He takes his hand away to open the car door for me. I feel bereft and wonder if there is special chemistry for love at first sight, some physical reaction that actually makes it possible. I never believed in it, but now . . .
He slips his hand under the handle but doesn’t pull. I look over my shoulder. He’s very close, leaning into me as if he’s trying to smell my hair. For a second, I think he will pull away, embarrassed that I’ve caught him in the act. He doesn’t. Instead, he looks into my eyes and takes a strand of hair between his fingers.
“It’s so soft, just the way I imagined,” he says.
I’m suddenly lost in his eyes. They are tender and full of indescribable yearning. The emotions are disproportionate, too intense, too deep-rooted. They unsettled me and excite me at the same time.
He runs his thumb across my cheek in a tender caress. My knees go weak. When he leans forward, I think he’s going to kiss me. I close my eyes.
Damn stupid girl! You just met they guy and here goes first base.
His lips brush my ear. No kiss. Instead, he delivers a blood-igniting whisper that burns me from the inside out.
“I’ve also imagined the taste of your lips,” he says, his hot breath brushing my neck. “But I know my imagination will come short. You’re so beautiful and smart, Olivia. I’m the one who will never, ever take you for granted. I’m the one you’re looking for.”
His words ring familiar. Too familiar. That’s something very similar came out of my mouth just a week ago as I spoke to my best friend in the privacy of my bedroom.
“It’s like guys always take me for granted, Bethany,” I had told her. “Why is that? I think the guy I’m looking for doesn’t exist.”
The heat in my blood turns to ice. Why are my words coming out of Peter’s mouth? How does he know exactly what I need to hear?
Chapter Three
Peter is summer and winter.
He comes and goes, leaving me hot and cold.
His hands are a gentle breeze. They caress me unexpectedly, never reaching for all the places that—against my better judgment—I’m willing to give. His words are warm honey, fluid and unpredictable. They flow into the right places, just to freeze with the echoes of things I’ve always wanted to hear from a boy. Things I can’t help but distrust.
They make me shiver.
I should stop seeing him, but I can’t.
Yesterday, he brought me a pink rose and kissed my hand. Pink roses are my favorite. How did he know that? Today, it’s caramel popcorn and a DVD to watch curled up together on the basement sofa.
I look at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s watching the movie intently, his hand lightly resting on mine. It’s been a week since we met, and we’ve struck-out every day, no first base. I’m ready—anxious, really—but he just waits. For what, I have no idea.
Yet, it’s this very reluctance what keeps me from calling him out every time his words follow the script of my own, every time he does and says things like the perfect boy I created in my imagination a long time ago. If he’s not trying to take advantage of me, he can’t be that bad, can he? And who said dreams didn’t come true? Maybe he came straight out of mine one night, and I’m ruining things with my distrust.
“Do you believe in destiny?” he asks, losing interest in the movie the way I have.
I’m used to his sudden, strange questions now. I think his brain is always running a million miles per hour, and his thoughts wander in as many directions.
“I don’t think I do.”
“Why not?”
I shrug. “I hate to think I have no say in my own life.”
“What if fate knows better?”
“If there’s such a thing as fate, it certainly doesn’t know better. The fact is fate’s a mean bastard. Have you noticed the daily purgatory most people go through?”
He thinks for a moment, then says, “It looks like purgatory because we have a narrow view of things, we can’t see the greater scheme. All we see is the moment, when, in truth, fate’s plan probably spans days, weeks, months, years. We can’t see the forest for the trees. I think that’s why we have sayings like ‘everything happens for a reason’ or ‘be patient and all the pieces will fall into place.’”
“I disagree. I think people just like to think everything’s gonna be okay,” I say, staring into my bowl of caramel popcorn.
“And you don’t think they are. Are you a pessimist?”
“No. I just don’t think ‘everything happens for the better.’” I make air quotes. “Things just happen, good or bad. And, in the end, the sum of all parts can also be good or bad. There’s no rhyme or reason.”
“Maybe I would agree if you weren’t here.” He looks deeply into my eyes as if trying to make me see something that, to me, is invisible. “We were meant to meet, in this life and any other.” He places a finger under my chin, looks at my lips. “I’m sure I’ve l kissed you before. Sometimes I’m certain of it.”
My gaze falls to his lips, too. I would absolutely know if he’d kissed me before. He never has, and he needs to hurry up before he says the wrong thing and freezes me on the spot.
He brushes his thumb across my lower lip. A warm current flows the length of my body. “May I kiss you?” he asks. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long, and I’m finding it very hard to stop myself.”
God, he’s perfect. Too perfect. He can’t be real. Suddenly, I’m afraid that if I let him kiss me, he’ll disappear and go back into my dreams, never to come back again.
I put a hand on his chest. He feels as solid as anything I’ve ever touched. “Tell me you’ll stay, if I let you kiss me.”
His eyes widen slightly. A peculiar type of fear marks his expression. He pulls away, taking away the kiss he promised me. I feel cheated.
He stands and walks away, clenching and unclenching his fists. “What if I can’t stay?” he asks, his voice breaking.
My heart clenches at the hitch in his voice. I want to see his face, want to know if the pain I heard is etched in his expression.
“What do you mean if you can’t stay?” I stand, take a step closer.
He faces me, eyes wavering. “What if I have to leave? Would you wait for me?”
“Wait for you?” The question baffles me. What is he talking about? Is he going somewhere? If he is, he’s making it sound as if he’ll be gone for a long time. And if that’s the case, how can he ask that? We just met. We haven’t even kissed. He can’t expect me to wait as if we’ve been dating for years and know that waiting is a worthwhile effort.
“You wouldn’t. God, you wouldn’t wait for me,” he says, reading the answer in my face.
I open my mouth to explain, but he’s out the door before I can say a word.
Chapter Four
I stand frozen for several minutes before I can react. I’m dumbfounded, completely unable to comprehend his reaction. It makes no sense. He can’t feel that deeply for me.
Not yet. Not this soon.
But who am I to know? How am I to measure depth of feeling? My own feelings are no reference. I don’t know his heart. Clearly, it’s nothing like mine.
I blink back into the moment and shake myself. I hurry upstairs and out the front door. The day has turned to evening as we watched the movie. The sky bleeds dark blue into purple and pink as the sun makes its final descent.
Peter’s car is still parked by the curb. He hasn’t left. Today, he’s driving a green Mini Cooper. He’s had a different car every time he’s come to visit. I find that odd, but I haven’t asked, trying not to pry. If I know so little about him, and he knows so little about me, why does he expect so much?
I want to know more. God knows I do, but how can we do that when he talks about leaving? I walk up to his car and peek inside. He’s not there. I look up and down the street. Maybe he went for a walk to clear his mind. I decide to go looking for him. I pass in front of Patrick’s house. When I reach its driveway, I notice movement out of the corner of my eye.
<
br /> It’s Peter.
Something makes me take a few steps back to get out of sight. I walk closer. He’s with Patrick. Their voices drift my way.
Peter sounds angry and pained at the same time. “It’s not working.”
“It has to work,” Patrick says.
“There’s not enough time. She thinks I’m crazy, and rightly so.”
“Then we tell her.”
“No. She’d never believe us. And if she does she might freak out, and then we would lose her.”
“But we’re going to lose her anyway. We have to try something,” Patrick sounds desperate.
My head spins. They’re making no sense.
“I’ll just eavesdrop again, find out other things you can tell her,” Patrick says.
I stagger backward, a hand over my mouth.
God, he’s not perfect. He never was. He’s been feeding me eavesdropped lines and—even though I suspected something—I wanted to believe it was real, but it was all a lie.
I must make a sound because they stop talking, and appear around the corner. They stand next to each other and stare at me in horror. We’re frozen in time, sharing our mutual shock for a moment.
Words move inside my mouth, but don’t come out.
“Olivia,” Peter says in a pacifying tone, “I can—”
“You’re a liar,” I burst out. “How could you?”
Peter takes a step closer. “Please, let me explain.”
“There’s nothing you can say to me that can even begin to pick up the pieces of what you just broke.” I turn my eyes on Patrick. “And you! You filthy little spy. Never, never come inside my house again.”
Peter tries to touch my arm.
“Don’t touch me, you sick bastard. I thought you were different. But you’re just like all the rest.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not true. I love you, Olivia. I love you.”
“Love? Don’t talk about love when all you are is lies. I don’t even know you, Peter.”
At these words, he seems to deflate. “You’re right.” He retreats, walking backward, head lowered.
“No,” Patrick protests. “You know him. You’ve known him forever.”
“A week may seem forever in your little brain, but it’s nothing. And when you take away all the lies, Peter’s nothing but a stranger.”
“No!” Patrick takes a stand, small fists tight as his sides. “You’ve known him for five years. He was seven years old when he moved next door to you. He’s loved you ever since.”
I shake my head, unable to utter a single word. He’s gone crazy.
“And his name is not Peter. His name is Patrick.”
Chapter Five
I look back and forth between them. The name repeats itself in my head.
Patrick.
Patrick.
Patrick.
The same eyes. The same hair. The same freckles in the exact same places.
My entire body shakes. My head moves violently from side to side. What they’re implying is impossible. My mind is spinning out of control to try to deny it, which only means I’ve gone as crazy as they are. One can only deny that which one believes.
“You won’t . . . you won’t make me believe you’re the same person. Because that’s what you’re trying to do, isn’t it?”
“You must know it, deep in your heart.” Peter steps up again.
“All I know is that you lied to me.”
“It was a mistake. I realize that now. But not everything was a lie. I love you, Olivia. I really do. From the day you showed up in that old van and ran up to your house. You were wearing pigtails, and they bounced up and down. I watched from that window.” He points to a spot over my head. I don’t bother to look. I’m lost in the moment he’s created. “When I saw you had a brother, I resolved to become his friend just so I could meet you.”
Almost unnoticed, Patrick slips away, leaving us alone. His absence eases the pressure around us, makes the moment seem less impossible.
“I was only seven, but even then I knew something had brought us together. Some force I can’t explain. But then you left.”
“I left? What . . . ?”
“You’ll leave. Soon, and I . . . he” Peter points toward the house, the way Patrick left, “we’ll never see you again.”
“What do you mean I’ll leave soon? Where would I go? My home is here.”
“I don’t know why. But one day, you and your family are just gone, and I never get a chance to tell you how I feel. Because I was so young and afraid you would laugh at me.”
“This is insane. How do you know this? How can you know this? How can you be Patrick?” I raked my fingers through my hair. “This is got to be a bad dream.”
“I know, I know.” He walks closer, slowly as if not to scare me. “It is insane. I came here because it’s where and . . . when I knew how to find you,” he says all of this very slowly as if he’s talking to a child he doesn’t want to freak out.
When when when.
“You’re not possibly implying that . . .” I can’t finish. I just can’t.
“You’re not there in my future,” he says. “I’ve looked for you, but I don’t know where you went or why you left. All I know is that not a day goes by when I don’t think about you, when I don’t miss you. This time with you, this past week, has been the happiest I’ve ever had. I wanted to be with you as I am now, so you could see me as something other than a kid. I wanted to find out if you could love me.
“But I had such little time, and I was desperate. I’m sorry I lied. I should’ve told you the truth from the beginning, but I don’t know if I’ll get another chance. I don’t know if I’ll be able to come back.”
He takes my hand, runs his thumb over my knuckles, and gently squeezes my fingers. My eyelids flutter as feelings flood me, the way they always do when he touches me.
“I know I ruined everything, but, when you’re gone, please think of me, remember I love you, remember I’m here, older and hopefully wiser. Will you do that?”
I still have no words, and I don’t know if they will ever come back to me.
He straightens his shoulders and takes a deep breath as if drawing strength out of the air. Slowly, he leans forward, lips parted. His gray eyes dance across my face, then settle on my mouth. He gives me enough time to pull away, but I don’t want to. I never did.
His kiss is anguish and doubt. His lips tremble over mine, tentative, afraid. My emotions are a mirror, reflecting his uncertainty. A whirlwind of sensation twists inside of me, sweeping away everything I’ve ever known and flushing it into a sea of regret.
I don’t know if I believe his impossible story, but this request he has for me not to ever forget him . . . did he really think he had to ask?
Even if I tried, how could I forget? And it’s not because of this shocking revelation. I’ve never felt this way with anyone. He’s the first one who’s ever made me want to give it all, to erase all boundaries.
He’s the only one who’s made everything perfect in spite of all his imperfections.
Still trembling, he pulls away. I open my eyes. Tears swim in front of me, making him look faded. I blink. The tears spill over, out of the way, but he looks more ephemeral than a second ago, like a light on a dimmer.
“Goodbye, Olivia.” His voice is weak, distant. “I’ll never stop looking for you. Never.” His last words echo through the light, evanescent rain that now floats in the space he occupied just a moment ago.
He’s gone.
Numbness spreads over me, a thick coat that weighs me down and makes me forget who I am. All I want to do is escape.
My feet shuffle in autopilot and bring me home. I stand in the foyer, the world speeding before my eyes like a movie in fast-forward.
Mom and Dad are hurrying from one end of the house to another. I watched them gather things, their faces disfigured in a sort of terrified frenzy. They stop in front of me, mouths moving as they bark desperate orders I can’t hear,
much less understand.
Carrying nothing more than two old briefcases, they push my brother and me into the car. Dad takes the wheel and tears out of the driveway. In dumb horror, I look backward at our retreating house . . . at Patrick’s retreating house.
My heart shatters.
Fate and time have cheated me.
I don’t believe in either of them.
—ABOUT THE AUTHOR—
Ingrid Seymour writes young adult and new adult fiction in a variety of genres, including Sci-Fi, urban fantasy, romance, paranormal and horror. When she’s not writing, she spends her time working as a software engineer, cooking exotic recipes, hanging out with her family and working out.
If you enjoyed Ingrid Seymour’s story telling skills, get more! For a limited time, she’s offering a free copy of KEEPER, a YA urban fantasy full of thrilling adventure. It’ll give you all the feels.
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DYSTOPIAN & POST-APOCALYPTIC
DRIFT AWAY
Robert L. Slater
“YOU GOT THE TILLER?” MOM HOLLERED from inside the cabin.
“Yeah,” I yelled back, hoping she couldn’t hear attitude in my voice. The old saying When Mama’s unhappy, everyone’s unhappy, had always been a thing at our house. I held onto my frustration, knowing that the sun sparkling on the water and the calm of the ocean would take it away soon enough.
I glanced down at the heading—north, northwest, then at Gramma’s windup watch, my only technology for the last two weeks on my Old West Trail Camp. 1300ish hours. Old habits taught by my father: When you take over the tiller, you check time and heading.
Checking the time reminded my stomach it was time to eat. As if in answer the hatch opened and a sealed baggie with a PBJ inside landed at my feet. She’d made it the way I like, jam spilling out the sides. “Thanks, Mom.” I retrieved it with my foot, unsealed it and pulled the baggie back over my hand. Perfect. Home-made blackberry jam from Aunt L. Mom had even made it on the cheap white bread she refused to call food. She was doing everything she could to make my last week before high school one to remember.
That Moment When: An Anthology of Young Adult Fiction Page 24
