The Bodyguard: an alien romance

by Tina Proffitt

  The part of my brain that would normally sound the panic alarm is completely silent even though I’m not sure I’m ready for any of this with an older man.

  My eyelids suddenly feel too heavy to keep them open. I feel just like I did when I was a kid and I’d pull the covers over my head. With a flashlight I’d pretend I was inside a tent and go to sleep that way.

  “You need to go to sleep,” I hear Van saying as if from a long distance.

  I'm completely under his power.

  I open my eyes, and I'm in my bed. I have no idea how I got here.

  Van stands in the open doorway of my bedroom, a sentry on duty.

  My mind is too tired to question how it happened. I just know that I don't remember walking up the stairs with him or climbing into bed.

  I roll onto my side and close my eyes. And this time, falling asleep is not a conscious effort. I feel just as safe as I did when I was a kid under my blanket tent, and because Van is here, I am safe.

  Light pouring through my windows makes itself impossible to ignore. It's morning.

  I drag myself into an upright position against my pillows and yawn. My head feels like I've been up all night cramming for a final. But I'm in bed at home in my own neighborhood. And I'm alone except for one other person.

  Van sleeps in a chair in the hallway outside my bedroom door, where I assume he's been all night. His head is tipped to one side.

  I slip out of bed, and he doesn't stir.

  I can't help watching him sleep for at least a few more seconds. He's in the straight-back chair from the writing desk in the hall, facing my open bedroom door. His head is cocked to one side, almost touching his shoulder. He's wearing a simple white undershirt, khakis, and boots. His arms are crossed over his powerful chest.

  I tiptoe closer. There's a backpack at his feet. On top of it is a book, sitting open, of Walt Whitman poetry. I pick it up. The open page is dog-eared so he obviously can come back to it. I want to know what kind of poems stir the heart of a soldier like Van.

  I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,

  And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,

  And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.

  I am he that walks with the tender and growing night;

  I call to the Earth and sea half-held by the night.

  I gaze down at Van's sleeping face, so peaceful, content. And in the dim light, I can see his powerful chest moving up and down steadily with his breath. The corded muscles in his forearms stand out. He would've made a good detective or secret serviceman. Not many people would be willing to sleep in a chair all night just to fulfill their duties—except my mom. When I was six years old and became so afraid of a tornado taking off the roof of my bedroom that I couldn't sleep through the thunderstorm, she stayed up all night in my room, holding me, rocking me until the tremors subsided. Then she made a pallet out of a quilt and lay down next to my bed. We played twenty questions until neither of us could think straight anymore.

  Just like that, Van has been here all night, no questions asked.

  I assume there will be questions though, like why did I run away from school? From him?

  But for now, I know what this must be that I’m feeling—it's love.

  I love him.

  It hits me like a ton of bricks.

  Not smart at my age, falling in love with an older man, I know. But it happened, and I'm going to have to deal with it. Once this is all over, and Van goes back to wherever he comes from to be someone else's bodyguard, I'll be stuck, because compared to Van, no other man will ever have a shot. I wonder if this is how my mother felt when she met my dad.

  I have the terrible desire to tell Van all of this, but before that can possibly happen, I need a shower.

  As silently as I can, I tiptoe into my bathroom. A few minutes later, my wet hair wrapped in a towel, I creep across my bedroom.

  But the sound of the water running must have awakened Van because when I peek out the door into the hall, he isn't there.

  Dressed and feeling a little bit more like myself, I follow the yummy scent of food cooking down the stairs.

  As I round the corner to the kitchen, Van stands in an apron, flipping pancakes at the stove.

  I laugh just as his head pops up. He's just as confident making breakfast as he is defending the life of another human being.

  “Smells good,” I say.

  “Thank you.” His voice sounds remote. “Sit down. It is almost ready.”

  I sit and rest an elbow on the bar and my chin on my hand so I can watch. “When did you learn to cook? I would've thought becoming a soldier would've taken up all your free time.”

  “Learning to cook is part of becoming a soldier.”

  I smile at him. I can't get used to him wearing that apron. It's the red and white one my mother always wears when she and I make cookies together. Then I remember finding myself in bed last night with no idea how I got there. “What happened last night?”

  He frowns. “I followed you here to protect you. It is my job.”

  “No,” I hop off the stool I'm sitting on and round the corner of the island where he's standing, “I mean when you hugged me.”

  He doesn't answer, and the feeling of contentment I'd been enjoying is suddenly replaced with the unease I felt back at school, the sense that made me run away in the first place.

  I back away from the island.

  His eyes follow me. “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere. I just...”

  His gaze narrows on me. “You want to run away again.”

  “How did you get into the house last night without setting off the alarm?”

  “Why did you leave Hawthorne Academy?” The cold, proud look in his eyes says he took my departure personally.

  “What happened to everyone there?”

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  “It's the same thing that happened in Berryville. Everyone's changed. Now my own neighborhood is empty, just like town, just like school. It's happening here too.”

  The look in Van's eyes turns to sympathy.

  “You know why you're guarding me, don't you? The major general must have told you why. It's time for you to tell me.”

  His brilliant blue eyes have turned dark and unfathomable. He shakes his head. I can tell he wants to deny that he knows, but he does me the courtesy of not lying to me.

  “Look, you can tell me the truth now. The M.G. is nowhere around. He's gone forever for all we know. My mother's nowhere to be...” My voice cracks, and Van is by my side before I realize I'm crying.

  He slips an arm around my shoulders.

  This is not like me. I do not cry. And it's not on principle either. I just never do. I didn't think I could. I didn't cry when my parents dropped me off at Hawthorne Academy when I was ten years old. I didn't even cry when I broke my arm when I was twelve in a race against one of the senior boys in the gymnasium. But I am now. And I suspect the reason I am has got something to do with the man standing next to me. It's almost like Van, this strange man, this seemingly alien man, who is the least like a human being than anyone I know, by just his mere presence is making me more human, more capable of experiencing emotions. And the even weirder thing is, I don't mind. I don't understand it, but I find myself turning into his embrace so that he holds me against his chest.

  He wraps his other arm around me so that we're facing one another. He smells good, not just like pancakes, but like a man, strong, clean, and I rest my head on his muscled shoulder. I can hear our hearts beating in time with one another. It feels so good to let go, to be held, to be—human.

  Van watches me eat from across the kitchen table. I can sense his gaze on me even though I'm not looking at him.

  There are song birds just outside the window on the back patio, pecking bird seed from the feeder my mother keeps out there. At least they're here even if no one else is.

  I think I have a drip of syrup on my chin. With
my napkin, I do my best to nonchalantly make sure it's gone before I look up at him. “These pancakes are to die for.”

  “I can tell.”

  “I don't remember when I’ve ever eaten so many.”

  “That is good. You need fuel for your muscles.”

  I reach for my glass of orange juice and swallow what's left. That's when I notice something strange. My glass of course has no fingerprints on it, but neither does Van's.

  I shudder. It can't be. Both of us?

  “You don't have them either,” I blurt out. “What are the odds that two people thrown together by forces outside of their control wouldn't have fingerprints?”

  “Adermatoglyphia,” he says casually. “A rare genetic disorder. A person is born without fingerprints. I am surprised your mother never told you about it.”

  “Oh.” I feel suddenly deflated. It isn't karma that brought us together. Then I get mad. “Who says she didn't?” I give him my best tough guy glare, even though she didn't.

  Van chuckles. “May I take your plate since you have had enough to eat?”

  I push my plate away. My stomach suddenly feels sick. I can't eat another bite. “How did you know I was full?”

  His voice is low and purposefully seductive. “I can feel your physical sensations.”

  Icy fear twists around my heart. That means that every time he's near me, he knows what he does to my insides. I feel my cheeks catch fire. I try to hide them by looking down, but what's the point? If he knows how I feel, he knows...

  “Take me to what it is you want to show me.” Van interrupts my cascading thoughts.

  I'm too startled by his suggestion to offer any objection. “How did you know that?”

  Van shrugs one muscled shoulder. “I know you saw something that frightened you. I want to help.”

  “Did they teach you to do that in soldier school, to read other people's minds?”

  “It serves me to stay a step ahead of my enemy.”

  “I'm your enemy?”

  Van's gaze softens. He reaches a strong hand across the table and covers mine. “You could never be anyone's enemy, especially mine.”

  I stifle a laugh. “Tell that to Liz and Andréa.”

  “Who?”

  “Those girls I told you about who used to harass me. They got kicked out a couple of years ago for smoking in their room—pot, not cigarettes. The school won't kick you out for smoking cigarettes in your room, just probation.”

  I don't know why I’m rambling, just that I am. And I can't stop.

  “Then if you get caught doing anything else against the rules while you're on probation, you get kicked out. But I guess that's how probation works everywhere, even where you're from.”

  Maybe it's because I don't want to show Van the surveillance video I found because if another person sees it, it will definitely be real. Or maybe it's because I’m too scared to face that thing. But I’m not in a hurry to see the video again.

  “They were already on probation for smoking cigarettes when they got caught with the marijuana. I got all of this from Porter. His roommate was Liz's boyfriend. Last year, his roommate got expelled. He brought a gun to school, and Porter reported him. Porter's afraid of guns. So, he told the headmaster right away. But that didn't stop his roommate from threatening Porter before he left.”

  Van nods. “Some will always seek to become your enemy, some from karmic memory, some from being new to being human. They will sometimes find their emotions so overwhelming and confusing that they will unconsciously lash out in anger. Just know that you will never harm any of them intentionally. Karma is a more powerful force than can be tamed by our good intentions.”

  I thought about my mom. Sometimes she cries when she's about to get off the phone with me. It's something she thinks I don't notice, but I do, just a small crack in her voice as she says goodbye. I can't help but feel like it's my fault though.

  “I'm real sorry I pepper sprayed you,” I say.

  “It has been forgotten.”

  “How long will you be my bodyguard?”

  “As long as I am needed.”

  “But how long will that be?”

  “The future is not set.”

  “You sound like Yod... Never mind. You won't understand.”

  Van nods and smiles in his way that says he doesn't understand but that it doesn't matter to him.

  “I don't want you to leave.”

  He moves in an instinctive gesture of comfort, then stops himself just before his arms go around me. He leans back in his chair and, with his hand that holds mine, gives my fingers a squeeze.

  I have to look away. Did he want to kiss me, but wouldn't let himself?

  It might just be wishful thinking on my part. I stare down at our hands. His thigh touches mine, and I can feel his body heat burning through my jeans like a thousand suns.

  When, or if, he finally does kiss me, I’ll be ready for it. I want him to.

  I take a deep breath, forcing myself to settle down. He can read my emotions, I can't forget that. Determined to look him in the eyes again, I lift my gaze to his. But his eyes aren't the blue I know they have been since the moment we met. They're green!

  I can't speak. I'm frozen in place. Eyes can't just change color like that.

  He blinks. And his eyes are back to the clear blue they've always been.

  My heart is beating fast. “How did you do that?”

  Van picks up our plates from the table and carefully places them in the sink. “Do what?”

  “Change your eye color. You can do things no human can do. You teach with your hands. You made Anna's mother sing like a virtuoso that day in the van. You made me fall asleep last night.”

  “I did nothing to Anna's mother,” Van says.

  I don't hear him and continue following my train of thought. “But how could you make her sing so well? You never touched her. You were just in the car with the rest of us.”

  As I watch, Van fills the sink with water and dish soap and says calmly, “Mrs. Breen's sudden ability to sing well is the manifestation of a previous incarnation.”

  “You mean like she was an opera singer in a past life?”

  “Could be.”

  “What did you do to me last night to make me fall asleep so fast?”

  Van looks down as though he's completely absorbed in the process of washing the frying pan and not at all disturbed by my questions.

  “How did you make me go to sleep like that? The same thing happened the night before I left school.”

  “The brain has the power to recollect memories we thought were irretrievable.”

  “But I wasn't doing it. You were. Is that what you've done to everyone in town, everyone at school, including me, change us all?”

  Van throws the dish rag down, splashing the front of his shirt with soapy water. “I have not done anything to you or anyone else.” His voice is hard.

  For the first time since I met Van, he's angry. And I can't blame him. He's my bodyguard, and I suspect him of causing all the trouble.

  “The math and Latin I taught you were given to you with your permission.” His voice is calm and even now.

  “What about the memories?”

  “What about them?”

  “What if a person doesn't want to remember? What if their past is too painful?”

  “Everyone has happy memories.” Van drains the sink and grabs a dry towel from the drawer. “Even if they are not consciously aware of them.”

  A knock on the door rings loud in the foyer, shattering the stillness of the house.

  I jump up from my chair and rush to the door, hoping with all my heart that it's my mother.

  Van grabs me around my waist from behind and pulls me back, pressing me against his chest.

  “What are you doing?” I say, my heart thudding against my ribcage.

  “Quiet!” His warm breath tickles my cheek.

  He pulls me along with him as he ducks behind the kitchen wall. It's as if his wo
rst enemy is out there. And right now, that would be my stepfather. Van probably blames himself for me running away from school.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper.

  “You do not know who that is.”

  “Neither do you.”

  “In a moment, I will.”

  He remains still, quiet, his arms wrapped around my waist like a vice. I thought he looked strong, but I never realized how strong he really is.

  I try to crane my neck around the corner. The foyer's lit by big leaded glass panels on either side of the front door, so that anyone who's outside can't see in. But inside, I can catch quick glimpses of a person out there.

  Van straightens, but he doesn't let me go. He takes me with him, my face against the wall all the way to the door, his body between me and whoever's out there. At last, he turns me around to face the door and nods. I take that as my signal to look. I always look out the peephole before I answer the door. It makes me feel like I have the upper hand somehow. But this time, all I can see is Van's car parked out on the street.

  “Whoever it is must have walked here,” I whisper. “There aren't any other cars besides yours.”

  “Ask who it is,” Van orders in a low voice.

  “Who is it?” I call out.

  Then, in front of the peep hole, appears the last person on Earth I expect to see standing on my front porch.

  Chapter 8

  ∞

  Porter looks like he's run a marathon. His ginger hair sticks up in all directions, his glasses sit cockeyed on his nose, and his clothes are muddy and torn. But that's not the weirdest thing I notice as I stand in front of the open door. Past Porter, I can see Mr. Caperton across the street using his hedge trimmers to shape his boxwood bushes into globes like he always does on Saturday mornings. Mrs. Ji next door is pulling out of her driveway in her minivan, probably on her way to do last minute Christmas shopping for her six grandchildren. A navy blue delivery van pulls into the driveway of the house that sits caddy corner to ours. Mr. and Mrs. Weingarten are both retired and can't get out much because Mr. Weingarten has Parkinson's. Mrs. Weingarten answers her door in a housecoat.