by Bre Hall
She shifted back and forth from her right to her left foot in the small space between Peter and her desk. She took her chances and looked up at him again. Her heart: Clench, release, clench.
“Well?” she asked, finally.
“Well what?” Peter edged closer, forcing her to place her hands behind her on the surface of her desk. Why was he moving closer? Why was he still staring? Still looking at her so intensely?
“You’re staring,” she said. “And you’re standing, like, really close.”
“Am I?” He leaned toward her, his nose a sneeze away from touching her forehead. His voice dropped to a raspy whisper. “I hadn’t noticed.”
She rolled her eyes and scowled, but miles beneath the thick skin she’d been forming since forever, she was zero-gravity-light. She shook her head, hoping the jarring movement would nail her to the floor, but all it managed to do was shake a strand of her hair free.
She was about to tell him to back off, to stop being such a creep, but he found the lock of hair and brushed it behind her ear before she could even exhale. His fingertips grazed her jaw as he drew them away. They were quickly replaced by his lips. Softly, he kissed her chin. Her neck. The tip of her nose. A heat boiled up on her skin in the spots that he had touched. Her hands reached up for his chest, hot against her palms. Was this actually happening? Was Peter really kissing her again? Or was she in another regression? Locked in a past life she couldn’t quite differentiate from her present?
Then, his lips were on hers, his arms wrapping around her waist and she knew then it had to be real.
At first, the kiss was a soft, gentle brush, then they leaned into one another, their mouths parting slightly, and Peter’s kisses turned hungry. His lips were granite against hers. She threw her arms around his neck, ran her fingers unashamedly through the curls on the crown of his head. They were soft, like the velvet fur of a cat’s ear.
She froze suddenly, her ears perking back to the sound of a floorboard squeaking in the hallway.
Footsteps?
The heat that had been boiling up over the course of their impromptu make-out sesh, turned immediately to a cold sweat.
Peter stopped kissing her, pulled away, and asked, “What? What is it? Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, breathless. “Sorry. It’s just—”
“What?”
“I thought I heard something,” she whispered.
Still tangled in each other’s grasp, they stopped to listen for a noise in the hall. The farmhouse was so old, any slight movement would give someone away. Even the wind could not pass through unscathed. Though her breath was being harbored and her ears were on high-alert, she was fiercely aware that one of Peter’s hands was resting on the small of her back. That her fingers were still knotted in his hair. She realized then she had wanted to lose her fingers in those curls since the first time they met in Richard’s days ago. Days. Only a few days. How had they gone from being total strangers to full-on kissing in such a short amount of time?
“I think we’re okay,” Peter whispered.
She shook her head, breaking out of her own thoughts. “Probably just the house shifting.”
“I should probably go, though, huh?” Peter said, dragging a thumb up her spine, to the nape of her neck, and along her jaw. She nodded her head, but internally she was screaming, no, no, no. She knew she’d see Peter the next day and the day after that, but hours would pass before then. It would be enough time for him to wake up and realize she was just a silly, teenaged girl not worth pursuing.
Peter pecked a kiss on her lips and moved swiftly toward the window. He slid the pane up, letting in the cold night air, and climbed onto the roof.
“Peter wait,” she said, then planted her hands on either side of the window frame.
“What?” he asked.
“I just—” She stuck her head out the window and kissed him. When she pulled away, he was smiling. “I just wanted to do that.”
“I’m glad you did,” he said.
He swiveled on the balls of his feet, facing the fields that sat somewhere in the dark beyond the house. He glanced over his shoulder, winked, and jumped off of the roof. Ren gasped as he dropped out of sight. She leaned out the window and craned her neck, hoping she wouldn’t see a limp body lying in the grass.
An explosion of silver pushed her back inside her room. She brought a hand up to shield her eye from the blinding pierce of the light that cut through the night sky.
Peter.
Before she could even begin to search for the outline of his Auxilium wings, the light zipped through the trees, across the fields, and he was gone.
She stood there, the chill of the air nipping at her exposed skin, for a long while, staring after a phantom gleam of silver that had long since faded. A gush of wind, its teeth bared, slapped her face and, finally, she closed the window and sank onto the edge of her bed. She touched her neck, her jaw, her lips. Every spot Peter had kissed. She could still feel the thickness of his lips on her skin. Her insides were soda pop-bubbly. The first thing she wanted to do was call Alfie, but she knew she couldn’t. That night wasn’t anything she could describe to Alfie. He wouldn’t understand. He would be upset. Betrayed. Besides, they were her memories of Peter, her thoughts, and they were hers alone.
The movie’s final scene faded to black on her television set, but she was too dazed to move, so she left the credits rolling and crawled under the bed covers. She laid on her side, facing her night stand. Her eye trailed down from the small, dark lamp to the tea tin that sat on photo albums Peter had unearthed, ones Grams had long since put together for her.
She propped herself on an elbow, tugged on the lamp chain, and stared down at the tea tin Peter accidentally left behind.
Without a second thought, she uncapped the tin and reached inside. The sharp, bottom of the tooth snipped at her fingertips. She pulled her hand away just as she was shot through the stream of colors and closed in on Lizzie Hyland. She slowly lost sense of herself and her time with Peter and woke up to a cacophony of sound around her. Ice in glasses. Stools screeching across the wooden floors. Big-bellied laughter. Her eyes slowly took in the Palace Bar, a narrow establishment that extended farther than one might expect.
Lizzie sat on a bar stool in one of Miss Eva Doherty’s finest dresses, sipping a gin and tonic. She twirled her drink so that the lime and lemon slices cycloned at the top. A man, long since forgotten, had bought her and Mary a drink before they even had to hunt for someone to ask.
“Must be the dresses,” Mary said when the drinks arrived.
Lizzie raised her glass and looked her friend in the eye. “Slainté.”
“Slainté,” Mary replied. They both took long, smooth sips.
Lizzie kept a shoulder turned toward the door, bolting upright every time someone walked in. It was the Friday night of the second week, when everyone in the city was paid their wages. The pub was packed with all sorts: Young and old men, some in tailored suits, others in their laborers’ clothes. Several women were there too, hanging on their husbands’ arms or flouncing around in too much makeup, looking for a bite.
A rush of fresh air funneled through the pub and Lizzie turned toward the door just as Michael, white shirt stained with sweat, one suspender hanging off his shoulder, drifted in with a group of other men his age. Lizzie sucked in a harsh breath and spun on her stool to face away from him. A blush creeped across her cheeks.
“Is one of them your man?” Mary asked, leaning back in her chair.
“Chestnut hair and green eyes,” Lizzie said. “Taller fella.”
“Jesus, Lizzie,” Mary said. “He’s absolutely gorgeous.”
“Feck’s sake, Mary,” Lizzie muttered. “He’ll hear you.”
Mary elbowed Lizzie in the ribs. “Stop being so timid.”
“I’m not.”
“Here he comes,” Mary squealed, then buried her smile in her drink.
Lizzie glanced sideways as Michael stood at the bar be
side her. He was so close she could smell the sweat of the day on him. His upper arm brushed hers as he leaned over the bar, waving down the barman.
“Y’alright?” asked the barman to Michael.
“A round of the black stuff for me and the lads,” Michael said. “Six in all.”
The barman nodded and disappeared down the row. Michael remained, waiting for his return. Lizzie was trying to think of something—anything—to say to him, when Mary stamped hard on her foot.
“Ouch,” she yelped.
“Everything okay?” Michael asked. She didn’t look at him.
“Grand.”
He held himself up on his elbow and looked her up and down. “What’s a couple of high-class girls like yous doing in a place like this on a night like tonight?”
“Maybe we’re just waiting for our fellas,” Mary said.
“Maybe,” Michael said. Lizzie could feel his eyes boring into her. She glanced up at him. They were packed into the bar so tightly his nose was inches from her temple. “But I doubt it.”
“What do you mean by that?” Lizzie blurted out.
“If I had a girl like you, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight,” said Michael.
“That so?” Lizzie lifted her chin. Looked at him from the corner of her eye.
“What’s your name?” Michael asked.
“Lizzie.”
“Michael.”
“I—” She nearly added a ‘know’ to the end of that sentence, but caught herself. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
“Would you care to dance?” he asked.
“What about your drinks?”
Michael waved to one of his friends, a shorter fellow with flame-red hair. He shuffled to the bar and clapped Michael on the shoulder.
“Needin’ my help with these girls here?” Michael’s friend asked.
“I’m going to dance, Eamon” Michael said. “I need you to wait for the drinks.”
“With your two left feet?” Eamon snorted. “Better let me dance with her and you wait on the beers.”
Michael cuffed Eamon on the back of the head, then held a hand out for Lizzie, who took it eagerly, her heart pounding. As he led her to the space where a few couples were jigging to the fiddler, she glanced back at Mary. Eamon had already taken Lizzie’s old seat. He and Mary were chatting away. Michael pulled Lizzie close to him and they began to twirl. The whole room began to spin and the noise of the Palace Bar twisted into distortion. She lost sight of everything and everyone. The vibrant colors of the chasm returned and she fell quickly through them, peeling herself out of Lizzie’s body and zipping herself back into her own.
Ren could still feel Lizzie’s pounding chest as she capped the tea tin. The fizzy feeling from her time with Peter returned, her emotions blending with Lizzie’s and funneling into a tight rush that made her whole world topsy-turvy. Her mind was wide awake, but sleep tugged on her. It was no wonder. The television had turned off on its own—something that usually took hours of sitting idly. How long had her last regression been? The night was inching toward morning.
She turned her lamp off and burrowed deep beneath her blankets. She blinked up at the ceiling, dark, then out the top of the window just behind her, imagining the silver streak of Peter’s light as he ripped through the blackened sky.
chapter
17
THE SATURDAY AFTERNOON SUN WAS hidden behind a bulbous, grey thunderhead. The air was sweet, a mixture of the pressing storm and the beginning of the sorghum harvest. She pedaled down River Road toward the farmhouse. On either side of the old highway, thick strips of open space where the crops grew just days before, gave way to the darkening horizon.
She turned quickly into her driveway, clouded by dust stirred up by her dad’s combine, and raced up to the house. She had been halfway to Peter’s when she realized she’d forgotten to bring Lizzie’s tooth and had to turn around.
She left her bike at the bottom of the steps, bounced up to the porch, crashed through the front door, and stopped abruptly in the entryway. The doors to Meredith’s parlor were cracked open. They were never open. Even when Meredith came in and out of them, she moved so quickly Ren was convinced she drifted through like a ghost.
Ren inched toward the door like it was a bomb that could diffuse with a shifty breath. Just a glimpse. That’s all she wanted, a glimpse. Through the slit in the open doorway, she could see floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, gold velvet arm chairs with cherrywood accents, a collection of antique lamps, and several, ornate clocks scattered around the room.
A floorboard creaked inside. Ren’s back stiffened. She waited for one of Meredith’s green eyes, ignited with an uncontrollable blaze to appear in the crack, but it wasn’t Meredith who drifted into view. A tall man. Shiny, bald head. Dark, coffee roast skin. It was that guy her dad had hired. What was his name? Jim? John? He picked up a spherical, glass paperweight from one of the book shelves.
Ren bumped the door open with her shoulder. “What’re you doing?”
Jim/John jumped, dropping the paperweight. It rolled over the warping wood floor and settled against the leg of one of the arm chairs.
“I was looking for something,” Jim/John said.
Ren snatched up the sphere before he could. Encased in the glass was a dull, gold bullet, stained in a thin coat of red rust. Odd thing to put into solid glass. But it was Meredith’s, professor of history. It was probably from some famous war she lectured on at the college. Ren swayed past the farmhand and placed the paperweight back on one of the tall bookcases.
She folded her arms and looked the man in the eye. “You know, my stepmother doesn’t like anyone to come in here.”
His gaze narrowed on her. “Is that so?”
“You should probably go find my dad.”
“He’s fixing a loose gear on the combine.”
She popped a hip out. Gaped at the man. “Isn’t it your job to help him?”
“I don’t know anything about fixing combines.”
“Hmm,” Ren said, eyeing him up and down for good measure. Even in his work clothes, he looked clean-cut, and his accent wasn’t like anything she’d heard from a farmhand before. Flat. Not a lick of Kansas twang to it. “Are you in trouble or something?”
“Pardon me?”
“On the run from the law?” she asked. She leaned toward him. “You ever killed a man, mister?”
The door hinges creaked and Ren shuddered, thinking Meredith had caught them for sure. She fixed her good eye to the doorway and let out a long, relaxing sigh. It was only Grams. The old woman’s liver-spotted fingers were curled around bunches of the fabric from her long skirt.
“Who’s that, there?” Grams asked, flicking her nose toward the farmhand.
“Jim or John or something,” Ren said.
“Joe” he corrected. “I was just leaving.”
“Best stay out of this part of the house,” Grams said, not stepping aside to let Joe pass. “You understand that?”
“I understand,” Joe said with a tight jaw.
Grams spun back into the hallway to let him walk out of Meredith’s parlor before swinging back into the doorway and fixing her sights on Ren. “Same goes for you, missy. Meredith will skin you alive if she catches you in here.”
“I just heard someone rustling around,” Ren said. “I wanted to see what was going on.”
“Now you have,” Grams said, creating a space for Ren to slip through. As she crossed the threshold, Grams looped a fat arm through the crook of Ren’s elbow and hung onto her a bit as they walked into the kitchen. Grams stared after the back door, where Joe had disappeared to. “I don’t like the energy comin’ off of that feller.”
“He’s a bit creepy, I’ll admit,” Ren said. “Not at all long-term farm material, but he doesn’t seem too terrible.”
“You mark my words. Something ain’t right with that man,” Grams said. She clapped her hands together. “Now, make me a sandwich, will you?”
“I’ve got somewhere to
be.”
“And I’ve got to eat.” Grams patted Ren’s hand several times, the last one more of a slap than a love tap. “I’ll take turkey on rye.”
“Make it yourself,” Ren said, pulling her hand away.
“You’re going to starve me.”
Ren fixed her gaze on Grams’ multitude of curves and fat rolls. “I don’t think you’ve ever been starved in your life.”
“Go on girl,” Grams said, “Make me a sandwich. And a cup of tea.”
“I’m already late.”
A mischievous gleam pinged in Grams’ blue eyes. “You got yourself a new feller?”
“What?” Ren looked down at her shoes. Tried and keep from blushing. She’d spent all morning trying hard not to think about Peter. The way he winked at her with those long lashes. The soft touch of his hair against her fingertips. The earthquake rumble inside her when the kissed, his lips bringing down her hard exterior.
Grams put a finger under Ren’s chin and lifted her head up. “If you make me a sandwich and some tea, I’ll tell you the secret to having a boyfriend.”
She didn’t need the advice, not really, but she knew Grams would never let her get out of the house without making that turkey on rye, so she rolled her eyes and opened up the fridge. A few minutes later, with Grams positioned at the kitchen table overlooking the back yard that flowed right into the pasture and then into the fields beyond, Ren plunked down a mug of hot black tea with a splash of whiskey, the way Grams liked, and a plate with a sandwich on it.
“This is wheat bread.” Grams made a sour lemon drop face.
“We didn’t have any rye, your highness,” Ren said.
“It’ll have to do,” Grams said. She eyed the mug. “You make this tea the right way, girl?”
“Irish whiskey,” Ren said.
“No other way.”
“I’m going now.”
“Wait,” Grams said, her mouth already full of turkey. “Don’t you want to know my secrets?”
“I want nothing more,” Ren muttered under her breath.
“Well?”
“Fine,” Ren said. “Tell me.”
Grams chewed slowly and swallowed. She shrugged her wide shoulders. “Can’t remember. It’s been almost seventy years since I dated anyone.”
