When I can’t get him to change the subject.
He won’t even see me; not compared to that. And I’m not willing to lose his friendship just because I can’t have it both ways.
Pushing away my self-pity, I look down and realize I’ve been subconsciously doodling. Just scribbles. Rubbing my pencil back and forth, essentially. But …
But …
I turn the paper sideways and swallow hard as a jolt of adrenaline tingles down my arms. The dark smudges definitely look like someone’s shadow.
A guy’s shadow. A guy who’s tall and slim and has a hint of a ponytail.
I let the pencil slip from my fingers and clench my fists, trying to get control of my breathing, my panic coming from a completely different source now.
I haven’t drawn a thing since the day my plane went down. Not that I haven’t tried. But art is the symbol of my ruined dreams.
And the reason my parents are dead.
I know technically it’s irrational, but if I hadn’t insisted on going to tour the fancy art school that offered me a scholarship, we never would have boarded that plane. Elizabeth tells me I’m mis-assigning blame. But knowing that and feeling it are two very different things. Every day I fight the guilt.
Sometimes I win.
Most days I lose.
Someone at the school—Huntington Academy of the Arts—saw my work when it was displayed at the Michigan state capitol. They contacted me and requested a portfolio of every piece of art I’d ever done, tempting me with full-color brochures of a beautiful campus where students could apparently take out their easels and paint sunsets at their leisure.
Mom and Dad were skeptical at first, but when the school sent me a full-ride scholarship for my senior year to the tune of about $50K, they had to at least agree to let me go see it.
After the crash I was surprised to realize that I still wanted to go. It felt wrong, yet something inside me still wanted to reclaim what I’d lost.
But the first time I tried to pick up a pencil, it fell out of my fingers. I couldn’t even hold the stupid thing. The doctors told me it was because my brain was still healing; that they expected me to regain all my motor function with physical therapy.
And time.
I insisted Reese call Huntington. After she explained everything, I was surprised how willing they were to defer my scholarship—to let me start up in January when my injuries were healed.
But the fall months passed and I could still barely write my name. Every time I tried, I’d turn into a crying mess all over again. Reese encouraged me through November, December. She told me art was an inherent part of me, part of who I am. To this day I’m not sure why she cared so much. But New Year’s came and even though my hands were better, my artist’s block was all too firmly in place. I called the school myself, on my last day in the neuro-rehabilitation center, and withdrew.
Reese and Jay didn’t try to talk me out of it.
I sigh, loudly. With Benson still AWOL and the weight of anxiety pressing down on me, I cast about for something to keep me busy—to distract me—while I wait. I grab a newspaper from the table next to me and start mechanically reading the words, hardly taking them in. I’m on the second page before I feel an arm drape around the back of my chair.
“Sorry I took so long,” Benson says. I have only a moment to take in a blur of khakis and a pastel green and blue plaid shirt before he’s there on the chair beside me. His breath feels warm on my neck as he glances at the paper, and I feel my fingers tingle. I grip the page tighter and force myself not to lean in—not to press my forehead against his cheek and see if it’s as soft as it looks or gritty with stubble. “Marie had a crapload of filing saved up for me.”
“I hardly noticed you were gone,” I say with mock-loftiness, though my body has practically gone limp with relief. “I was too busy reading about the plague that’s going to destroy the world,” I say, but my humor falls flat.
“That virus again?” Benson says grimly, pushing up his glasses as he leans in to read the story over my shoulder.
“Yeah. They found a new case in Georgia. Dead in twenty-four hours, just like those six people in Kentucky.” I flip back to the front page and point to the first part of the story, then hand over the section.
Since almost dying, I feel like I’m surrounded by death. People are constantly killed in accidents, from diseases, flukes. I know it’s always been that way, but now I’m hyper-aware.
“Sixteen victims so far,” I say quietly. But Benson doesn’t respond—his eyes dart back and forth as he reads. “Jay’s lab just started him working on this,” I add as Benson flips to the second half of the story.
“Really?” Benson’s sudden attention startles me.
“Really, what?”
“Jay’s lab?”
“Yeah. New assignment. You want me to ask him about it?” Benson’s been following the story pretty closely since the first mini-epidemic in Maryland last week. Then Oregon, then Kentucky just a few days ago.
Benson meets my eyes for a second and sits back and pushes the paper away. “Nah. I imagine everybody’s working on it. Hoping to be the one who makes a big breakthrough. It only makes sense.”
“I guess.”
Benson glances down at my backpack. “So what do you need my incredible expertise with?” he asks. Technically Benson doesn’t actually do all that much helping anymore—mostly I just needed the microfiche thing—but we sit and discuss my assignments and readings and he often returns the favor with his own suggestions. It’s why I started reading Keats.
“Nothing but calculus today, actually.”
“Please, a waste of my creative skills. Also, way too hard,” he says with a grin. “I’ll let you do that one on your own.”
“Thaaaaaanks,” I drawl, whapping him on the nose with a pencil.
He pulls my backpack open with one finger and peeks inside. “Don’t you have anything fun in there? Like history?”
“I’m completely finished with my history class for the rest of the semester, as of that paper we researched last Friday. We ate our dessert too quickly.” Since Benson and I are both history buffs, it was just too big of a temptation to work ahead.
“More’s the pity,” Benson says in a faux British accent.
I shake my head at his dramatics. The first time I saw Benson, I thought he was just a run-of-the-mill library nerd. But his comfortable grip when he shook my hand and the way his light green button-up shirt and gray sweater vest had an all-too-purposeful touch of wrinkling told me this was a carefully crafted look—not a persona he stumbled into after a geeky childhood.
In some ways, he keeps me sane better than my shrink. Reminds me of the normalcy life used to have.
He’s an intern from UNH, but even though he’s in college, we’re practically the same age. His birthday’s in August and mine’s in December, so we’re both eighteen, just on opposite sides of the school year cut-off. Not that he doesn’t take every opportunity to bring up the fact that he’s older and wiser.
I’ll give him the older part. But only just.
“I just had to get out of the house.” It’s only a half lie. A few more seconds of procrastination as I try to decide how to start the real conversation.
“Admit it, you missed me.”
“Pined,” I say with an eyebrow raised. But it’s the truth. More than I like to admit.
I rummage through my backpack—not actually trying to find my math book, just avoiding looking him in the face. “Hey, Benson?” I begin. “Is … is stalking ever acceptable? Like, justified and not weird and creepy?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Benson says in a very serious voice.
“Really?” I say, and I feel my heart speed up as hope leaps into my chest.
“Yes. When Dana McCraven is stalking me. That is completely acceptable, rational, and even expected as far as I’m concerned.” He strikes an exaggerated thinking pose, resting his cheek on his fist. “No, other than that it’s pretty m
uch always weird and creepy. Why?”
“No reason,” I grumble, going back to my pointless poking around.
“Oh please,” Benson blurts after nearly a minute of silence.
“What?”
He runs his fingers through his light brown hair, styled in a casual messy look today. “‘What did you have for lunch?’” he says in a high, mocking tone. “That’s a question that people sometimes ask for no reason. ‘What did you do last night?’ is also a random question. I would even accept ‘Did you shower this morning?’ as a question without true motivation since you are aware of the fact that my hygiene habits are beyond reproach. Whether or not stalking is socially acceptable is definitely not a random, casual question.”
I refuse to meet his eyes.
He angles himself toward me and lets his arm rest on the back of my chair again, as if that didn’t make this whole conversation even more awkward. “Tave, seriously. This isn’t funny. Are you the stalker or the stalk-ee?”
“That’s a stupid word.”
“Is someone seriously stalking you?” Though he remains calm, all traces of humor are gone from his voice.
“No! Yes. Sort of.” I groan as I cover my face with my hands. “It’s complicated.”
“Reporters?”
I shake my head.
“Cupcake, spill.” He always refers to me as some kind of confection when he’s trying to worm information out of me. Which, considering my somewhat sordid past, happens on a semi-frequent basis. I caved once to muffin but put my foot down at croissant.
Cupcake is acceptable, though, so I give up and tell him. Once the words start, it gets easier. Then it’s a relief. Then I’m talking so quickly I’m having a hard time enunciating. The guy, the triangles on the houses, everything. By the time I reach the part where the guy tried to get me to come outside, Benson is done joking.
“Tavia, you need to call the police. This is some seriously scary shit.”
“I think that’s a little extreme, don’t you? I’ve only seen him twice.”
“No!” Benson says, leaning closer, his arm tightening around my back. “He tried to lure you out of your house at two in the morning.”
I know it’s true, and I know I should be as freaked out as Benson. But somehow I’m just … not. “He’s not some creepy old man. He’s, like, our age. Or close to it.”
“Oh, good point,” Benson says, but his tone is flat and dry. “Because the rule book says that all dangerous stalkers are ugly and old.”
“That’s not how I meant it. I didn’t feel afraid. Maybe ‘stalker’ isn’t the right word.” I rub my temples and gather my thoughts, trying to figure out what the right word is. “I don’t think he wanted to hurt me. It’s more like he … he wanted to tell me something.”
“Like, ‘Get into my car before I blow your brains out’?”
“Benson!”
Benson senses that he’s pushed me one step too far and stays quiet for a while. Finally he offers an apology. “I’m sorry. I know you’re not stupid, and I don’t mean to treat you that way. I just … I’d hate to see you get really hurt because your instincts might be … off.”
He doesn’t have to tap one finger against the side of his head for me to take his meaning. A lot of my reactions are still a little off-kilter. Maybe that’s all this is. This overwhelming draw to be near a strange guy—to talk to him, to sit in silence, to just be the two of us—it’s a ridiculous feeling, a terrible instinct, and I know it. But telling myself that and turning the feeling off are two vastly different things.
The moment gets a little heavy, and to cover my anxiousness, I lean away from Benson and start digging around in the bottom of my backpack again.
“What are you looking for?”
“My ChapStick,” I grumble. The cold air here is surprisingly hard on my lips. The winters were plenty harsh in Michigan, but Reese says that the salt from the ocean is what’s making my skin dry out. So now I carry ChapStick everywhere.
Except when I misplace it.
Which is frequently.
“Look in your pocket,” Benson says with apologetic warmth in his voice. “It’s always in your pocket when you can’t find it.”
Making a silent wish, I dig into my pocket and breathe a sigh of relief when my hand closes around the familiar tube. “You’re a genius.”
“You’re an addict,” he counters.
“I’m telling you,” I say, pausing to rub my lips together, “in five minutes I’ll just have to do it again. I think I’ve become immune.”
“I think you have a serious problem, Tave. You need to go to therapy.”
“You’re so weird,” I say, turning back to my homework.
“No, seriously,” Benson says. “It’s almost three o’clock. You need to get to physical therapy.”
I hesitate. In the face of everything that has happened, going to physical therapy seems so small. So unimportant.
As though reading my thoughts, Benson squeezes my hand as he says quietly, “Let me think on this for a bit. It’s hard to take in all at once. Go ahead and go to your appointment and text me later, deal?”
I muster up a smile and say, “Deal,” feeling a little better. I pull on my jacket and, in a playful impulse, grab Benson’s face, planting a ChapStick kiss on his cheek.
As soon as my lips make contact with his skin, he stills, his hands tightening on my arms, and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake.
But then he’s wiping his cheek and his eyes aren’t on me and I’m not completely sure it happened at all. ‘Tavia,” he protests. “Gross!”
“See you tomorrow,” I say with a little finger wave.
“Addict,” Benson hisses one more time just before I reach the front doors.
CHAPTER FIVE
The route from the library to the physical therapy center takes me up Park Street, through an old section of town. This area is an eclectic mix of old and new: a gas station, an ancient brewery, a famous house that’s now a historic monument—beautifully restored—all amid a formless mix of office buildings, many in the shells of their original two-hundred-year-old structures. It’s a clashing of times that feels dissonant, yet reeks of awesome. I love it.
But enjoying the scenery is kind of low on my list at the moment. I’m trying to keep my pace up while walking to a steady four-count in my head. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. It’s a trick my physical therapist taught me a couple weeks ago.
“Tavia Michaels, you should not have a limp anymore,” she insists. But after months of shying away from the pain, it’s become a habit—my natural cadence even though the pain is gone.
Most days.
Pure physical therapy only gets you so far; now it’s a question of resetting my mind. So I count. A lot.
But my even pace is a little hard to maintain when my eyes are darting to the space above every building, every front door, looking for symbols.
I blink. Was that a flash? I peer harder, blink again. Nope. This time I really am just seeing things. Great.
I try not to look at the next house, but I can’t help it. My eyes wander to the door all on their own.
What the … ? I come to an abrupt halt, and a man in a jogging suit mutters as he sidesteps to keep from running into me.
It’s not a triangle this time, and it’s not glowing, either. This one looks solid and … real. I take a few steps toward it, peering at the symbol carved into the beam above the door. It’s so worn—not to mention painted over—that I can’t quite tell what it is; something round but elongated over some curvy lines. It could be anything, but it’s definitely something, and it sets my heart racing the same way the glowing triangles did.
I attempt to look casual—like I’m not some creepy voyeur—as I pull out my phone and take a quick picture. As soon as the phone clicks, I shove it in my pocket, hoping no one noticed.
I lower my chin and start counting my strides again, trying to take my mind off the symbols. One, two, three, four. One, t
wo, three, four.
When I look up to gauge how far it is to the end of the block, a hint of gold flashes through gaps in the pedestrians in front of me. It’s him! Over the shoulder of the man in the jogging suit, not far past a lady with a stroller, I make out that now-familiar blond ponytail at the nape of his bronzed neck.
Apparently his long hair is real.
And it looks silky and soft.
My jaw tightens against the thought and I begin walking again, faster now, marshaling my courage. I should at least talk to him—find out what he thought he was doing last night.
I shoulder my way around a couple holding hands. Only two more people between us. My leg twinges, but I ignore it. I’ve stopped counting, too. Never mind my gait, I’m totally focused on him. I can’t yell—he’d probably run—but I’m almost close enough to grab his arm.
Almost there.
Almost.
But as I reach out to tap his shoulder, he steps around the corner into a narrow alley and is gone.
“No you don’t,” I mutter, and pivot without slowing, determined to catch him.
Pain hits me as I slam into a wall and the collision radiates down my spine, collapsing my knees and dropping me to the sidewalk. I blink and try to focus as faces enter my field of vision.
“Are you okay?”
“Someone call an ambulance.”
“She’s having a seizure!”
“Miss? Miss?”
“I’m fine,” I mutter, blood rushing to my cheeks. And despite being at a higher risk for them since the accident, I most certainly am not having a seizure. I rub a searing spot on my head and squint up at what I thought was an alley.
There is no alley there.
It’s a gray stone real estate office—a newer building, with flashy posters of available properties hung all over the windows.
But …
I want to die of humiliation as about six people help me to my feet. Their hands worry over me, touching me, violating my bubble of personal space—which has always been large, but has expanded with the isolation of the last several months. I put my arms out, nudging people away, chanting, “Thank you, I’m fine, thank you, I’m fine, thank you, I’m fine,” until they finally leave me alone, only one or two glancing after me.
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