by A. R. Mummey
Chapter One
Nine Weeks Earlier…
In the dark, I could be whoever I wanted to be, whatever I wanted to be. Anything was possible. Life was full. Easy. There were endless possibilities.
But it was all a lie. Reality was hard, painful, cruel. Fantasy, dreams, possibilities: those were easy. I’d always been a dreamer, an observer of life, never really living it.
This was my mantra. For me, every day was exactly the same. That was what burned me. The fabricated dreams that I mattered, that I would do something noteworthy with my life … they were nothing. I failed. All that hope and promise were just that: hope and promise. Lies I’d created to get me through the day-to-day, to keep breathing, to get through the mundane everyday existence of my life.
With each passing day, the lies became harder and harder to believe. My imagination decayed along with my dreams, leaving me lost, stuck, terrified—and desperate. I was about to graduate from college, knowing nothing other than the same dead-end job that I’d had since high school. It had taken me six years, but I was finally about to complete my degree. That morning, I would start my last quarter. Three classes. That was it. The constant dread and fear of my impending graduation enveloped me.
Now what? What am I doing? Where do I go from here? These were the thoughts that plagued my every waking moment.
The screeching of the alarm clock snapped me into existence. I sighed, hit the snooze button, and rolled away from the annoying clock to face the light streaming through the window. Three classes, twelve weeks. The anxiety began to build again in the pit of my stomach. Damn my brain. Twelve weeks, then a diploma, and then … then….
No. I couldn’t think about that yet. My grades for the past few years at Portland State University had been well above par, but before that, I’d been unfocused, clueless, naïve, and a complete failure. I’d gone intermittently, taking some quarters off as I became overwhelmed with my course load and with working full time. I’d been doing the bare minimum at both school and work for some time, just floating by, drifting along, and waiting for my life to awaken me. Waiting for something to grab me and shake me into being.
But it had never happened.
I had been so unsure of my path that I’d floundered, until I woke one day and realized it was now or never. It was time to buckle down at school and get a degree of some kind. So, I’d picked history, a subject I excelled at. A subject that moved me. But it’d been too late. No graduate school would accept me with my GPA, and as for a new career path, no place would want to hire me without a recommendation from my current employer, which I would never get as my attitude had significantly declined with each passing year. I was ill-suited for customer service. But to be a historian, digging through archives and old musty books and articles, discovering things of the past … now, that suited me to a tee.
The alarm sounded again, breaking my thought process. Exasperated and anxious, I slammed the button on the clock. As soon as my fingers made contact, I felt a jolt of electricity. Crying out, I jumped up as light blue sparks hissed and died where my fingers had just been.
What the…?
I let the question linger as I grabbed a comb, prodding the clock gently before carefully examining it with my bare hands. Nope. The clock was most definitely dead. Maybe a power surge? My mind trailed along, coming up with multiple explanations to justify what had just happened.
It wasn’t the first time either. A week ago, I had woken from a nightmare. Unable to sleep, I went to make a pot of coffee and, as soon as I touched it, it too had been covered in iridescent blue sparks. I had debated calling Heath, my best friend, over. He would drop everything to stay with me. But I couldn’t risk it. In turn I had run down my small list of friends: Theo, Anabel, Greta, Madison. No. I didn’t want anyone to think I’d lost my mind. I shook my head, still in mourning for my dead coffee pot.
Trying to clear my mind of all things weird—I mean, maybe it was bad wiring—I started when I checked my phone. Damn, damn, damn. I was going to be late. I quickly grabbed a pair of somewhat clean jeans from the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed and began searching for a fresh shirt. I hastily plucked a red button up from the pile and threw my dark brown hair into a ponytail. No time for a shower. I rummaged through the closet and spotted a gray zip-up hoodie, which I pulled out before I made my way into the small hallway. To the right was a small bathroom, facing the living room to the left. The living room had an archway with an open bookcase that separated it from the kitchen.
Walking out through the living room and into the kitchen, I stopped at the small table with two chairs at the far end. Lifting my backpack off the nearest chair, I made my way out the door and down the small path to my car.
Another dreary day in Portland, I thought as I started my black Civic and turned on my windshield wipers. I glanced at my phone again and saw the time. I threw the phone onto the passenger seat next to my backpack and put my car in gear. What a great start to the day. Right.
Pulling into the nearest parking garage on campus, I collected my things before slamming my car door and taking off. Class had just started. Not a good way to start my first day of my last quarter. I jetted out of the parking garage. Luckily, my class was just across the street.
Without looking, I started to cross. A sharp blast of a horn stopped me in my tracks. Startled, I turned to see a car skidding to a stop directly in front of me. I jumped back and held out my hand as if by some miracle it could repel the oncoming vehicle. The car’s horn kept sounding as it came to a complete stop, grazing my fingertips. A surge of adrenaline pierced through me, and anger rose as my hand turned into a fist. I slammed the hood of the car and shouted, “Crosswalk!”
My heart pounding, breathing fast, I stared at the driver, a young man in sunglasses with dark hair. He rolled down his window, shouting, “Are you crazy or something? What the hell is wrong with you? Watch where you’re going!”
Whether it was to tell this man off or make myself feel better, or a little bit of both, I slapped the hood of his car as hard as I dared. I inhaled sharply as my hand made contact with the car. A surge of energy rushed through me, and light blue sparks erupted from my fingertips on contact. Dazedly, I shook my head and glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed. This isn’t happening. It’s not real. My breathing slowed as my brain tried to rationalize what had just happened for the second time today. Then I did the only thing I could do, I turned and walked away. I was unharmed, extremely late, and did not have time to argue about right of way with that ass. I would freak out later.
Propelled forward by my need to get to class, I ran into the building and up the three flights of stairs. As I entered the room, I saw there were only a few seats left. I silently made my way toward the one by the window. I sat and began to rummage for a fresh pad of paper and pencil.
As I settled, I surveyed the room. That was the thing about college: once you started your classes to fulfill your major, you began to see the same students over and over again. It came in handy if ever absent and in need of notes. Out of the class of forty, I saw seven that I’d had previous classes with, not including the professor, whom I’d had twice before. One of the seven, Greta, my friend, waved from the front of the room in acknowledgement. I felt a genuine smile cross my face in response before she turned back around.
Professor Brooke, his name bold on the chalkboard behind him, was the epitome of the absentminded professor. Always in the midst of a pivotal point, he spoke with a fervor that left white froth clinging to his lips. He wore a white button up with disheveled, green corduroy pants that complemented his sagging stomach and white hair. His tight face nearly swallowed his small eyes, which were magnified by his glasses. He was a man to be admired, as his brilliance was unparalleled to anyone I had ever met. I respected him and had achieved great success in his classes. This was to be our last class together, and the subject matter was the American Revolution.
Everyone in the class
room was younger than me. I felt ancient, even though I was just a few years older. Looking around as the syllabi was being passed along the rows, I was reminded that I had once held promise. I’d had a path, but somehow it had all become a confused mess. Professor Brooke started discussing the syllabus, all heads bent down to review it but mine, unable to focus.
The summer before my senior year, my father had upheaved our lives in Westerville, Ohio, a quiet suburb of Columbus where we had lived my whole life, to shuttle us off to Astoria, Oregon. My world had transformed completely. Ohio enjoyed definitive seasons. The weather was at times confused, but there were still seasons. The terrain in Ohio was flat, the population, crowded. I enjoyed being able to hide myself amongst others. Anytime I ever stood out had always been for negative reasons, mainly being poor. That’s why it was so hard for me to fail when all I wanted to do was matter. More than anything though, Ohio was the last place I had a real family. All my memories were there. It was the place that I had a mom, dad, and sister. Coming here had ended all of that.
Astoria was small, with a view of the Pacific Ocean and mountains. The only season was rainy—never too cold, never too hot, just dreary and mild. The picturesque town was not at all my style. I was always an outsider there. Where in Westerville I learned to disappear into anonymity, in Astoria there was nowhere to hide. I got a job as soon as I arrived in order to occupy my time and get my father off my back about making friends and doing things. I had made a few friends but I wanted to be alone mostly or at the very least make money, so I worked at the local grocery chain, Larsen’s, in Warrenton after school and on the weekends. My grades suffered, and I became more withdrawn. For me, this was the beginning of the end.
My older sister, Prue, had graduated a few years before me and gone off to college in New York, leaving just my father and I. My dad had progressed in Astoria, meeting people, coming out of his shell since my mother’s death a few years earlier. He’d even met a woman with whom he’d tentatively begun dating. He was succeeding where I was floundering, and I resented him for it. Unsure of myself, unsure of what to do, I graduated and began to work full time, living at home and starting at Clatsop Community College. Despite how much I hated it in Oregon, I’d been too scared to venture off to another state, even back home to Ohio. I’d become so dependent on taking care of my father during my mother’s illness and after her passing that I wasn’t able to let go yet despite our differences and my jealousy. I was scared, and I needed him as much as it pained me to admit. As much as I hated Oregon, I just couldn’t leave.
“Lorelei.”
I started. Damn, my mind was always wandering. I was so unfocused; I hadn’t heard Professor Brooke calling on me. He had a habit of calling me out, always acutely aware of what I was or was not doing.
“Well, Lorelei, what do you think?” Crap. What had he been talking about? Why did he have to call on me?
“Sorry?” I asked sheepishly.
“I asked you if you think the Civil War would have happened if the American Revolution had not taken place. In other words, Miss Abrahms, do you think the Civil War had to happen? Was it eminent, and did the Revolution set up the Civil War?” Professor Brooke stared at me firmly, but with a twinkle in his eyes. He knew that, even though I hadn’t listened to a word of his lecture, I would have an answer. This was my field. To bolster a dynamic or a real discussion, Professor Brooke always called on a few key people he’d had before to give momentum to the subject at hand.
I mentally shook off the negative thoughts rolling in my head, immersing myself in the one thing that made me truly happy, history. Smiling, I began to outline why I felt the Civil War was inevitable, not because of slavery per se, but because of the role of states’ rights, seen again and again through the Louisiana Purchase, the Missouri Compromise, and the Kansas-Nebraska Act. The dynamic with which the states had come into the union, particularly the Southern states, led to a rising tension between states’ rights and federal rights.
As I finished my thought, hands flew up to protest my statement. I sank back in my chair and gazed out the window, my job done; now I could continue doing nothing. The lull of my fellow students combating their thoughts against one another soothed my mind, and I drifted absently.
An odd feeling of being watched crept over me, bringing me back to reality. I turned my gaze to see a man sitting in the seat beside me. I frowned; it had been empty just moments before. Where did he come from? He stared at me intently. Maybe a few years younger than me with wavy, dark brown hair and deep brown eyes. Undeniably handsome, he was slim and well-built, with light caramel skin, high cheek bones, and tight, pursed lips. My eyes opened wide in surprise, my jaw dropping down as a gasp flew from my mouth. Why was he looking at me? I was cute, pretty even, by most standards with my long chestnut hair, hazel eyes, and slender build but I was never beautiful. He was way out of my league. Seeing my surprise and as if reading my thoughts, the man jerked his head away. Now it was my turn to stare. After a moment, he slowly shifted his gaze back to me, smiling slyly.
“Sorry,” he said. When I didn’t respond, he added, “So … you never answered my question.”
“Excuse me?”
“Are you crazy or something?”
A confused look swept across my face.
“Crosswalk,” he prompted.
“Oh…,” I said before comprehension set in. “Oooohhhhh.” I hadn’t recognized him, but then it hit me, this was the guy who had nearly run me over with his car. It was only when he mentioned the crosswalk that I remembered he had yelled at me, asking me if I was crazy when he’d almost hit me with his car. Irritation swept through me as I tried to come up with a biting retort.
“Or something,” I replied haughtily, outwardly regaining my composure, while inwardly I rolled my eyes at myself. Great comeback, Lorelei. You sure showed him.
“Is that so?” he said in turn. I glanced toward Professor Brooke, seeing him still engaged in debate with a group of students at the front of the room, I turned my gaze toward the cloudy day outside.
“Yes,” I said. It’d started to sprinkle. That was Portland for you: cloudy and rainy. The mild temperatures didn’t stop me from missing the seasons, the hot summers and snow-covered winters. More than the seasons, I missed my life in Ohio. I never felt trapped there or destined for failure. Sometimes, I imagined what my life would be like if I’d never had to move. Would I be happier? More successful?
“So, maybe you should be more careful.” I was yanked back into reality.
“What?” This guy was really starting to annoy me.
“I said maybe you should be more careful. Maybe look both ways before crossing the street.”
“Look. In case you didn’t know, people in the crosswalk have the right of way, so maybe you need to go back to Driver’s Ed and learn something. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to listen to the lecture.”
Ignoring his throaty chuckle, I buckled down, turning my attention sharply to Professor Brooke. I spent the next hour diligently listening and taking notes. Occasionally, I would steal a glance at the guy sitting next to me. He looked vaguely familiar, as though I’d had some previous class with him. It was entirely possible as I tended to keep to myself and had a bad memory for faces, but I felt like I’d remember this guy, as attractive as he was. Usually, the only people I recognized were the more boisterous ones that I’d had multiple classes with—the ones who were always raising their hands, throwing about their thoughts.
He was certainly not boisterous. He looked thoroughly bored as he sat listening with an unopened notebook in front of him. Maybe he was a graduate student sitting in on the lecture, or a teaching assistant, there to listen and grade our papers later on. I wasn’t sure, but he didn’t look like either. Maybe he was like me and didn’t really need to take notes in class.
Despite the pretense of my pen scrawling across my paper, my attention wasn’t on the notebook in front of me. My gaze was continually pulled to the strange man. Some
thing foreboding about him held me on edge. He seemed too dark and miserly for someone so young, but then again, couldn’t the same thing be said about me? More than that he was handsome. He could have been a model as beautiful as he was.
Beautiful, but still an ass, I thought with annoyance. Who is he to judge me? He almost ran me over, but I need to be more careful? The nerve of this man.
And so my thoughts went for the rest of class as I took notes and stole looks at my would-be killer. When the clock ticked the hour I got out of there as fast as possible, without a backward glance. Bolting past all the other students in order to avoid another confrontation with him.
Between classes I had a two-hour window. Buying breakfast at a small café on campus, I slid into a window seat that overlooked the street. I watched the passersby when I felt the seat across from me move, instantly making me smile. Greta. One of the seven from Brooke’s class, Greta and I had had several classes together the past few years. She was one of the greatest people I knew. A few years younger than me, she was one of the most put together people I’d ever met and one of a few I considered a friend. When I had first met her I had been jealous of her but, I couldn’t stay spiteful toward her. Her family was well-off but she was down-to-earth and gentle-hearted.
“Hey, Greta.”
“You should have sat with me and Nicole.” As soon as she said it, she giggled. She knew as well as I did that Nicole hated me. Neither of us knew why, but I always suspected it was because our professors tended to favor me over her. They knew I was a hard worker and it showed. I was top in their classes making fresh arguments. I had the ability to look at both sides of a situation and defend both sides equally well, giving me an edge. Considering we were history majors, our grades came from essays, papers, and in class participation. I excelled. But that’s where it ended. Nicole had nothing to fear from me. I’d never be a match in terms of overall GPA. Not with my community college GPA following me.
“No, thank you. You know I like to sit by the windows.”
“True. Well, I stopped over to see who your new friend was. You know, the sexy guy with the bad-boy look that sat next to you today. Ohhhh, the way he was eyeing you, oh my.” She pretended to fan herself with her hand, giggling when I reached over and smacked her arm.
“Greta!” I couldn’t help but stifle a laugh. “Stop. I just met him, okay?”
“Okay. But something’s going on there. I can feel it. I saw you two and…. Oh, I’m so excited! I can’t wait for details.”
“You’re ridiculous. You know that, right? Besides we both know I’m heartless and mean.”
“You love me. So I know you’re not hopelessly bitter…yet and yes, I’m ridiculous. But it brightens your day, and you know it. I gotta head to my next class, but text me when you’re free since I know you won’t sit with me in Rucken’s class later because of Nicole, you jerk. We need to hang out. I’ve missed you!” Greta picked her backpack off the floor, leaving me shaking my head and smiling.
Propping my legs up on the chair, I pulled out a book on James Madison and my notepad. As I pored over the introduction, taking notes, my mind began to wander back to the handsome guy from class and my good mood evaporated. Who was he? What was his deal? Why was he talking to me? Why was I so curious about him? I didn’t even know his name, and yet I was somehow drawn to him.
But then … why not be curious about him? I joked plenty about being dead inside, but there was some truth behind it. The years had made me increasingly withdrawn and apathetic. So I sat, reading and drifting, envisioning future encounters with my would-be killer. Man, I wasn’t going to let that go anytime soon.
My second class, Jeffersonian-Jacksonian Democracy with Professor Cash, passed quickly. My course load for my final quarter had been set up perfectly with only three classes with three different professors I’d had before. Not only did I know their expectations but, more importantly, I also knew how much work I had to put in to ace their classes—and, luckily, I was on good terms with all three of them.
I had a fifteen-minute window to rush across campus from Professor Cash’s class to Professor Rucken’s. I loaded my backpack a few minutes before class ended. As soon as we were dismissed, I raced forward and, with a disapproving look from Professor Cash, I was the first one out of the room, beginning my run to the opposite side of campus. What’d started off as a sprinkle earlier had turned into a severe rain storm as drops pelted down, making it almost impossible for me to see. I could barely make out the sign for the building when, whack! I slammed right into someone.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” I brought my hand up, shielding my eyes against the beating rain.
“I’m okay. Are you okay?” A face that had been turned down toward the ground lifted up, and I was staring right into the eyes of my new-found irritant and almost murderer. A half-smile crossed his face as he said slowly, “You know, you really need to watch where you’re going. And before you go getting all pissed off, there’s no crosswalk here.”
My expression hardened. “Sorry,” I muttered prissily as I walked away, leaving him standing there, staring after me. I felt his eyes on my back as I walked up the stairs and into the building. Shaking off excess water—I was never a fan of umbrellas—I journeyed yet again to a window seat near the back of class. Sitting, I pulled out my notebook and pencil, rolling my neck to ease tension, a force of habit.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” said a familiar voice.
I sighed deeply, rolling my eyes and inwardly cursing the heavens. I preferred him to be a fleeting person in my life, one I could turn into a hero, a villain. A person that I could envisage anything about. So rare was it that someone piqued my interest, or that I used my imagination on other things besides my pathetic fake future, I was becoming, if possible, more angered by his continued presence.
“I think we started off on the wrong foot.” he said, sitting down in the seat next to me.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes. Hi, I’m Patrick James.” My eyes narrowed as I looked at him, debating between punching him and answering him.
“Lorelei. Lorelei Abrahms.” I mentally patted myself on the back for going the mature route.
“It’s a pleasure, Lorelei. Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think we should forget about this morning and start fresh. I was rude; you were….” He stopped as my eyes narrowed again, before he could say that I was rude or in the wrong.
Oh well, I sighed. It was nice while it lasted.
My earlier visions of him and his personality vanished. I was going to find out what he was really like, and then the illusion would be shattered. Then I’d become bored with him as I did everything else. Up to this point I could pretend anything about him, ignore him completely even, but this moment cemented my fate. I could no longer pretend he wasn’t attractive and that I wasn’t interested. I was. Desperately. And that terrified me.
“Agreed,” I said.
He looked at me as though he wanted to say something. His mouth opened and his eyes brightened, but before he could speak, Professor Rucken began to introduce himself to the class and the lecture began. From time to time, I could feel Patrick’s eyes on me. Not on me, really, but through me, as though he were reading everything about me: the false exterior, the layers, all the way to my core. The intensity of his gaze flustered me. I blushed, trying desperately to concentrate but to no avail. Secretly, a part of me wanted to know him and, more importantly, wanted him to know me. It wasn’t just his physical presence that attracted me to him; it was his sheer intensity.
I hoped my interest would fade as soon as I got to know him, but for now, with his gaze upon me, I felt more alive than I had in years. Whenever I turned to meet his stare, he idled, our eyes fastened, and then he would suddenly look away. With our eyes entwined, the world went away, and it was just us. I was frightened by the rush of desire I felt mixed with a sense of wrongness somehow. I chalked it up to my sense of worthlessness and mentally
gave myself a pep talk. I needed this, deserved this. Even so, I was scared to feel real, normal.
At the sound of our dismissal, I slowly began to pack up my things, waiting and hoping for Patrick to say something to me. The anticipation was palpable as I looked over at him, watching him zip up his backpack. He met my eyes, quickly looked down, and walked away. “See you,” he murmured softly.
And then nothing. He was gone, and I was left feeling empty again. No, not empty, numb. The same as before, confused about life, depressed, desperate to figure things out. Only now I felt worse, unwanted. Maybe I’d read the signs wrong. Maybe he just wanted to make sure I watched where I was going. Maybe he was a concerned citizen. Or maybe he was just an ass trying to get me to admit I had been wrong. Who knew? But that tension between us, that heat … that hadn’t been faked, had it?
I went home somehow even more miserable, in part because, for a fleeting moment, I thought someone, anyone, might want to know me—really know me. I’d been alone for so long. I enjoyed it mostly. I’d never really liked people, and they’d never really liked me. Working customer service at a grocery store had only made me increasingly annoyed with the human race. But the way he’d looked at me, the way he stared at me, his gaze burrowing into me, I had felt something.
Since moving to Oregon, I’d become completely numb, closed off. I’d begun to live more within myself than ever. I had friends, mostly work friends and a few friends I made senior year in Astoria that had stayed in the area. But, aside from Greta, I had no friends in college. Even then, we rarely saw one another outside of school. With one glaring exception, everyone I talked to or hung out with had never even given higher education a thought.
Most people were proud of me. They expected me to go places, and I was grateful, but I talked a big game. Truthfully, I was scared.
I am scared, I amended. I had no idea where I was going, what I was doing. For a moment, a breath of fresh air had washed over me in the form of Patrick James, a handsome, smart-mouthed, confident man, with an air of grace and knowledge. But for some reason, he had brushed me off. The running theme of my life had become that I was the problem. Something was wrong with me, and that was why I was alone. Even though I was surrounded by people all day, every day, I was completely alone. No one understood me, so I relished in books, music, television, and movies. I turned inward.