”
“Why? Because my soul recognizes your soul?” she spat.
I felt the blood drain from my cheeks, and took a step back.
She softened before me, her eyes filling with sadness. “I don’t understand what’s happening,” she choked, scanning the room. “I don’t understand any of this. What are these ‘phenomenal set of circumstances’? Who the hell even talks like that?”
“You’ve seen the journals, and the photos. What does your gut tell you?”
“My gut is telling me to throw up,” she said. “And … it’s also telling me that I was the girl who got hit by the car in 1949. But I need to hear you say it.”
This was it. The moment of truth. There was no other option, considering what she’d seen. I couldn’t bullshit my way out of something like this. I’d gotten lucky last night. The crazy old lady theory could’ve been plausible if April hadn’t been so inquisitive. Stella and Rowan had bought it. But April … April had lived it. Deep down on some subconscious level, she’d known whatever Daphne Porter told her to be true.
I spoke softly. “You recite episodes of I Love Lucy,” I said. She gave me a ‘what the hell does that matter right now?’ stare. “Do you remember ever actually watching them?”