To Where You Are (The Protectors of Light Series Book 1)

by K. A. Hobbs

  “You know, cheese, wine, crackers and a movie all shared with someone important is a pretty good way to spend Christmas Eve, don’t you think, Moll?” I ask, spreading a piece of Boursin onto a cracker.

  “Mmmm,” she agrees sleepily, her eyes blinking slowly at Santa Claus the Movie as she snuggles deeper into her criminally comfortable couch.

  The scene doesn’t quite seem real. The air shivers with an almost ethereal quality and the music piping through the radio is sort of muffled—Tchaikovsky’s 1812. Ben doesn’t even like classical music; he’s just humouring me. My hands twitch in time to the melody, slowly becoming more animated as my early morning caffeine begins to hit my system.

  By the time the cannons kick in, my arms are waving madly in the air, and in my head, I’m standing in a great concert hall, conducting a full orchestra and not headed into school to teach a bunch of stroppy kids who don’t even want to learn.

  “This is my favourite bit,” I mumble as the music crashes to its climax.

  Ben chuckles, fending off yet another flailing arm as he flashes me an indulgent smile. He’s used to my quirks by now. “I’d never have guessed.”

  For just a moment, I sink into those eyes I love so much, enjoying the sparkle he reserves just for me.

  I love you…

  The words are on the tip of my tongue when the air is split by a god-awful screeching sound as tyres scramble for purchase on an unwilling surface, converted into more of an ice rink by the frigid air.

  The world falls into sinister slow motion as the ground falls away from beneath us, spinning and flying around. Eyes screwed up tight, I hear a piercing wail of terror rending the air and it takes an infinite moment to realise it’s been ripped from my own panic stricken lungs.

  My hands fly around, no longer conducting but desperately seeking out the love of my life—my anchor in the storm. When it finally meets other human flesh, I’m relieved for just a moment.

  And then I realise.

  The skin is too soft, too smooth. The usual typing callouses on the tips of his fingers are gone, replaced by an unfamiliar feminine softness.

  The wail draws into a full-on scream as a faceless voice softly repeats my name and the darkness melts around me into startling brilliance. Everything blurs at the sudden influx of light and I cringe, dragging my hand from the unfamiliar grip to scrub at my face. As the world slowly comes into focus around me, concerned brown eyes beam into mine with a rare intensity.

  “Molly, calm down. It’s okay. You’re dreaming.”

  The softly crooning voice stands in stark contrast to my racing heart as I desperately scan my surroundings for shattered glass and broken bodies. “Oh, God.” The words tumble from my lips over and over and I blink rapidly to try to erase the awful images from my head.

  “I’m going to put the light on. Deep breath, Moll. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

  I try to obey, since the voice of my friend is the only thing I have to cling on to at this moment. I drag in a deep breath and hold it, expecting the sharp pain of cracked ribs and pierced skin, but there is no pain other than the dull throb of a slight hangover, which is far easier than I deserve. “I… I’m sorry,” I mumble lowly, dropping my head to my knees as I drag them up to my chest.

  “There’s no need to be. Do you want to talk about it? What were you dreaming?”

  Such a simple question. What were you dreaming? It’s innocent. The sort of question she might not have asked if she knew what I’d done—what I’d caused. I know she’ll have to know eventually, but the fear of losing her when she realises what I did has me biting my tongue so hard I taste the bitter tang of blood in my mouth. “J-just a bad dream.”

  She sighs and reaches for my hand. “Molly, I’m no stranger to bad dreams. I get them, too. Will you tell me what it was about? I don’t need specifics, but… was it to do with Ben?”

  I freeze the moment his name leaves her lips. It’s been so long since anybody talked about him in front of me that I’ve become almost accustomed to it being a taboo name, like he’s Voldemort or something. It’s a wonder my mum hasn’t started calling him He Who Must Not Be Named after the number of times I’ve flinched at hearing the real thing. But I can’t remember even telling Imogen about him. I’ve slipped up and mentioned him a couple of times but how could she possibly know he was important enough to give me the nightmares that plague me constantly?

  “I… Yes,” I answer reluctantly. It doesn’t matter how she knows. She knows he existed and perhaps that can be enough.

  “He’s the Chanel man. It’s his iPod we were playing, and he’s the part of you that you’ve lost and can’t function without, isn’t he?”

  Staring into the abyss of the depths of the Christmas tree, I feel my eyes stinging from the vivacity of the lights, but I can’t drag them away. Not to face her or the truths she so eloquently speaks. “He was the very best part of me. I don’t know who I am without him. I don’t want to know.”

  “I know how you feel, kind of. I lost everything when I came here. I mean that in the literal sense of the word. I don’t have anything, and I didn’t understand how I was supposed to just start again. When you’ve spent so long being one person and you can’t be that person any more, nothing matters, does it? Life turns to shit and everyone just expects you to get over it. I get it.” She scrubs her face harshly, almost in anger. “For very different reasons, but I get it. No one really understands even if they’ve been there, because no two people are the same. But I want to be here for you. I want to help you, Molly. I can’t understand what you’re going through, but I can try to ease a little of that pain, and I can try to make your world bigger than these four walls. There’s a whole life out there for you, a whole beautiful, bright life. You deserve it. Don’t you think?”

  I can almost feel the shutters slamming closed inside my chest at her words. My heart hurts for her losses—losses she doesn’t deserve. She’s such a bright light in what feels like a bleak, dark world, and I wish I could take her pain from her. But as for me, every bit of pain I’m feeling is what I deserve. I get off lightly, really. She’s looking at me expectantly now, a small smile on her lips as she waits for me to agree with her. But how can I? How can I tell her that I deserve what she’s selling to me when a man is lying in a grave because of me?

  “Whatever it is you’re thinking, and I think I can guess, you’re wrong. It’s not your fault. You can’t carry the blame around like a shield and let it dictate your happiness forever. You can’t change what happened and no one will blame you for trying to forgive yourself. Not me, not your mum, and definitely not Ben.”

  “Stop it!” I finally cry out, my hands flying to my ears as I rock in time to the guilt shuddering through my body. She thinks this is some lame version of survivor’s guilt, but she has no idea. She doesn’t know why the car skidded off the road that morning. Or how it plunged down a ditch straight into the tree whose branch plowed through his chest and stole his last breath. “Just stop it. You don’t know. You can’t know. Just leave it. Why can’t you just leave it all?”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers at my sudden outburst and clear distress. “I…” She dips into a pained silence that I’ve never experienced with her before. She has an answer for everything. Everything. Yet now, with my face buried in my knees and my fingernails digging into my arms as they tug them in closer, I don’t even hear the sound of her breathing. For a moment, I wonder if she’s left. I wouldn’t blame her. Who would stay? But then I hear a small shuffle and then feel a warm hand on my shoulder, tugging my tense body into an equally warm chest.

  Fingers rake through my hair and a sigh shudders out of me. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean… I’m just so tired. I want it all to just go away. All of it. The memories. The feelings. I want to feel nothing just for a little while.”

  “I know.”

  She takes a few deep breaths before she speaks again. “If you want me to leave, I will. Or I can make us some tea. Y
ou can have a shower and wash your hair. And when you’re done, I’ll blow dry it and make it all straight and glossy, just like I used to do my sister’s. Then we’ll have breakfast and get the turkey ready. And…” I sense her smile. “If you think you can deal with it, I’ll ask George if he’d like to spend the day with us.”

  Questions whizz around my head at dizzying speed. I want to know what happened to her sister and why she came here and lost everything, but it hardly seems to fair to ask. The thought of having somebody mess with my disastrous hair and maybe tame it a little sounds so good, though. And I’ve been dying to meet George since the first time she mentioned him. Sniffing, I twist to look at her and nod a little shyly. “I was starting to think I’d never meet George.”

  “Is that a yes to all the aforementioned suggestions then?” she asks, smirking at me a little.

  Ducking my head, I look up at her sheepishly through my eyelashes. “Yes please. If you can stomach being around this basket case for a little while longer.”

  “Molly,” she laughs. “This is exactly where I want to be.”

  I can’t remember the last time somebody did my hair for me. It was probably my mum when I was still young enough to let her. Before that pesky irritable independence kicked in and stole the experience of the most soothing feeling in the world away. But Imogen, just like she does with everything else, manages to turn a basic blowdry into an event. It’s a gift she has, taking the mundane and making it special. Even the idea of cooking my first Christmas dinner without Ben there to smack his lips and tell me it’s delicious doesn’t feel so bad.

  I want to find a way to thank her, to tell her how special she is to me. I just hope the feeble gift I managed to find will do the trick. I’ve never been that good with words, except for my ability to memorise the lyrics to the entire Take That back catalogue, but I don’t think that will help in this particular instance.

  With the turkey in the oven and the amazing scents of a cooking roast floating through the house, we finally find ourselves back around the tree. Naturally, Imogen is bouncing up and down on her knees with excitement, sifting through the few presents, mumbling under her breath as she reads the labels.

  “These are mostly for you, so pick one.” She beams at me.

  I shrug, not sure how I wound up with so many parcels under the tree. Maybe Santa Claus is real after all. I reach blindly for the first one I see before plucking her main gift from me from its spot beneath a branch. The wrapping is terrible compared to hers. There’s more sellotape than paper and the ribbon doesn’t match the pattern, but I’m hoping what’s inside will mean something to her. As much as it does to me.

  “Do you want me to go first? Are you shy?” she teases.

  I chuckle and push the small parcel into her hands a little nervously. I’ve never been all that good at expressing how I feel. It was a long standing joke between Ben and I that it took forever for him to coax the words ‘I love you’ out of me. So while the words on the tag were written from the heart, I have no idea how they’ll be taken, or if they’re too corny. I’m pretty sure I had at least two large glasses of Chardonnay inside me when I wrote it. But alcohol has always had a habit of making me more honest. “Open it,” I say quietly, biting my lip as I wait.

  I watch as she gazes at the present like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world, like an eighth wonder of the world. She pokes her finger into the only corner not covered in sellotape and rips.

  Carefully, she pulls out the little box and lifts the lid. I can tell the exact moment she spots the tag, because her hand starts to shake. Her eyes move back and forth, back and forth, and the longer she takes, the more I start to worry it’s too much.

  It was a stupid idea.

  Then she picks up the bracelet and holds it up to the light. Gently swinging to and fro is the single angel wing I picked for her.

  “Molly,” she chokes, her tear soaked eyes meeting mine. “It’s too much. You really…” Her emotions get the better of her then and she places a hand over her mouth, trying to contain the sob threatening to break free.

  For a moment, I don’t know what to do. It’s rare to see her lost for words. Usually, getting her to shut up is the chore. But now, she looks a little lost, and I wonder whether the words I wrote on the tag are too much too soon. I’m frozen in place for way too long while she sits with her bottom lip quivering behind her hand and small pearly droplets gathering in the corners of her eyes. And then I have a moment—what I’m beginning to call a ‘what would Immy do?’ moment—and it’s pretty clear what she would do. What she always does whenever anybody is distressed or emotional.

  Slipping lightly from the couch, I shuffle towards where she’s crouched by the tree and hesitantly wrap an arm around her, leaning my head against hers. “Don’t be sad. Please. It’s just the truth.”

  She sniffles and takes a few deep breaths. “I’m not sad. I’m really not. I’m just overwhelmed right now, and I’m seriously thinking my presents are utterly shit compared to yours.”

  I bark out a slightly emotional laugh, tugging her in closer and wrapping her up tight. “You’ve given me the best gift anybody ever has. You don’t even know.” I glance down at the label clutched tightly in her hand. I have a feeling she might treasure that just as much as the bracelet itself. I just wish I had better handwriting. Still, the words stand out pretty clearly on the sky blue card: ‘Because you came into my life like an angel’.

  She reaches for a perfectly wrapped box and hands it to me, wiping at her eyes and sitting back on her heels. “It’s not as flash, and nowhere near as beautiful, but here.”

  I stare at it for a long moment, taking in the stunning wrapping with perfectly placed ribbons and sparkly paper, feeling guilty about the sellotape ridden mess I gave to her. “I don’t know about not as flash,” I say with a grin as I slip my finger under the tape and tug.

  “The wrapping might be better, but you never know if that’s to make up for the truly shocking present inside.”

  I scowl at her playfully for a moment. “It’s not more carrots, is it?”

  “Not inside that one, no.” She grins.

  “Hmm,” I say skeptically before deciding to just tear into the present, not nearly as delicately as her. Peeling it back and sending glitter flying everywhere, I grin at the gift inside. A beautiful set of notebooks, bound in leather. I lift them to my face and sniff, inhaling my favourite scent deeply and holding it in my lungs. A thousand memories come flying back to me of days spent scouring book shops with Ben looking for his latest favourites, of sitting curled in the armchair doing lesson plans and reports while he scribbled away at his latest project. He always refused to use a word processor, insisting that pen and paper made the words flow easier.

  When I flick through the pages, I gasp. The second notebook is filled not with lined paper or even plain, but each page is lined with blank music manuscripts, ready to be filled with new melodies.

  “Immy,” I whisper, clutching them to my chest and blinking rapidly.

  “You play music. I guessed you probably like to create music of your own, too. If you don’t it’s fine. I mean, who doesn’t like a nice notebook?” she says, like it doesn’t matter.

  Ignoring her yelp of surprise, I lurch forwards and throw myself at her, my arms encompassing her small frame and squeezing tightly. “I’ve never had a friend like you before. How did…? I’m so lucky.”

  Last year, my ‘best friend’ bought me a top in her style and size that inevitably disappeared into her wardrobe within the week. The year before, it was toiletries I couldn’t use. And the one before that, it was tickets to see her favourite band. Having somebody who knew me well enough to buy such a thoughtful gift was enough to make my eyes sting.

  She reaches for the books and taps the one I’m holding. “There are three, Moll: one with lines and one for your music, but the third one is a little different. Next year, I want you to make something positive out of every day.” She points to the bo
ok at the bottom. “Use that book to document it. Then, on New Year’s Day, flick through and remind yourself how lucky you’ve been all year. Because it’s so easy to forget.”

  Sighing happily, I release her for a moment to pluck the final notebook off the floor and flick through it curiously. The blank pages call to me in a way I never understood when Ben used to say it, and I pause when a flash of black mars the empty paper. Flicking back, I smile when I see that several of the pages have handwritten quotes in Imogen’s meticulous handwriting, spouting all the positive things we have to be grateful for. I have a feeling that she might just appear in this book quite frequently.

  “Thank you. It’s the best gift I’ve ever had.”

  “There are a lot better things I’m sure. But I’m delighted you like it. There are a couple more. Want another?”

  Grinning, I nudge her shoulder as I dive head first into the pile of presents and burrow through them searching for one in particular. “Nope. It’s your turn again.”

  “Is it really wrong that I’m enjoying getting presents? I didn’t think I would this year, not being with—” She stops herself before she finishes her sentence and for a brief second I see sadness mar her usually serene features. “I just didn’t expect presents.”

  Dropping the present to my lap, I offer her a soft smile and reach forward to tuck a strand of hair out of her face. “Santa always visits the people on the nice list, right? We must have been exceptionally good, you and me.”

  I want to ask about her family. I can’t understand why she seems to have nothing to do with them. She hasn’t said much about them, about why she seems to have lost that part of her life, but it’s clear it’s a source of pain for her. But prying has never come easily to me, and the last thing I want to do is make her feel worse on Christmas Day of all days. So, I reach out and give her hand a squeeze, giving her a look that I hope tells her she can talk about it if she wants to.