“Oh no,” I whisper, taking in where I’m at. Even in the moonlight, I realize I’m near the pier at the river.
A crushing weight constricts my chest. The suffocating air closes around me, choking me. I roll to my side and curl up, gasping and fighting back tears. My hand finds my necklace and I clasp it, feeling the smooth stone pressing into my palms
What is wrong with me?
I don’t understand any of this. I don’t know how I got out of the truck, how I’m not in a hospital right now—or worse, how I’m not dead. It’s like the rules for reality have changed. You’re not supposed to escape a wreck without getting hurt. I force myself to sit up and check for injuries. There’s no blood. Not even a single scratch. Only my arm hurts where Trevor grabbed me.
And I’m even worried about Trevor, despite what he did to me. I wonder if he’s okay.
Aunt Grace has to be flipping out. It takes a lot of effort for me to stand, and I have to stay still for a while before I’m steady enough to walk. The other times I blacked out, I woke feeling dizzy, but nothing like this.
As I half walk, half stumble through the forest, an owl hoots somewhere above me. Leaves and twigs crackle with each step I take, each one sounding like a gunshot, but I don’t care. It’s not like anyone would be out here wanting to hurt me at this time of night.
I make a noise that sounds like a cross between a strangled laugh and a snort. And then I cry. I lean against a tree until the tears stop.
Yeah, when I get back to the inn, Aunt Grace is probably going to drag me off to a psych ward. I’m a freak. A lucky freak, but still a freak.
Another thought surfaces. I don’t have to tell Aunt Grace I blacked out. I could let her think Trevor released me or I escaped and hid from him. She might buy it. Then she won’t have to take me to get my head examined. I could go on pretending everything’s fine.
Even though it’s not.
I rub at my face and push on.
At the edge of the forest, I stop. The inn is fully lit, illuminating Aunt Grace’s truck and several cars. Crap, I don’t need this. I guess it’s to be expected since I was taken against my will, but I don’t want to listen to a bunch of questions when I don’t have the answers.
Before I know it, I’m almost at the back porch. I expect voices to blare from inside, but instead an eerie quiet blankets the house.
A lone figure sits on the top step. A sigh of relief escapes me when I realize it’s Bridger. He’s leaning forward with his arms propped on his legs, rubbing one of his hands. He doesn’t notice me yet.
And I run toward him, calling his name. I didn’t realize how much I wanted to see him until now.
His head snaps up and his eyes grow wide, then he leaps off the steps. When he reaches me, I throw my arms around his neck. His arms wrap around me and he holds me tight. I feel safe, like I belong in his arms.
Shocked, I pull away, my face and neck burning.
“Where have you been?” he asks.
I can’t answer. I don’t know what to say yet. Tell the truth, or go with the lie. It’ll be easier if Aunt Grace thinks I found a way to escape Trevor. That would mean no trips to the doctor and no medical bills.
But there’s one problem—I’d already decided earlier to stop pretending. Me going to the doctor will hurt Grace financially, but I can’t ignore these blackouts anymore. I mean, what if I’m dying? It’s not worth it to keep something like that to myself. Because back in Trevor’s truck, as the car was racing toward us, all I wanted to do was live.
“I had another blackout. One minute I was in the truck with Trevor and then the next thing I knew, I was at the river.” Funny, as I’m telling Bridger, lightness spreads through me. It feels wonderful and the words keep pouring out.
Bridger runs a hand over his mouth. “So you don’t remember anything from the time you were in Trevor’s truck until you woke up at the river?”
“Yes,” I say, wondering what he’s getting at.
“Do you realize you’ve been missing for about four hours?”
“No,” I say, starting to get nervous. Four hours. What did I do during that time?
“People have been searching everywhere for you. They went through the woods, and Grace had them comb the area around the pier because that’s your favorite place. They got back a half hour ago and you weren’t there.”
The light feeling evaporates, confirming I’m either insane or dying. Or both.
“Bridger, who are you talking to?” someone calls from the porch. It’s Aunt Grace. From where she’s standing, I know she can’t see us while we’re swallowed by the shadows.
I don’t wait for him to answer. I rush toward the porch, calling her name.
“Oh dear God!” She flies off the steps and folds me into a tight embrace. It’s hard to breathe, but I don’t care. When she finally lets go, she takes me by both shoulders. “I thought I’d never see you again. Where have you been?”
My gaze flicks to Bridger and he gives me a tiny nod. So I let myself open up to her and tell her the truth. Even knowing she’ll drag me to the head doctors.
I expect her to yell at me for keeping the blackouts from her, but she doesn’t. She just pulls me close again. Her voice is thick with emotion as she says, “We’ll worry about that later, sugar. I’m just glad you’re safe.”
“Me too. By the way, how is Trevor? The last thing I remember was that car heading toward the truck. I don’t know how he kept us from getting hit.”
Bridger looks away, but Aunt Grace gasps. “You mean you were still in the truck then?”
“Well, yeah. He must’ve sped up or something.”
“But . . . how is that possible?” she asks.
“What do you mean?” My eyes flick from her to Bridger.
Aunt Grace’s head snaps toward Bridger. “You didn’t tell her?”
“No,” he says.
“Tell me what?”
“The car hit Trevor’s truck,” Aunt Grace says in a quivering voice. “He’s at Emory in Atlanta, in the ICU.” She exchanges a look with Bridger before continuing. “And apparently before they flew him to the hospital, he blamed everything on you.”
33
BRIDGER
MAY 8, 2013
“So, how did the appointment go?” I ask Alora as soon as she enters the front parlor.
“It was fine.” She sits in the chair across from me. Her eyes have a hollow look.
For the past two days, ever since Alora finally admitted to everyone that she’s been having blackouts, I’ve been at war with myself. I wanted to tell her nothing is wrong. In fact, I almost did several times. Each time I made myself stop. And each time the guilt gnawed at me. I feel like I’m betraying Alora. But what choice do I have? I can’t march up to her and say, Hey, you’re not sick and you’re not crazy . . . you’re a Space Bender. I’m sure she’d think I was insane.
“Okay.” I lean forward and steeple my fingers together. I don’t want to seem like I’m prying into her business. Aw, screw that. “But what did the doc say?”
Alora’s eyes snap up to me. It’s like she forgot I’m in the room with her. “I’m sorry. I’m just out of it, I guess.” She gives me a thin smile. “Anyway, he doesn’t think I’m crazy, but he wants to send me to a neurologist.”
She falls into silence. We both know what that means—more tests. Tests I know she doesn’t need.
I focus on my clenched hands. “When is that appointment?”
“Next Monday.” She sighs and then says, “At least school is almost out. If they find anything wrong with me, I can start treatments over the summer.”
Alora thinks she has a brain tumor. I almost laughed when she told me yesterday, but she was serious. All I could do was tell her that she’s overreacting. That didn’t go over so well.
“Alora, where are you?” Grace calls out from the back of the house.
“In here,” she replies.
Grace’s footsteps echo through the hall, then she pokes her he
ad in the doorway. “Hey, Bridger. I didn’t know you were in here.”
Yeah, where else would I be? I give her a half wave. “I was asking Alora about the appointment.”
Grace’s smile falters. “It was fine.”
“Yeah, everything was just freaking great,” Alora mutters.
An uncomfortable quiet follows. Alora fidgets with her fingers. Grace bites her lip. I scratch my neck, trying to think of something to say. Something to make Alora feel better.
Finally, Grace clears her throat. “You know, I thought I could fix some sandwiches for a picnic. It’s too pretty outside to be cooped up in here.” Her eyes flick back and forth between Alora and me. “How’s that sound?”
Actually it sounds perfect. “I’m up for it,” I say.
“Good. I’ll get everything together. Be back in a jiffy.”
After Grace leaves, I watch Alora for a few moments. Now I feel even worse than I have for the past two days. Dark circles ring her eyes and she’s slumped in the chair, like there’s a literal weight crushing her spirit.
Not only does Alora think she’s sick, she’s also been questioned by the police several times about what happened with Trevor. At least nothing came of that. Trevor doesn’t remember how Alora got out, and she doesn’t either. The police figured Trevor just let Alora out somewhere before he got to the red light.
But I know better.
And now I want to take that pain away. I wish I could.
She needs something to distract her. Something that she normally does that could take her mind off things.
Something like drawing.
I shift my eyes away from Alora, remembering how I found her sketchbook. Heat burns my face. It’s like I’ve been stabbing her in the back. But I had to do it. I had to. And I still need to find out about the women she drew.
I run my hand through my hair. How can I ask her about drawing? “Since we’re going on a picnic, why don’t you get your sketchbook? You might want to work on something while we’re out.”
That was smooth. Elijah and Zed would laugh their asses off if they were here.
But Alora doesn’t laugh. Her eyes come back into focus. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. I haven’t had time to work on anything lately.” She stands and stretches and I can’t help but notice how her light blue tank top slips up, exposing the skin above her shorts.
I look away, rubbing the back of my neck. I wonder if she saw me checking her out.
Not good, Bridger. Not good.
“I’ll see if Grace needs any help while you get whatever you need,” I quickly say. I can’t get to the kitchen fast enough. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was developing feelings for Alora. But that’s impossible. I wouldn’t do something that stupid.
“Where’s Alora?” Grace asks.
“She went upstairs to get her sketchbook.”
“That’s nice. I haven’t seen her draw anything lately.”
Grace busies herself with loading way more food into the picnic basket than Alora and I will be able to eat.
Alora joins us, the small backpack I found the sketchbook in slung over her shoulder. “Are you ready?” she asks me.
“Yes.” I start to pick up the basket, but Grace grabs it first.
“Don’t worry, I’ll carry it.”
“You’re coming too?” I ask, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice.
Grace grins. “Well, of course. I’m not gonna let you two have all the fun.”
Alora’s eyes widen.
Nice. How am I supposed to get Alora to talk about those sketches if Grace is there, poking her nose in everything?
After we’re finished eating, I lay back on the blanket Grace spread out on the pier.
“I’m full as a tick,” Grace says, interrupting the quiet. She stretches out her legs and sighs. “I need to come down here more. This used to be mine and Darrel’s favorite place to go.”
“Really?” Alora asks. She’s sitting cross-legged next to Grace, drawing something. “I never knew that.”
A pained expression crosses Grace’s face. “Yeah, I didn’t do such a good job of letting you know a lot of stuff.”
I hope Grace doesn’t decide to share her entire history with Darrel. I hate feeling so selfish. But ever since Alora slid the sketchbook out of her backpack, my fingers have itched to grab it.
“Don’t worry about that. You were just looking out for me.”
Grace lets out a snort. “Yeah, a lot of good I did.”
Even though I’m irritated with Grace right now, I feel sorry for her. Everything she’s done has been to protect Alora. If only my mom would act more like Grace.
“I’ve got to get back to the house,” Grace says. She stands and grabs the picnic basket. “You never know, we might get a drop-in guest.” From her tone, she doesn’t believe it. Grace hasn’t had any guests in over two weeks.
“I’m not finished yet,” Alora says. “Are you ready to head back, Bridger?”
“No. I kind of like it out here.”
“I was hoping y’all would keep me company, but if you want to be like that.” Grace winks, but grows serious as she focuses on me. “Don’t leave her alone, okay?”
“You know I won’t,” I say.
At the same time, Alora lets out an exasperated, “Really, Aunt Grace?”
“Sweetie, you can’t be by yourself. Not under the circumstances.”
After Grace leaves, Alora huffs and rolls her eyes. “I wish she’d stop treating me like a baby.”
“She’s just worried about you.”
“Don’t start that.”
“Start what?” I ask, tilting my head to the side.
“Defending her. She’s smothering me. Besides, didn’t you tell me your mom does the same thing?”
“Yes, but the difference is my mother is only looking out for herself.”
Alora sets the sketchbook on her lap. “How do you know that?”
“I just know.” I stare at the ripples and small waves lapping against the shore. That’s just how Mom is with me. Her criticisms come in short, steady streams, never stopping.
“Maybe that’s true, but what if you’re wrong? What if your mom’s trying to protect you?”
I snort. “Yeah, right. If there’s one thing I know about Morgan Creed, it’s that she’s only interested in protecting herself or my brother.”
“I think you’re overreacting,” Alora says, arching an eyebrow.
“If you ever met my mother you wouldn’t say that.”
Alora gets this funny look on her face, all dreamy-like. “I’d like that.”
“What?”
“Meeting your mom. She sounds interesting.”
My mouth goes dry. Alora will never get to meet my mom. It’s another reminder I’m not where I belong.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say. I’m not sure how we got on the subject of my mother, but I have to change it. Now. I lean over and peer at Alora’s book. “Can I see what you’re drawing?”
She bites her lip. “I suppose so, but promise you won’t laugh.”
“I promise,” I say, taking the book from her.
I’d figured she was drawing the river. So I’m surprised to find myself looking at a half-finished sketch of me. “Wow.”
Her face turns pink. “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked first. Do you want me to stop?”
“No, it’s okay. I like it,” I say, grinning.
I know she wants to finish, but I need to pretend to see those sketches of the two women for the first time. So I act all smooth and skim through the pages. “Nice,” I say. When I get to the ones I’m looking for, I stop. “These are really good. Who are they?”
Alora’s expression grows somber. “I don’t know.”
“Wait . . . I thought you could only draw people you’ve seen before.”
She crosses her arms against her chest. “What I meant is I have seen them. I dream about them sometimes. I figured one is my
mom, but I don’t have a clue which one.”
And as if lightning has struck me, an answer materializes in my mind. Adrenaline rushes through my body. Of course! Vika doesn’t look like her mother at all, yet she bears a strong resemblance to Alora and Alora’s father. Plus, there is the fact that Alora is a Space Bender. What if Alora and Vika are sisters? Vika was always a little jealous of my relationship with Dad—she was the product of a sperm donation. What if the donor was Alora’s father? What if Vika and Alora share the same mother? But how, and more importantly, why would Colonel Fairbanks want to have a child with someone who lived in the past? With someone who was probably a natural-born Space Bender?
I’m missing something. But what?
“What’s wrong?” Alora asks, jerking my attention back to her.
“Sorry, I was just thinking.”
“Whatever it was, it must be good. You look happy.”
“You have no idea.” I grin. The surge of excitement shooting through my veins is intoxicating.
For the first time since that whole mess on Monday, Alora really smiles. It’s beautiful, lighting up her whole face. I love it. I stare at her lips.
I want to kiss her more than anything.
Before I can stop myself, I cup her cheek and hold her gaze. I shouldn’t do this. My mind’s screaming at me to stop. I’m not supposed to mess around with a ghost. But I can’t stop. My lips brush against hers, silencing the screams. This feels so right. So perfect.
Alora’s body tenses before relaxing. She wraps her arms around my neck and presses her body closer to mine. And when her mouth parts . . . oh hell, I nearly lose it.
Then I remember what I’m doing. Who I’m kissing.
I can’t do this.
I pull away from her. Instantly, I miss the warmth of her body against mine. From the startled look on her face, she’s feeling the same way.
“What’s wrong?” she asks in a breathless voice.
I can’t speak for a moment. My heart is hammering too hard. When I’m able to think again, I say, “Maybe we should go back to the house.”
The Edge of Forever Page 21