The Guardian

by Katie Klein

  I clutch the pharmacy bag in my incapacitated hand as I head up the sidewalk leading to the front door. The grass, still brown with winter, creeps over the sides and digs through the cracks, quietly overtaking the cement.

  Seth materializes from nowhere, appearing beside me as I jam the key into the lock.

  I jump. “Jesus! Can you stop doing that?” I whisper-yell, turning slightly, checking to see if Carter is still waiting. He is. I close my eyes and inhale.

  Seth leans against the vinyl siding of the house, hands in his pockets, patiently waiting for me to unlock the door.

  I twist the knob and push the door open. I offer a quick wave to Carter, and then enter, shutting the door behind me. Or us, rather.

  It’s not until we’re inside, Seth standing in the middle of my living room, staring back at me, that I realize letting Carter drop me off might not have been the best idea. I step backward, moving closer to the door.

  “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “I don’t know that,” I point out.

  “Yes you do,” he says, voice steady.

  I eye him cautiously, taking in his jeans and casual, white dress shirt. His flawless skin and brown hair, falling just above his eyebrow. I swallow hard as my heart thuds erratically beneath my skin.

  “You begged me not to leave,” he reminds me.

  He’s right.

  I inhale deeply, moving around him as I toss my purse and pharmacy bag onto the couch. “Okay. For the sake of being honest, I’m just going to come out and say that this is by far the weirdest thing that has ever happened to me. I mean, there is a strange guy in my living room, who appears out of . . . nowhere. And then disappears. And. . . .” I turn to face him. “Who are you? And please don’t say it’s complicated,” I warn. “I need real answers.”

  “Who do you think I am?”

  “If you’re making me guess, we’re going to have to begin with a ‘what’,” I tell him.

  A smile perches itself at the edge of his lips. “Okay. What do you think I am?”

  “Truthfully?”

  His eyebrows peak. “I can handle it.”

  I fold my arms across my chest, hugging myself tightly. “A ghost?”

  He furrows his brow and wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Really? Out of all the possibilities—vampire, shapeshifter, Greek god, immortal—you have to pick ghost?”

  “It makes perfect sense.”

  Seth gives a short laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask him.

  “Nothing. It’s just that I am really offended right now.”

  “You’re laughing,” I point out.

  “I’m so offended that I’m laughing. That can’t be good.”

  I remain firmly in place, arms still crossed.

  He stops laughing and clears his throat.

  “You’re a ghost,” I confirm. “You have to be.”

  “You watch entirely too much TV.”

  “There’s no other possible explanation for you.”

  “There is,” he replies, moving toward me, narrowing his eyes. “Because I’m not a ghost.”

  I step back.

  Seth stops directly in front of me, so close we’re almost touching. He’s several inches taller than me. My nose just reaches his chin. I suck in a breath. It doesn’t satisfy, and for a moment I’m sure my lungs are going to spasm again.

  He lifts his hand. I close my eyes, wanting to pull away from him. Nowhere to go.

  He runs his fingers through my hair, traces my jawline with the back of his hand. I stand frozen beneath his touch, which leaves my skin fluttery and tingling. I try to swallow, but my mouth is desert dry.

  “I’m not a ghost,” Seth says calmly, letting his hand fall to his side. “And I’m not going to hurt you. It’s not in the job description.”

  “Then what are you?” I ask, breathless, hearing my pulse as it hammers in my ears, still reeling from his touch.

  “I’m a Guardian.”

  “Are you real?”

  “Are you serious?”

  I stare into his liquid brown eyes, searching for the truth behind them. He holds up his hand. I examine it for a moment, then reach out and touch it. It’s solid, and warm. Just like mine. I trace the lines with my fingers, feeling the electricity as it passes from his palm to mine.

  “Why can’t anyone else see you?” I whisper.

  “They can, but only if I want them to. Some people have this sixth sense. They can feel when I’m around, but they can’t see me. Not like this.”

  “So you’re saying you want me to see you right now?”

  He backs away, moving across the living room, his eyes locked to mine. “Since we’re being honest, I’ve kind of wanted you to see me for a while now.”

  My heart fumbles a beat. I take a deep breath, focusing on squeezing as many answers as possible out of him before he vanishes again. “Okay, for argument’s sake, let’s pretend you’re telling the truth.” He sits down on the sofa. “What does a Guardian do?”

  “Exactly what the name implies. A Guardian guards. It protects. Looks after. Watches. Whatever.”

  “So you’re like, my Guardian Angel?” Even as I utter the words, my mind refuses to wrap around the concept. If he is an angel, why isn’t he glowing? Where are his wings? Angels have halos and play harps. Dress in all white. Angels are heavenly doers of good. This guy is, well, borderline . . . and not entirely on the heavenly side.

  And then, as if reading my mind: “It’s not like that.”

  “But you said you watched after people. And you come to their rescue when they need it. Theoretically speaking, that makes you a Guardian Angel.”

  “It doesn’t make me an angel. And you’re the only one I watch over. Technically,” he adds, mumbling.

  I stare at him, struggling to read his expression, to understand what it all means. “So you hang around waiting for me to screw up?”

  An amused smile crosses his face. “You could say that.”

  “That’s kind of creepy. Why haven’t I seen you before?”

  “You’ve never been in any kind of danger. Until the car accident, at least.”

  The words verify what I expected. “So it was you. That night in the road.”

  A peculiar expression crosses his face, and his eyes grow solemn. “You’ve been keeping me busy lately.”

  I’m drawn to the hard cast on my hand, remembering the moments just after I crawled away from Carter’s shattered SUV. “It was strange. I felt so calm. And today, when you picked me up. . . .” My eyes narrow. “It’s like, I knew everything would be okay. It was weird.”

  “We pick up on one another’s emotions,” he explains. “We’re connected. I can sense when you’re scared, or panicking, or in danger. That’s when I know you need help.”

  “And you show up, calm me down, save me, or whatever.” I marvel at the idea. “You’re like my own personal bodyguard.”

  “Don’t get any stupid ideas,” he warns. He pauses for a moment, a serious expression crossing his face, conflicted. “I really shouldn’t be here.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we help and we leave. It’s the rule. The fact that you know my name, even.” He buries his face in his hands, rubs his eyes with his palms, and groans. “I could be screwed already. I should go,” he says, tone colored with frustration. He stands quickly.

  I jump up. “Wait! So . . . this is it? You’re just going to disappear again?”

  “I have to.”

  “Will I see you anymore?”

  “I’ll be around,” he confirms.

  I bite my lower lip. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  He moves to the front door, pausing long enough on his way out to train his eyes on me, to study my face, as if trying to memorize everything he sees.

  “Just do us both a favor and stay out of trouble.”

  There’s no way to know how long I stand there, dizzy, staring into empty space, heart thumping, waiting. />
  Then I remember: I never thanked him. For helping me the night of the accident. For finding me in the locker room. I rush to the door and open it, knowing what I’ll find. And, when I step out onto the porch and into the cool breeze, nothing.

  SEVEN

  “Hey girlie-girl. Good to have you back.” Stu smiles at me through the kitchen window. Stu is a thirty-something beach bum who happens to flip a mean omelet. The spring breaker who never left. The guy who applied for a summer job, and never thought to look for anything else. Except for the dish washer in the rear, he’s the only one manning the kitchen.

  “You mean to tell me that Ernie still hasn’t hired another cook?” I ask, dropping my book bag to the floor and climbing onto a red barstool.

  “Are you kidding?” He slaps a burger patty onto a bun and tosses a few trimmings on the side: lettuce, a tomato slice, the rings of an onion. “Ernie is never going to hire another cook.”

  “You’re too dependable,” I point out.

  He considers this for a moment. “You here to work or hang out?”

  “Both. Sort of. I mean, I’m on hostess duty in thirty, and Mom said I should wrap silverware while I’m waiting, just to show Ernie I’m still worth paying.”

  Stu arranges the food, adds a scoop of fries, then carries both to the window. “Order up!” he calls.

  I look across the restaurant. Mom is refilling the coffee cup of some guy in a dark suit. Tourist. I roll my eyes. What a waste. He’s not even eating.

  “What can I make you?” Stu asks, disrupting my thoughts.

  I turn back to him. “What?”

  “A welcome home dinner. Just for you. You name it, I’ll make it.”

  “You can’t do that,” I say, shaking my head. “Ernie will kill you. You know how he feels about employees who eat without paying.”

  One of the perks of working at a restaurant should be free food or leftovers or something, but this is not the case at Ernie’s. Even if we do have leftovers at the end of the night they always go home with Ernie. (Like he needs leftovers.) Because the rest of us aren’t starving.

  Stu peers around me, examining the dining room. “Ernie isn’t exactly here right now,” he points out, scraping the griddle clean with a metal spatula. “And the dinner rush isn’t for another hour. I have no one to cook for.”

  I bite my lower lip. Stu’s food is awfully good.

  “Name it. Anything. A burger and fries, pancakes. . . .”

  “Pancakes? For dinner? That’s just weird.”

  “You aren’t one of those girls who thinks breakfast foods are only meant for breakfast, are you?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess. I mean, I don’t usually eat breakfast, but that’s kinda when they’re intended to be eaten. That’s what makes it breakfast.”

  He eyes me carefully. “You mean to tell me you’ve never eaten pancakes for dinner?”

  I shake my head.

  “And here I thought you rebelled. That you trumped tradition. Danced to the music inside your head.” He grabs the pancake batter. He’s just beginning to pour when he looks up. “You like pancakes, don’t you?”

  “For breakfast,” I confirm.

  He dumps the batter on the griddle. “That’s because you’ve never eaten pancakes for dinner. Pancakes, bacon, and eggs, coming up. I’m going to convert you.”

  I smile, watching him as he works. “What if I don’t want to be converted?” I ask.

  “You want to be converted. Trust me on this. You’re a breakfast at dinner person if I ever met one. You just haven’t been given the opportunity to experience the miraculous-ness.”

  “Is that even a word?”

  He shrugs.

  In minutes, there is a plate before me, filled with pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon. The eggs are bright yellow and still steaming. Stu hands over a set of utensils wrapped tightly in a napkin.

  “Orange juice or milk?”

  “Milk, I guess.”

  While he walks over to the refrigerator, I stare at the pile of food in front of me. It smells awfully enticing. I mean, there’s nothing inherently wrong with eating breakfast foods for dinner. I close my eyes and breathe it in.

  “Knew it,” he says when he returns. “And you haven’t even taken a bite.”

  The thing is, I don’t need to take a bite to know it’s delicious—the best thing I’ve eaten all week. I reach for the syrup bottle and dump its contents on top of my pile of pancakes. My fingers stick to the plastic handle. “Yuck,” I mutter, peeling them away.

  Stu watches intently as I shift the food around my plate, spear a forkful of eggs, and take the first bite.

  I can’t hide my smile.

  “Knew it!” Stu dances around the kitchen, his crazy, brown hair sticking up all over the place. “You know why, don’t you?” He points the spatula at me. “Because there’s a top secret ingredient and you don’t even know it.”

  I pick up a piece of bacon and examine it between my fingers before taking a bite. “Really?”

  “Yeah. It’s cheese.”

  I stare at him in disbelief while I chew. “Stu, if it’s a secret ingredient then why are you telling me?” I ask, my mouth full.

  “Because food is meant to be enjoyed. Cherished. Appreciated. Only the truly negligent would keep a secret recipe an actual secret. If you go home and make some killer eggs with cheese that make you smile and forget your problems for a while, then I’ve done my job as a chef.”

  I laugh. Stu is hardly a chef. He’s a short order cook in a hole in the wall restaurant that practically shuts down with the rest of the town during the winter. But I like his attitude, anyway.

  “I’ll have to remember that the next time I make eggs.” I pick up my knife and cut my pancakes into little triangles. “So eggs and cheese, what else?”

  “A pinch of salt and a splash of milk.”

  “That’s it? You don’t have any kind of concrete measurements?”

  He scoffs. “Of course not. I don’t cook with measurements. I cook by feel. It’s a gift.” He examines the nearly empty dining room. “A gift that I’m wasting right now because we have no customers.” He lets out a sigh.

  “A gift. Right.”

  “Everyone has a gift.”

  I cram a bite of pancakes in my mouth. “Not me,” I mumble.

  “What?”

  I reach for my glass of milk and swallow. “I said, not me.”

  “Not me, what?”

  I roll my eyes. I swear, sometimes his attention span borders closer to a four-year-old than an actual adult. “A gift. I don’t have one.”

  “Sure you do,” he replies, flipping a pair of pans around as if he were a practicing samurai. “Everyone has something that sets them apart from everyone else. Some of us are lucky enough to have multiple skills.” He spins around the room then stretches into some kind of karate pose, crossing the pans in front of him.

  I shake my head, not believing him.

  He straightens, tossing the pans into the air as he begins to juggle. “I’ll bet your gift is totally awesome, and you don’t even realize it.”

  I consider this as I watch him.

  “Maybe your gift is that you cheat death,” he goes on. “You’ve been to the hospital, what? Twice in a month? Maybe you’re lucky in life. You have nine lives . . . like a cat. Maybe you’re immortal.” His eyes grow wider.

  “Or maybe I’m unlucky,” I point out. “Because not many people would say going to the hospital twice in a month is a good thing.”

  “Only the ones who don’t make it.”

  “Touché.”

  At the mention of the hospital, and immortals, my thoughts immediately shift to the mysterious guy who’d been there—a Guardian named Seth—who has all but disappeared from my life. “This may sound kind of random, but do you believe in angels?” I ask.

  Stu balances the handle of the pan in his palm, keeping it upright and level. “Sure.”

  “Do you like, think they’re all around us,
making things easier and stuff?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  I shrug. “I’m just wondering, is all. Informal survey.”

  “Do you?”

  I think for a moment. About the accident. About the hospital room. About the locker room. Feeling his strong arms wrapping protectively around me. Sliding my fingers across the paths of his hand. “Yeah, I do,” I answer.

  “Then that’s all that matters.”

  I eat until my plate is empty and my stomach feels heavy, gorged with maple syrup. The bell above the front door jingles, and in walks the first table of the dinner crowd. I jump down from the barstool and carry my empty plate around to Stu.

  “Consider me converted.”

  “Knew it,” he replies, setting the crumb-covered, syrup-sticky plate on the counter. He turns to me, and places both hands on my shoulders. “And next time, we introduce thee to vegetable soup.”

  My nose crinkles with disgust. “Not for breakfast, I hope,” I say, imagining the whole breakfast for dinner thing might work in reverse.

  Stu turns toward the grill and throws on a couple of hamburger patties. They smoke and sizzle, steam rising to the vent hovering above him. He scoffs. “That’s absurd. No one eats vegetable soup for breakfast.”

  EIGHT

  It’s the first truly warm weekend of the season. The temperature rose steadily in the days prior, until Selena decided that she, Vivian, Jason, and Carter just had to spend Saturday at the beach. It was Carter who turned to me and asked: “How about it? You in?”

  I’m positive Selena rolled her eyes. I think I hate her.

  “Come on,” he pressed. “It’ll be fun. I’ll pick you up. We’ll hang out. You can get some sun. You love the beach.”

  The beach is the only good thing about the entire town. I found myself thinking about it, then talking myself into it. “Sure,” I replied, shrugging casually. “Sounds like fun.”

  “Are you sure you don’t have to work or something?” Selena asked, hopeful.

  “Not until dinner. Are you planning on going at four in the afternoon?”