Carter volunteered to chauffeur me one more time to the airport, an offer I wouldn’t refuse. I didn’t mind taking the airport shuttle services, but I didn’t really want any of those drivers to hold my hand or kiss me goodbye for the holidays. We took my car, but I was so tired from Push I let Carter drive. I loved my little red coupe, but I didn’t stress out about letting someone else behind the wheel. In truth, I liked it when Carter drove.
My flight left in the evening, so it was dark by the time we were halfway to Logan. Traffic was light in our direction at that time of day. As the sun set somewhere behind us and the evening gloom began its quiet rush past the windows, I decided to ask a question I’d had for the longest time. I’d been thinking about it, off and on, since meeting Dan Astor.
“How does it work, Carter? Thought Moving.”
He tapped his fingers on the wheel. “What kind?” If he was surprised by the question, he didn’t show it. If anything, he was intrigued. He loved talking Sententia.
“Not yours. Your uncle’s.”
“He knows better than I do.”
“I know, but just give me the basics.” I could tell he was working up some of his standard disclaimer, something about we don’t know, exactly, so I clarified. “Mostly I mean making people forget. Last year, your Uncle Jeff told that story about the man…the rapist, and how he made the women forget. How could he do that?”
“It’s not complex, but not easy either. You have to do it in advance. Once a memory’s there, it’s there. You can’t move it away…can’t kill it once it’s taken root. You can move thoughts around it, when you’re in the person’s presence, but as soon as the influence is gone, the person goes back to themselves. But before a memory, it’s a different game. What you can do in advance is plant suggestions. Strong Thought Movers can plant a seed of forgetting, basically, just before something happens and carry it through to the end.”
Carter reached over and deliberately covered one of my hands with his. He continued, “And it has to be the right Thought, specific enough to what’s going to happen. ‘Forget everything’ apparently doesn’t work very well, but something like ‘Don’t remember this’”—he pinched my hand and I yelped—“or ‘This didn’t happen’”—he picked my hand up and kissed it—“can work well for strong influencers. The best could make you remember the pinch was a kiss, instead of just forgetting altogether.”
Outside, the twilight deepened, made darker by a moving cloud cover that had threatened all day. I thought I understood. “What about…like a trigger? Could someone move a thought to do something, or even forget something, in the future?”
“Nope.” He squeezed my fingers before returning his hand to the wheel. “Our gifts work with immediacy, now or never. You have to be there for the whole thing. Some of us can predict the future, but no one can project into it. You couldn’t touch someone today and have them die tomorrow.”
And thank God for that. We were quiet for a while as I thought about Thought Moving, and what I’d just learned about it. At least Sententia had to be present to do their dirty work, unless, I supposed, that Sententia was Carter. He didn’t have to be nearby, but his power wasn’t limitless. He was still bound by immediacy, by time.
Something else he’d said kept rattling around in my head, about memories. Memories were thoughts. Thought Movers moved thoughts. I was a brand of Thought Mover, or so Dan and Carter had both said to me. Pieces of things I’d learned about my abilities in the last year and the last few weeks began to come together. I stared out the windshield as a theory tried to coalesce, watching the few red tail-lights that dotted the darkness ahead of us on the highway.
Watching them swerve and brighten. Watching a pair of white lights coming toward us, but that had to be wrong. They shouldn’t have been white.
But they were.
Headlights, traveling the wrong way on the highway.
And then they were right in front of us.
This is it, I thought. It really was an accident and there was nothing I could do. I hadn’t bothered to check our future today, and now it was about to end.
In my last moments, I heard Carter swearing, along with tires screeching, metal crunching, and glass breaking. I thought I might have heard a scream too, and that it might have come from me.
And then I heard nothing at all.
Chapter Fourteen
Opening my eyes was an enormous, wonderful surprise. Especially since I hadn’t expected to open them ever again. Dying, or sincerely believing I was dying, was nothing like people claim. It was just like blacking out, and after years of doing that while my Sententia gift was developing, I was practically a pro at being unconscious.
There’d been no life flashing before my eyes, and the only bright lights I saw were the ones shining down on me when I came to. There was never any concept of the lost time either. You’re aware and then you’re not and then you’re aware again. I had no idea how long I’d been out, whether it was seconds or hours or days.
But no matter how long it had been, when I opened my eyes, I saw Carter, and he was beautiful. It was hardly the first time I’d been unconscious and woken up to his face, but since my whole being had been convinced I’d never see it again, this was definitely the best time ever. His lips formed a little grin as he noticed my open eyes, and I finally realized that he actually wasn’t that beautiful.
In fact, he looked awful. There were red marks across his forehead, nose, and cheeks, like severe windburn or a rash, his bottom lip was split, and dark circles filled the hollows beneath his eyes. He also looked absolutely disheveled and exhausted.
And relieved.
“Hey beautiful,” he croaked and then cleared his throat. “It’s good to see those pretty hazel eyes. I’ve missed them.”
I tried a smile but my face felt tight and wind burned, much like Carter’s looked. When I reached my hand up to touch the marks on his face, I found my arm was much heavier than I remembered. I looked down to see it was encased in a thick cast that covered most of my hand to halfway up my forearm. And it was purple. Frowning hurt as much as smiling.
My head felt foggy and too heavy to lift, so I looked back up at Carter and said, “What happened to your face?” My voice sounded scratchy and out of practice.
He reached forward and brushed my hair back before tentatively surrounding my fingers where they protruded from the cast with his own. My other hand sported an IV. “The same thing that happened to yours,” he replied. “It’s from the airbags. No one ever mentions how much they hurt.” I must have grimaced because he laughed and gave my finger ends a gentle squeeze. “You don’t look quite so bad, don’t worry. No split lip or black eyes, but a pretty good rash.”
I didn’t remember airbags. I didn’t remember much of anything but an overwhelming sense that I should be dead. Except I wasn’t. I loved not being dead. Even with whatever was wrong with my arm and my head. Even with whatever my face looked like. Though, honestly, I hoped it wasn’t too terrible.
Carter pushed the call button to let them know I was awake and nurses and doctors came and went. They told me my wrist should—not would—be fine, after weeks in the cast and more weeks of therapy. If I weren’t so thrilled about the being alive part, I’d have cried. So much for volleyball season. It had only just started, and now I’d miss the whole thing. Brooke would be pissed, especially since we were supposed to be co-captains.
When the medical action was finally over and it was time for me to rest, I said to Carter, “Tell me?” and closed my eyes to listen. Keeping them open was a challenge, and the lights seemed so, so bright.
He spoke softly, like a lullaby. “What do you remember?” he asked and my answer was a tiny shake of my head.
“There was a car, going the wrong way. The driver, she’s old. I guess she was confused. I think she’s here now, too.” He took a breath and let it out. “I almost missed it, babe. It was so close, and I’m sorry. I…just…I wasn’t fast enough. She clipped our rear bumper an
d that was it. We spun. Into another car and then the guardrail.” Just like my parents, I thought but didn’t say. “They’re okay, though, the other people. The driver helped me try to get you out.”
He paused then, and I wasn’t sure how much time passed. Through our connected fingers, I felt him shift, and I imagined him running his other hand through his hair until it went in all directions.
“I thought…” His voice broke and he took another breath, then another. “I thought I’d killed you, Lainey. Just like the vision. You were slumped and broken, and…God, I thought I’d lost you. I could have lost you, again, and it was all my fault. If I’d been paying more attention, or reacted faster. I let my guard down, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I’d do, if you…if you hadn’t been okay. I’m sorry. I love you.” I’m not sure if I squeezed his fingers then, or he squeezed mine, but his voice was stronger as he told the rest.
“Your car—it’s totaled. I’m sorry. Most all the damage was to your side, and it was just worse because you were wedged against the guardrail. They had to cut you out, Lane. We tried, the other driver and I, but—we didn’t know if we’d hurt you more, or if…so we had to wait. God, it was like forever, before the ambulances and fire trucks got there. Watching you barely breathing and not knowing how to help. And then they were there and they were swarming and I couldn’t see you and that was worse. Hearing the screech from the tools and the police trying to ask what happened. What the hell did it matter? They were cutting you out of the car. But that was it, and then you were here and your wrist. God. And I had to call Tessa. I don’t know if they’re even supposed to let me in here, but I think they realized I just wouldn’t leave. Your aunt is in Mexico, and it’s almost Christmas, so they let me stay. I’m sorry, babe. I—”
I drifted off to sleep then, and would never know what he said next. I’d only ever remember the accident as Carter’s voice and a dream.
“WHAT ON EARTH is that?” I set my phone down on the rolling tray that was never far from reach and watched Carter unpack a surprising number of bags and boxes in my hospital room. I’d been forced to stay for a few days, to monitor my concussion and the pain in my wrist.
“Merry Christmas!” He threw a devastating grin over his shoulder as he pulled a truly ugly two-foot-tall tree out of a box.
“Happy birthday!” I countered and his smile flattened out. Carter was twenty today.
He plugged in the tree, which lit up like Las Vegas, and pushed a button on the star. A tinny rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” blared out of a speaker hidden somewhere in the gaudy branches.
I laughed. “How can something so small be so loud?”
“And terrible,” he added. “Isn’t it great?!”
“Tell me you didn’t spend money on that.”
The Vegas Tree transitioned into “Let it Snow,” which, actually, it was, both outside and in. Snowflake garland and icicle lights appeared around the room in a flurry, as Carter emptied the bags and turned my bland little hospital room into a Christmas Extravaganza. When a multitude of presents appeared around the tree, I started to feel like a jerk. We were forced to spend Christmas/his birthday in the hospital, and I didn’t even have anything to give him.
“Hey! Now what’s that? I hope those are only decorations.” Carter’s sly grin told me they weren’t. “But I already gave you all your gifts!”
He sat next to me and reached for my hand. My good hand. I gave it over and he pressed it to his cheek. “You are the only gift I care about this year.”
That’s about when I melted. Then he unpacked a beach-ready snowman, wearing sunglasses and swim trunks, that sang “Feliz Navidad” when you touched one of his buttons and I almost died again. Of laughter.
“Seriously, where did you get this stuff?”
“It’s amazing the quality holiday decorations you can still find on Christmas Eve at the drug store.” He pushed the snowman again, and the sounds of the Christmas-I-was-missing filled the room.
I’d just hung up the phone with Aunt Tessa and the rest of the family in Mexico when Carter returned. Aunt Tessa would have been here, had, in fact, been ready to fly back last minute at exorbitant cost and with about seven layovers to come get me, if I hadn’t convinced her that was ridiculous. I wasn’t dying, I had Carter with me, and I’d be fine. And, also, would be delivered to her by private jet when I was released the next day, compliments of a very lavish and unexpected gift arranged by Daniel Astor.
Except for the broken wrist and wrecked car, this holiday was turning out rather better than I expected.
It improved even more when Carter unpacked dinner, a home-cooked feast compliments of Melinda. “Did she make all this yesterday?”
“And this morning, so it would be ready before I left to come here. And Grandma gave us a whole pie.”
“Pecan?”
“Of course.”
Evelyn Revell’s pies were legendary. After more than a day of hospital food, I was ready to eat the entire thing myself. And also, maybe ready to cry. I blamed the industrial-strength pain killers I’d been downing at regular intervals as my eyes filled with moisture. “Carter, this…this is too much.”
“Hey.” He left off unwrapping our silverware—plastic, scavenged from the tiny cafeteria when he’d reheated our plates—and sat on the edge of my bed. “It’s not anything,” he said. “We love you. I love you. It could be better circumstances, but there’s nowhere I’d rather be.” He rested his forehead against mine while I took deep yoga breaths, fighting the urge to cry. His skin was warm, but the fresh, wintery scent of the cold still lingered around him from his trips back and forth to the parking lot. After a moment, he kissed me. “It is a Merry Christmas.”
“I can think of a few places I’d rather be, but yeah, I guess it is. And a happy birthday,” I added. When all he did was frown, I said, “Why do you do that?”
“What?”
“Every time I try to wish you a happy birthday, you make this face.” He almost smiled at my imitation.
Running his fingers through his hair, he said, “We just don’t really celebrate it. Christmas is enough for one day.”
In a way, I got it. His birthday was also the twenty-year anniversary of his mother’s death. But at the same time, “Carter, you don’t have to apologize for being alive.”
“I don’t have to celebrate either.”
“Well, I do. Let me be happy to have you.”
The frown he’d been sporting morphed into a sly smile that I knew meant trouble. The good kind. “You were happy to have me—”
“OH look. Presents!” I pushed my hair forward to cover the pink in my cheeks, though really I don’t know why I bothered. It was just the two of us. And possibly any number of nurses and doctors at any second.
Carter laughed, dropping a kiss on my nose before retrieving the presents and resting the boxes on my lap. “Biggest to smallest,” he advised, so I started with the heaviest one. Books. A bunch of them, including an early edition E. M. Forster that Melinda had probably been saving for my birthday.
“Is it cheating to shop at your own place of business?”
“Someone has to buy the books. Plus I get a sweet employee discount. Besides, I thought you could use them, since this”—he tapped on my cast—“probably won’t be compatible with the ocean.”
Crap. I hadn’t even thought of that. I hadn’t thought of a lot of things beyond that I couldn’t wait to get the heavy purple thing off of me. The second box was filled with sunscreen. “I’m sensing a theme here,” I told him, “but I can’t figure out what this one could be.” The third box was tiny, tied with a misshapen bow that clearly indicated fastidious Carter had not wrapped it himself. “Did you go all the way to the mall?” He shrugged as I untied the ribbon, though I could see he was trying not to smile.
Inside, impossibly, was a bikini. Purple, with black stripes, that matched my cast perfectly.
I threw my head back and laughed, th
e best laugh I’d had since the accident, and maybe even in weeks. Carter’s face exploded into a smile about as bright as the Mexico sun was going to be. “How did you find this?”
“You don’t want to know.” I did, actually. Still grinning, he said, “I might have convinced a few sales girls into checking the stock rooms for me.” On Christmas Eve, no less. Good lord, his powers of charm knew no limits.
I leaned forward and kissed him squarely on the mouth. “I love it. Thank you.”
He laughed. “Even though it’s purple?”
“Yes. Even then.”
“I,” he said, “love you. Merry Christmas.”
“Happy Birthday,” I repeated. And it was.
Circumstance and a few missed days of my beach holiday aside, at that moment I was so happy just to be alive and with the boy I loved. In fact, in some ways, it was the best-worst Christmas I’d ever had.
ALONG WITH A renewed appreciation for life, I returned from winter break with a few other things: the cast I’d done a poor job not getting sandy; what was sure to be an awkward tan; a new card from Senator Astor to add to my collection, wishing me well and a quick recovery; and, finally, a terrible feeling I’d forgotten something important, something I’d been thinking just before the car crash.
Amy returned from break with a pet.
“Isn’t he pretty?” She petted the leaves of the potted fern as if “he” were a dog.
“Um.” As far as plants went, I actually thought it was pretty ugly, like a plant having a bad hair day. It has wispy fronds that looked soft but seemed to stick in every direction. At least the green of the leaves went with our color scheme.
Second Thoughts Page 14