My grandfather wants to invite you and your Mom and Emerson to be his guests at an art event tomorrow night. He’s displaying some of his new works. I’d especially love to see you. H
Hayden has figured out another way for us to be together. I can’t wait for tomorrow night. I run to tell my mom about the invitation. I know she will say yes. Now we just have to figure out what to wear.
Please thank your grandfather. We’ll be there. Send me the address and what time. I miss you. S
Wings to fly
— Hayden —
I miss her too, every minute of the day—more than I want to admit.
My fingers touch my chin, run over the bump of my scar, the visible memory of my past. My secrets. I can still feel Stella’s kiss there, her lips pressing against my skin, warming me, healing me.
Touching me.
Even after I told her everything—all of it—she didn’t run away.
She holds my secrets now.
As she holds my heart.
My feet pound a rhythm into the asphalt as I run. Faster and faster, I pump my legs, as if controlling my body will help me control my emotions. I run without music. The thoughts are loud in my ears, and I cannot escape them. No matter how far I run.
I can never tell Stella how much she means to me, because then she wouldn’t walk away. I can see that now. And I refuse to hold her back from all that she can become. I love her enough to let her go. I will never hold her back the way I held my mother back. I won’t ever be responsible for destroying someone else’s dreams. Not if I can help it.
In four days, she will hear again.
And I will tell her good-bye.
4
— Stella —
Emerson and I spend the day with our dad. He tries to invite us to his house to go swimming. But I have Emerson tell him I am afraid of pools now. So we need to do something else.
I’m not afraid of pools or swimming. I just don’t like to go to my dad’s house and see the First Family.
And feel like a second-class daughter.
And pretend it’s all okay.
When it’s really not.
So we go to play tennis instead. Which is fine by me. Emerson is pretty good. So is Dad. Me, not so much.
The sun is shining on the court as we run back and forth, chasing the fuzzy highlighter ball. Dad hits every shot perfectly. Emerson leaps and dives, making some stellar points. I hit more balls over the fence than over the net. But at least we aren’t fighting.
Afterward, we go to get smoothies. I am happy to ride in the backseat and leave Emerson riding shotgun. I look out the window and dream of tonight. Of seeing Hayden. Holding his hand. Just being near him. I can’t seem to wipe the goofy smile off my face.
The smoothie place is crowded. We wait in line for a while. I know better than to try to bring up what’s on my mind until Dad has eaten. Plus, he hates lines. I order a blueberry and strawberry smoothie. Emerson gets peach and banana, her favorite.
We find a table outside. Dad sips his veggie smoothie. Full of antioxidants, with three servings of vegetables. He offers a sip to me and Emerson, but we both decline.
If I am going to plead my case, now is the time. I meet Emerson’s eyes, beg her to help me. She squeezes my knee under the table. And I begin.
“Dad, you said for a few days, no Hayden. Then we would talk.” I face him directly. “Let’s talk.”
Dad raises his eyebrows, but he doesn’t say anything. He sips his smoothie.
I’m waiting. I take a deep breath and lean forward. “You and Mom agreed I could date when I turned sixteen. My birthday is a month away. I’m only asking you to bend the rules for a few weeks. That’s all. Hayden means a lot to me. I think if you would get to know him, you’d like him a lot. I know Mom does.”
I cheated a bit invoking the name of my mother. But I’m not trying to pit my parents against each other; I’m just being honest. She does like Hayden.
I expect a lot of things from Dad. A stoic response. A non-response. A repeat of the other day. Frustration. Maybe anger.
I don’t expect laughter. But that’s exactly what he does.
He laughs. Then he pulls out his phone. His fingers fly across the keyboard.
You surprised me. I didn’t think you could do that anymore. You are so much like me, you know that? You plead a great case. I hadn’t even thought of the birthday argument—and it’s a good one, I have to admit. But you’re wrong thinking I don’t like Hayden. I do. He saved your life, so he’s not only brave but selfless. I saw him in the hospital, waiting for hours to make sure you were okay. I knew he had feelings for you then. I just think you’re too young to be this serious about someone.
Dad surprises me too. In a good way. He reminded me for a moment that there is something I like about him. I had forgotten that.
But he still hasn’t given me the answer I want.
“Are you still saying no?” I venture, tilting my head and wishing I could hear him instead of reading his answer. So much rides on this one word. Yes or no.
If he says no, I have already decided what to do. For the first time in my life, I will lie to my parents. I won’t give up the last few days of Hayden’s promise. I am counting down the days to my doctor’s appointment, but I am also counting down the days to the end of our seventeen-day journey together. Because I have this foreboding sense that on that last day, something is going to change. And I don’t want to give up any more time with Hayden before that.
Dad writes his answer. He sets the phone on the table. Spins it to face me.
Ok
I leap up from the table. Throw my arms around my dad.
And he hugs me back.
A few hours later, Mom, Emerson and I walk into the Picasso Gallery. It is located in the center of downtown. A red carpet is laid out on the sidewalk. Photographers snap photos. Glamorous people mingle.
I wear a navy dress with thin straps at the top and an inlay of navy lace. There are small ruffles of the same lace around the hem. It’s the nicest dress I own. My hair is loose, with a small braid around the crown of my head, trailing into my curls. My shoes are gold strappy sandals. I wear the daisy around my neck.
Mom wears a fitted black dress with camel pumps and a camel scarf around her neck. Her hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail. She looks stunning. Emerson wears a soft mauve dress that is shirred on the sides and ends in a flowing, uneven hem. She wears little brown and gold flats that tie around her ankles. I think she looks like a fairy.
The whole front of the gallery is open, as though the walls can be removed. We step into a wonderland of paintings and sculptures. My eyes dash from wall to wall. Not sure where to begin.
Hayden steps forward. Appears magically out of the crowd. I breathe in. Frozen at the sight of him.
For I have never seen him like this. He wears a navy pin-striped suit with a light blue shirt. No tie. His hair is pulled back off his face. The blue shirt makes his eyes as bright as the sky on a spring morning. His skin glows.
And his smile is just for me.
“My grandfather is so happy you could make it,” he says.
My mother gives him a warm hug. Emerson hugs him as well, though shyly. Hayden doesn’t hug me. He simply reaches out and takes my hand.
“I’ll show you his latest work,” he tells us.
He turns us toward the sculptures. We have to wait for the crowd in front of us to finish looking. While we wait, Hayden leans in close. “You take my breath away.” His expression is filled with admiration, appreciation. And something else. Sadness? Then it is gone, replaced with a dazzling smile.
I return his smile with one of my own. “I stopped breathing weeks ago.”
Hayden understands my meaning; I know because his eyes deepen in color for a moment, turning a brilliant indigo. His gaze is more powerful than words. I forget where I am. I forget to breathe. I am completely his.
Mom touches my arm. And I remember where I am. The room is out of
focus. I am dizzy. I blink, trying to clear my thoughts. Be present.
I breathe in and out. Look around. Mom catches my glance. Gives me a half-smile of understanding. I squeeze her hand. She squeezes mine back.
Finally, the group in front of us moves on. Hayden steps forward and gestures to the pieces in front of us.
We can only stare in awe. Humbled. Three white pedestals stand in a line. Each holds a precious animal casted entirely in metal.
The first is a horse. Peaceful. Serene. Wide, calm eyes look at us as though they see us. The horse’s mane flows in the wind, as smooth as if we could touch it. The muscles of the horse ripple. One hoof is raised, as though he is about to break into movement any second. He is majestic. The plaque underneath reads “‘Freedom to Fly’—John Rivers.”
The second is a bear. A rounded back with tufted hair rises in the air. The snout is long and curved. The nose smells the air, testing it. Claws grip the stones underneath his paws. He is so real, he makes my blood rush. “‘Greeting Spring’—John Rivers.”
The last is a mountain lion. Teeth bared. Front paws in the air. Hind legs bent as though ready to pounce. She is ferocious. Behind her are two cubs. Each has its own position and attitude. Each a different expression. One imitates Mama, posing just like her. The other is distracted, using a paw to bat something just out of reach. They are charming and wild at the same time. A family of three. “‘Unbroken Chain’—John Rivers.”
Mom is especially taken with the horse. I watch her move around the piece, looking at it from all sides. She had horses growing up. She’s told stories about how she used to ride with my grandfather. Those are her favorite memories. If she could, she’d have a horse now. So it warms me to watch her face. The happiness there.
Hayden’s grandfather joins us then. It’s only the second time I have seen him, so I marvel again at his strong resemblance to Hayden.
Hayden introduces his grandfather to Mom and Emerson. Gramps holds out his hand to Mom, but she surprises him by embracing him instead. Then Emerson does the same. Mom begins talking animatedly about the pieces—she points and gestures. Hayden’s grandfather basks in her praise. Smiles as he talks to her.
Hayden translates for me. “He works in a method that is thousands of years old called lost wax casting. It is the same method they used in ancient Egypt, Greece, and Rome. He makes the figure out of clay first, then he takes the sculpture through many steps of creating different molds before the metal can be poured. The process itself is a traditional art.”
I had no idea that Hayden’s grandfather was such an artist, but it doesn’t surprise me to know that Hayden is related to someone with extraordinary gifts. I look again at the horse. Marvel at the commitment it takes to make one piece.
Hayden turns to me. “Hi.” But his eyes say so much more. He leans slightly into me. Nudging me with his shoulder.
Tingles like snowflakes dust my arm. “Hi, yourself,” I return. Then I laugh. For the sheer joy of this moment.
We are interrupted by Hayden’s grandfather. He has taken my mother by one arm and Emerson by the other. He weaves through the crowd. Heads for the other side of the room. Hayden grasps my hand in his, twisting his fingers through mine like a woven tapestry. We move together as one. We follow behind, relishing the time together.
I look around at the paintings on the walls. Ocean landscapes seemingly washed by waves and sand. Rock formations teetering above a cougar ready to pounce. Horses running in herds, wild and free. American Indians, as natural as the scenery surrounding them.
I am absorbed by the images around me. Transported to other times and places. So much that at first, I don’t notice. Not until I am right behind him do I see him: Connor Williams, with his arm wrapped around someone. Only it isn’t Lily. My eyes flick to Hayden’s. He sees it too. I hold his gaze briefly, but my eyes are drawn back to Connor and the girl who isn’t Lily. She is turned sideways to me, so I can see her profile. I recognize her as one of Lily’s posse.
I let go of Hayden’s hand, try to side step away. To disappear into the camouflage of bodies. But at that moment, everything changes. As if in slow motion, Connor swivels around. Catches me. I freeze, poised to bolt. But I am already in his sights, clamped as though in iron cuffs. I see recognition register in his expression. And something happens to me. Darkness trickles through the glow of my happiness. Seeps like water into my ears. Throbbing. Triggering my fight-or-flight response. Flight is my choice.
But in the whirl of colors around me, I see no escape. Panic staggers my breathing. I have to get away.
Then—a hand on the center of my back. It’s moving me away from Connor. Into the crowd. Hayden guides me in my flight. All I know is his touch. Anchoring me. Freeing me.
Saving me.
Within seconds, the encounter is over, though shivers still run up my spine. And I still have the disturbing sense of being watched.
Hayden guides me to my mother, Emerson, and Gramps. And instantly, my mind clears. Mom stands as still as one of the sculptures. Her eyes are fixed on a medium-sized canvas on the wall.
A meadow of white and yellow wildflowers stretches lazily beneath the canopy of an azure sky. My eyes are drawn to the right side, where a golden horse stands in knee-high grasses, head raised, as though she has been waiting for us. Ears cocked forward, listening. Eyes luminous. Gentle.
And I know my mom is transfixed by this painting.
This looks exactly like her horse. The one she had when she was my age. I’ve seen photographs of it. Melody. It’s like it was painted from my mother’s memories.
I reach out for her hand. She doesn’t turn to look at me. But she squeezes my hand. Telling me. I squeeze back. I see it, too.
A man steps forward. Medium build. Dark hair swept back as though he’s just run a hand through it. Fine-lined olive skin. Wide open, chestnut eyes. It’s his smile that defines him, though. He grins at Gramps. A sideways, almost impish, smile. Making him at once boyish and charming. He embraces Gramps and then Hayden. Gramps turns to Mom. She lets go of my hand so she can shake the man’s hand. I watch as Emerson is introduced as well. Then it is my turn. Hayden makes the introduction, which makes me incredibly grateful.
“Stella, this is Christophe Durand. These are his paintings.” I reach out to take the hand Christophe offers me. He smiles that engaging grin once more. His eyes glance mischievously to Hayden. As heat rises in my cheeks, I am gratified to see that Hayden is also blushing.
Then Christophe steps back to speak to my mother. She gestures to the painting, and I know, even without hearing her words, that she is telling him about Melody. Christophe steps closer to the painting, waving his hands over the horse as he speaks to her. I look to Hayden for help.
“He’s telling her about his process. He has a few horses of his own, but he watches horses all the time then paints them from memory. This horse, though, was different. It came to him in a dream. And he painted the dream.”
Something happens then. In a brief, earth-stopping moment. My mother and this painter look into each other’s eyes. And Hayden doesn’t need to translate for me, because no words are spoken. But the meaning is clear. To my mother. To Christophe. And from the glance that passes between me and Emerson, to both of us. I cannot remember ever seeing my mother look like this. She glows. That’s what she must have looked like when she was my age. Christophe points to another painting, one of a herd of wild horses running through a canyon. Their hooves churn the dust into a cloud behind them. Their manes are tangled, heads thrown high to catch the wind. Wild and free.
Emerson walks to stand next to me. She looks at Mom then back to me with raised eyebrows.
“I know,” I say.
Gramps motions to Hayden, needing him for a moment. Hayden turns to me. “I’ll be right back.”
Emerson drifts back to stand next to Mom. And I find myself alone. I spot an open door to my left and make my way toward it.
I step onto a balcony. The night air bites
my bare shoulders, slaps my cheeks. Tiny lights overhead illuminate the small area. I see no one else. Leaning over the edge, I look up at the stars. Wish I knew the name of even one constellation.
Suddenly, I know I am no longer alone.
I don’t hear someone approach. I feel it on the back of my neck. Warning me a split second before I realize that even though my senses can now operate independently of my hearing, I am incredibly vulnerable. Without hearing, I cannot protect myself from someone sneaking up on me.
I glance over my shoulder. Connor. Alone. Somehow I already knew it was him.
I try to appear casual as I turn to face him. “Hi, Connor. I thought that was you.” His eyes narrow. He takes a step toward me, closing the gap between us. He is tall. Broad from years of sculpting his body. Strong. His eyes are so dark they reflect the balcony lights. Eyes of fire.
He speaks. And I understand his words as clearly as if I could read his lips. I understand them from his body language. His menacing posture. Narrowed eyes. Strained neck muscles in the space where his shirt opens at the top. And from the scent of sweat and the tang of adrenaline he wears like cologne.
Connor is threatening me.
Without realizing it, I have backed up. I am now pressed against the stone banister. I lean back to keep distance between Connor’s face and mine.
I can’t back up any more or I will fall over the top of the balcony.
He says something else and leans in even closer. His hands are now on the railing. His arms closing me in on both sides.
Warning bells ring in my head. Bells I can hear.
I turn my head to the side and duck at the same moment. My sudden movement gives me the advantage of surprise. Split seconds to slide under his arm and around him. To free myself.
“I won’t tell Lily about this,” I say. “Any of it.”
He has a gleam in his eyes. Anger or frustration. Maybe even shame. But I don’t want to find out which. I turn and rush for the door. Fling it open and step back into a world of light and color.
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