Run to You Part Five: Fifth Touch

by Clara Kensie

  My movement pulled the sleeve of Tristan’s hoodie back and exposed my cast. She gestured to it with her chin. “What happened?”

  Quickly, I lowered my arm under the table. “A stupid accident. I’m fine.”

  “Have you seen Daddy?” she asked.

  “A few minutes ago.”

  “Is he...still resting?”

  That’s what I’d told her last time. But she knew what resting really meant. “Yes.”

  She sighed heavily.

  “I’m getting better at using my retrocognition,” I blurted, to change the subject. “Sometimes, anyway. And I’m painting now, too. I’m painting a mural. It’s in the cafeteria at school.”

  “Painting!” she exclaimed. “I remember you used to be a talented little artist. Do you have pictures of your mural?”

  That would have been a good idea. “No, sorry.”

  “You’ll bring them next time, then.”

  She was a killer, yes, but at this moment, I didn’t see it. She was so frail and meek. She was resigned to her incarceration, to going to therapy, to healing. It was so easy to see her as she used to be, as my mother, and not as a crazed murderer. The mother who’d sat at the kitchen table, contentedly doing a crossword puzzle while batter mixed itself in a bowl and the vacuum cleaner moved itself around the living room. The mother who’d called me Babydoll.

  Mom.

  I would never forgive her for the things she’d done, but I didn’t want to hate her anymore. I wanted her back in my life.

  “And Jillian and Logan?” she asked. “Are they still mad at me? Or are they so busy with their music and dancing that they couldn’t come with you today?”

  She didn’t know? “Mom, they’re still missing.”

  Her smile faded. “What?”

  “We can’t find them. They’re still running.”

  “Wh—wh—” she huffed as her eyes filled with tears. “But I thought you were all together. I assumed...”

  “We’ll find them,” I said. “Soon. Any day now.”

  Mom put her chin to her chest and cried. She couldn’t even wipe her own tears. I leaned over the table to wipe her cheek.

  Mr. Milbourne, hand firmly on my shoulder, pressed me back into my chair. “Hands off.”

  “Wherever they are, they’re together. They’re safe,” I assured her. “They were in Tennessee recently. We missed them by minutes. Do you any idea where they could have gone? Any clue where we could look next?”

  She sniffled. “The only place I can think of is Nebraska,” she said, her lip quivering. “To see Jillian’s boyfriend. But when they get there, they’ll find out...” Her face contorted with grief.

  “They were already there,” I said. “They know Gavin’s dead.”

  She broke out in fresh tears.

  “Mom,” I said, “how come you didn’t know that they’re still missing? Don’t you ever ask about us?” I glanced at Mr. Milbourne, who shook his head.

  My mother shook hers as well. “I did at first,” she admitted, “but not anymore.”

  How could she not ask about us, her own children, every single day? “Why not?”

  She leaned to me and whispered, “I told you. They lie to me, Tessa. I can’t believe anything they say. They told me the most awful—” Her eyes slid to Mr. Milbourne and she sat back. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”

  What horrible lies could he have told her? I looked at him with suspicion. He looked back with innocence.

  “If you’re not living with Jillian and Logan, then where are you living?” she asked.

  “I’m living with Tristan and his family.”

  “You’re what?” Her voice rose, just a little, but enough to make the guards tense and reach for their guns. My mother, cowed, sank into her chair. She turned her head to Mr. Milbourne. “It’s all true?” she whimpered. “You weren’t lying to me?”

  “We have never lied to you, Mrs. Carson,” he said solemnly.

  She inhaled, steeling herself. “So it’s true that Tristan is really Dennis Connelly’s son?” she asked me.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re living with Dennis Connelly,” she said. “In his house.”

  “Yes.”

  “With his family.”

  “Mom, yes.”

  She flinched, and the guards tightened their grip on their guns.

  I gripped the table, bracing myself for my mother’s uncontrolled screams of fury, for the table to vibrate, for the guards to crumple to the floor. Braced myself to be flown across the room and into the cinder-block wall. Braced myself for my stomach to be sliced open again.

  But the table did not vibrate. I remained in the chair. My mother wasn’t even capable of doing those things anymore.

  “All those years,” Mom whispered. “All the running and hiding. Leaving our home, leaving our lives behind. And now you’re living with the man who started it all.” Her eyes were closed, her body stiff, her hands in fists at her side.

  I’d rather she scream and lose control. She was doing this so the guards wouldn’t take her away, I knew that, but anything was better than this forced calm.

  “Are you happy there?” she asked, forcing the words out in a little squeak. “Are you happy living with Dennis Connelly and his son Tristan?”

  “Yes,” I said, realizing it for the first time. “Dennis and Deirdre are doing everything they can to make me feel welcome. I’m friends with his sister. I even have a kitten. And Tristan is helping me find Jillian and Logan. He’s doing great, Mom. He’s working so hard.”

  My mother closed her eyes, deep lines forming around her lips as she pressed them tight. She drew a breath, held it, and let it out. “Get out.”

  “W-what?”

  She rocked back and forth, her fists so tight that her knuckles were white. “I said get out.”

  “Mom, no. Please.”

  She finally opened her eyes. I half expected to see her eyes had turned Nightmare black. They were filled with anguish and anger and grief and pain, but they were still gray. She looked up at Mr. Milbourne. “Sir, please take this girl out of here. Put her on my do-not-allow list.”

  “Mom,” I cried. “You can’t mean that.”

  “Get out, Tessa!” she screamed. She inhaled once, hugely, then whispered, “And don’t ever come back.”

  She watched from her chair as Mr. Milbourne pulled me from the room.

  I stumbled into Tristan’s arms, but I barely realized where we were. Tristan was frantic, furious, asking why I was so upset. But I could hear nothing but my mother telling me to go away and never come back. My own mother never wanted to see me again.

  My mother.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Instead of heading back home after visiting my mother, Tristan and I cut through the forest surrounding the APR to take a walk down Lilybrook’s quaint Main Street. Next to a wrought iron bench was a wooden sign: Welcome to Lilybrook—A Friendly Place to Live. The February day was warmer than average and the sun shone, but I was frozen all the way to my core as we strolled under the leafless trees and past the bus stop and pharmacy. “All these weeks, I couldn’t bring myself to see my parents.” I took his arm and put it around my shoulders, the way I felt safest. “And once I did, my father broke my wrist and my mother told me to go away and never come back.”

  “Your dad didn’t know what he was doing,” he said, “and your mother didn’t mean what she said.” He kissed the top of my head.

  “Yes, she did.” My father may not have been in his right mind when he broke my wrist, but my mother had been aware of every word she’d said. She blamed me for everything. She would never forgive me for telling our secrets to Tristan, or for living with the Connellys. My father had crushed my wrist in a fit of crazed pan
ic. My mother had crushed my heart in a fit of whispered anguish.

  “I’ll talk to Mr. Milbourne,” Tristan said. “He won’t put you on her do-not-allow list if I tell him not to. I’ll talk to the board of directors if I have to.”

  “Don’t,” I said. “I’m not going to force her to see me if she doesn’t want to.”

  I wasn’t sure about visiting my father again, either. The nurse had said I was “disturbing” him. What did that mean? Was my mere presence in his cell this afternoon enough to disturb his peaceful sleep?

  The whole time I’d lived here in Lilybrook, I’d avoided seeing my parents, telling myself I wasn’t ready. But now that I couldn’t see them, it hurt. My mother had rejected me, and it hurt.

  We passed the police station and post office and dance studio, then came to Hawthorne’s, the local diner popular for its blueberry pie. “You’re cold,” Tristan said. “Let’s get some hot chocolate for the walk home.”

  Tristan was right this morning. I never should have gone to visit my mother. He’d warned me not to see her, he’d warned me that she would hurt me. He knew it would happen, this morning at his house, and he didn’t even need a premonition. He just knew.

  At the counter, he ordered two hot chocolates to go, looking back over his shoulder to make sure I was okay.

  Taking care of me. Being the hero. Being my hero.

  His winter coat stretched tight across his broad shoulders as he handed me one of the hot chocolates.

  Even his hands were big and strong.

  Outside, we left Main Street and headed back through the forest. The heat from my hot chocolate seeped through the foam cup. Tristan’s arm was around me. I was toasty now, warm to the core.

  The snow-frosted trees reached to the sky, hiding the APR, hiding Lilybrook, and the world became just Tristan and me, a few chirping birds, a few snowbanks, and a wooden bridge over a frozen brook. My steps slowed as we crossed the bridge.

  Tristan stopped too, looking past the bridge’s railing. “In the summertime,” he murmured, “this brook is covered with hundreds of pink water lilies. That’s how the town got its name. Lilybrook.”

  His eyes seemed extra blue, out here in the sun.

  His tousled brown hair sparkled with gold.

  I licked my lips. “Tristan,” I whispered.

  He shifted his gaze to meet mine. Our breath came out in little clouds.

  “Tristan, I need you.”

  One at a time, not taking my eyes from his, I placed our drinks on the bridge’s railing, out of the way. Then I stepped closer, one step, two steps, until I was only an inch from him. I pressed into him, wishing I could disappear inside of him, where I would always be warm and safe and loved.

  His chest moved up and down as he breathed. His heart beat through his jacket, and the brown stubble his jaw glistened like gold in the sun. I inhaled his fresh, clean, masculine scent.

  God, I loved him.

  I loved every ounce of him. All of him. Inside and out.

  I was hungry now, ravenous. Ravenous for him. I stood on tiptoe and snaked my arms around his neck, my left arm heavy with the cast, and pulled him down so I could kiss his lips. He kissed me back, tenderly. But I did not return his gentle kisses, oh, no. I was too hungry for him to be tender. I ravished him with passionate and greedy kisses. He responded; his kisses became less comforting and more urgent and gluttonous. We stumbled off the bridge and sank down behind the trees, against a snowbank.

  My hands roamed his body, unzipped his jacket, then slipped under his shirt. I needed to touch him. My cast, my stupid cast, prevented me from feeling him fully, making me clumsy and awkward, but he understood. With shallow breath, he shed his jacket and spread it on the ground, then rolled us over on top of it. I was finally able to run one hand over his chest, his stomach, his waist, and then his chest again.

  He kissed me, then stopped and pulled back a little, just far enough to slide his hand behind my head and stroke my cheek with his thumb. “Beautiful,” he whispered.

  No, he was the one who was beautiful. He wanted to keep me safe. He wanted me to be happy. He wanted to be my hero.

  I slid off my coat, then pulled my hoodie—his hoodie, I loved wearing his hoodies but now I needed it off, I needed to have as much of me touching as much of him as possible—over my head, and the air must have been cold but I was desert-hot as he kissed my stomach, ignoring my five twisted, ugly scars. He worked his way up, kissing every inch of me, my belly, my breasts, my collarbone, my neck, until he was back up at my lips.

  Our kisses tamed as our heart rates slowed and our breathing returned to normal. Reluctantly, we slipped our tops and jackets back on. He lounged against the snowbank and I put my head against his chest. As I snuggled into him, I rested my casted arm on his stomach and watched it rise and sink as he breathed in and out.

  I need you, Tristan. I do.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Amy cut off my cast a few days later. I’d only had to wear it for a short while, a much shorter time than a neutral without access to a psionic healer, but I was relieved, just the same. Every time I saw it, or felt its weight when I moved my arm, I was reminded how my own father had broken my wrist. I still felt the burn of the rage in his eyes. But now the cast was gone, and I could paint my mural again. And best of all, I could run both palms all over Tristan’s chest, and cup his face in both my hands, and bring him to me for a kiss.

  The very next day after school, I went to paint my mural. Mr. Vargas was almost as delighted by my return as I was. He helped set up my supplies in the cafeteria, then went back to the art room, leaving me to my work. The mural was about seventy percent finished; I had only the strawberry and the grapes left to do. The apple and the blueberry needed some touching up, I decided. More highlights and shadows. I would do those first, and then I could probably finish most of the strawberry before it was time to stop for the day.

  I squeezed some paint on my palette, adjusted the fog to keep the visions away, then sank into the mural, the fresh smell of the paint, the strokes of the brush. A group of students passed through the cafeteria, their footsteps and chatter echoing through the fog. I lowered it to block them out.

  A grunt shot through the fog like a bullet. Spawn, it sounded like. I glanced behind me only to see wisps of auburn hair and blond dreadlocks disappear around the corner. Winter and Nathan. Had they been standing there watching me, or had they just been walking by?

  Didn’t matter. They were gone now. I lowered the fog as far as I dared and resumed painting the shadow on the underside of the apple, and tried to ignore the way my blood burned through my veins, tried to ignore the Nightmare Eyes that glowered at me from above.

  “Tessa, what are you doing?” Mr. Vargas asked a few minutes later, startling me.

  “Painting my mural,” I said. I glanced out the window. The sun was low in the sky. I’d been painting longer than I’d thought.

  “Yes, but why are you painting that?” He pointed at the wall.

  Two big black disks.

  Oh, no.

  “You know I love what you’ve done so far,” Mr. Vargas said, brows knit, “and I would like to give you free rein, but I can’t let you paint these eyes on this mural.”

  I climbed down the ladder. Took a few steps back. Looked up at the wall.

  Black, bottomless. Angry and accusing. Unlike the rest of my mural, which was playful and whimsical, the eyes were so detailed they looked real. Lifelike. Pupils solid, sinister, eternal black surrounded by sparkling silver irises. They stared at me, glowering with shame and grief and fury, dark as a starless night and black as a cavern of coal.

  My Nightmare Eyes.

  Their gaze locked onto mine. Held me prisoner. I couldn’t turn away.

  “You painted them over some of your completed work,” Mr. Va
rgas said from far away. “I don’t understand.”

  “I...” I stammered. “I don’t...” My breath started coming in quick gasps. I tried to force my shaking hands up to my face, to cover my eyes, to sever the connection, to break the spell the giant black eyes had cast over me. But I was frozen.

  He brought a finger to one of the black eyes and touched it, fascinated. “What compelled you to paint these?”

  “Cover them,” I said. “Please.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid we’ll have to,” he said with a sigh.

  “I can’t do it. I can’t touch them.” If I touched the Nightmare Eyes, I would lose myself. I knew it. The fog would disappear, it would be sucked up in a vacuum, and the visions would overpower me. I would never recover.

  “Oh, don’t be upset,” Mr. Vargas said. “The eyes are...well, beautiful isn’t the right word, although you did a beautiful job painting them. They’re haunting. They make me think of...shame. Loss. Anger. Betrayal. Pain.”

  He shuddered. “Art should give people strong reactions like this. But I doubt anyone could eat with those hateful things staring at them. I’d love for you to paint them again, just not on a cafeteria wall.”

  “Cover them,” I said again. I backed up, still unable to tear my gaze away. I stumbled over a chair and caught myself before I fell. That seemed to break the hold the eyes had over me, and I was able to look away.

  Mr. Vargas frowned. “Are you okay—”

  I turned and fled. I ran to the girls’ bathroom and stood, shaking, over the sink. My hands were covered in black paint, and when I looked in the mirror, I saw that I had smeared some of that paint on my face. I looked ghoulish. Haunted. I ran water over a fistful of paper towels, and scrubbed, scrubbed, scrubbed.

  The next afternoon after school, Mr. Vargas helped me carry my painting supplies into the cafeteria. The giant eyes were gone. In their place was a fresh coat of bright white paint. Mr. Vargas must have painted over the eyes after I left yesterday.

  Half of my mural was gone, but that was okay. As long as the eyes were gone too.