by Katie Klein
I sit still, unmoving, waiting for him to finish. “Yeah?” I urge after a few, quiet moments.
“It’s just that, if this keeps happening, the wrong person is going to find out about it.” A pained expression crosses his face, as if he’s picturing something, imagining something terrible.
“I’m not going to tell anyone,” I whisper.
He grimaces. “It doesn’t matter. People already know,” he reminds me. “People talk. Guardians talk. And there’s always someone listening. You can’t ever forget that. You never know who’s lurking in the shadows. You can’t trust anyone, Genesis. Ever.”
I swallow hard.
He falls back on my bed and stares at the ceiling. “I’m sorry. I know you’re upset about all of this.”
I hug my knees to my chest, examine the chipped nail polish on my toes, feeling each second as it passes. I remember the accident, and Carter and Selena. How Carter let me jump into his SUV without a second thought, while Selena laughed in my face. “How do you do it?” I finally ask him. “Make someone believe, I mean.”
His answer is shockingly simple: “You can’t.”
I consider this for a moment. “You know, that was the worst part about this whole thing. Knowing what was going to happen, but Selena not caring.”
“That’s free will at its best. People make choices. They do things. They don’t. They say things. They don’t. They have an opportunity to do right, and they blow it. You can’t make decisions for people. You do what you can and hope they make the right choices.”
“I know. I just wonder what would’ve happened if things were different. If she would’ve believed me and gone another way.”
“What would’ve happened?” he repeats. “Nothing. She would have taken a different route. There wouldn’t have been an accident.”
“But then I wouldn’t know if these visions were even real.”
“The thing is, you’ll never know what might have been. Things happen to people every day. Bad things. And then everyone wonders, where was God? Why did it have to be this way? I get it, you know, but they never see the entire picture. Everyone walking this planet is half a second away from disaster. Like Selena. If she would’ve decided to do anything else, to talk to you longer, or to stop somewhere before her appointment, the accident never would’ve happened. But then, it doesn’t matter because no one would’ve known the difference. We do everything we can to make bad things not happen, but the truth? We’re never fully in control. At some point fate steps in and takes over. Then you deal the best you can.” He gazes at the rivers of plaster stretched across the ceiling.
“So far all of my visions have come true. Does that mean I can see the future? Or is it just what could happen? Because if Selena would’ve listened and not gotten into the wreck, then I wouldn’t have seen it in the first place, right?”
“I don’t know.”
“So there’s no point in warning anyone, or trying to stop these things from happening because they’re just going to happen anyway.”
He rolls over onto his side, props his head up with his hand, and stares at me, his dark eyes pensive. “I don’t know. Maybe what you’re seeing isn’t always guaranteed. Maybe the future is something that’s always happening. If every decision you make alters your course, then why wouldn’t there be a chance that the outcome could be different from what you see?”
I lie down beside him, and a hush falls between us. The light overhead burns my already aching eyes. I cover them with my arm. “I’m sorry,” I finally mumble, hiding my face. My throat tightens, constricting.
“For what?”
“Everything.” I shrug my shoulders, eyes welling with tears.
He sits up and leans over, lifting my arm from my face. A salty tear slips down my cheek, pooling at my ear.
“I hate it when you cry,” he whispers, gently tracing the trail of wetness left behind with his finger. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. I laugh nervously and apologize again.
“Why are you sorry? You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” he says, voice soft and low. I turn my head slightly to look at him, and catch his deep, brown eyes with mine. They seem to go on for miles. They’re endless. Full of secrets.
“You don’t,” he repeats.
I reach out to touch him, run my fingers through his smooth, dark hair, fighting against the butterflies crashing in my stomach.
He shifts uncomfortably, moving his shoulders, tearing his eyes away from me.
“The thing is,” he continues, after a deep breath. “What I said earlier? About you being a job? Well, you’re more than just a job to me.” He laughs quietly, but there’s no humor in it. “And I’m pretty sure that’s not good. I mean, there has to be some kind of rule about this, right?” He stops for a moment. My heart pounds in anticipation. “It’s just that, keeping you safe has become an obsession of mine. More than it should be, even. Screw fate and free will. I hate Carter, and I wanted to kill him for not taking better care of you. And that day in the locker room, I wanted to carry you away. And when you’re scared, or upset. . . .” Another lingering pause, and then he laughs, hiding his eyes with his hands. “I can’t believe I’m even saying this.” He looks back at me, eyes burning into mine. “Is it selfish of me to want to keep you forever?” he whispers.
I shake my head. “No.”
He tenderly brushes the hair off my face with his fingers, then runs them slowly down my cheek.
I close my eyes, still brimming with tears. “Please don’t disappear anymore,” I beg. I move my face into his warm hand. This . . . Seth and I . . . whatever it is . . . it’s perfect. And I’m not entirely sure I can live without it.
I run my finger across his jawline. He hesitates for a moment, eyes searching mine. I rest my hand on the nape of his neck, drawing him in, closer. He doesn’t pull away as I lean forward, close my eyes, and meet his lips halfway. The world goes weightless, and my body melts into his as the gentle kisses leave my soul twisting, filling the ache inside.
EIGHTEEN
“Okay, tell me the truth. What do you think?”
Stu focuses his gaze, watching as I sample a spoonful of his latest creation: a cheesy potato soup. It’s thick and warm and rich and melts on my tongue. “Wow,” I say, going in for another bite.
“Really?” Stu asks. “You like it?”
“It’s the best soup I’ve ever tasted,” I confirm, my mouth full.
“Yes!” Stu balls his fingers into fists and punches the air. He bounces around the kitchen like the little leaguer who just pitched his first perfect inning. I smile. I like when Stu gets excited. It gives me a reason to feel excited, too.
“I’m gonna do it. I’m going to ask Ernie to put it on the menu.” He pauses for a moment, thinking. “It’s good enough for the menu, right?”
I nod. “Definitely.”
He wipes his hands on his apron, which has accumulated a fair amount of grease stains over the course of the afternoon, and heads to the back.
“How good is it really?” Arsen asks, moving toward me.
“Very good,” I confirm. “But I’m not surprised. Stu can make anything. He actually convinced me to start eating breakfast for dinner.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
Arsen slips around the counter and climbs onto the stool beside me. “So I was wondering,” he begins. “Do you want to get dinner again? Or catch a movie?”
I don’t answer right away, feeling a pang of guilt surge through me.
“Or maybe you’re finally ready to take me up on the whole surfing thing.” He nudges me playfully with his elbow, flirting.
I smile tentatively. “No surfing.”
My date with Arsen, minus the appearance of an insanely jealous Guardian and sharing a table with my ex-boyfriend and at least one girl who hated me, went surprisingly well. He’s sexy, funny, attentive—everything a good boyfriend should be. But he isn’t . . .
“No surfing,” he replie
s. “Okay. But dinner? Or the beach?”
I exhale. “Yeah. Um. I don’t know.”
Arsen lets out a low, nervous laugh. “That doesn’t sound good.”
I shake my head. “It’s not you,” I explain. “And I know that is so cliché.” I laugh weakly, stirring the potato soup with the spoon. “But it’s true. It’s not you. It’s me. I’m just coming off another break-up, and I’m really not looking for anything serious right now.”
He shrugs casually. “No big deal. I mean, we can still hang out. As friends.”
I glance over at him, and, for a moment, find myself lost in his endless blue eyes, trapped. They’re piercing. Penetrating. Sucking me in. My pulse ratchets a degree. I break away from his gaze and clear my throat. “We’ll see,” I say. “You know, if something comes up.”
He runs his fingers through his sun-lightened hair. I force myself not to look at him.
“I thought you had a good time at dinner. You said you did,” he reminds me.
“I did,” I confirm. “It’s just that things are kind of complicated right now.”
“So you aren’t giving me the run-around?”
I turn toward him. Huge mistake. Those eyes. They puncture my skin and seep into my veins. They make me want to promise things that I can’t. Forget things that I shouldn’t. “No, of course not,” I reply, quickly looking away.
There’s something about them. . . .
“It’s weird right now. But maybe we’ll try again soon.”
No promises, I silently add.
“You waste my time,” Ernie calls from the kitchen. I sit up taller, grateful for the interruption.
“It’s good. I swear. Genesis loves it, and she wouldn’t even eat eggs for dinner,” Stu explains. As if this is the standard by which all food should be judged. I live on pasta half the year. What do I know about food? He hurries over to the pot of soup simmering on the stove, grabs a ladle, and pours a decent-sized portion into a bowl.
Stu sets the bowl on the counter in front of me. Ernie picks up a spoon and samples a bite. The three of us watch him. I don’t realize it at first, but I’m holding my breath.
“Is good,” Ernie says, nodding. He goes in for another bite. I smile.
Stu clasps his hands together. “Good. Because I was thinking we could put it on the menu. You know, to shake things up a bit.”
“No,” Ernie says. “The menu is good.”
Stu’s face falls, the hurt registering in his features. “But the menu hasn’t changed since I’ve been here,” he reminds him.
“People like what we cook. Why change?” he asks.
“Because people get tired of the same old food. It wouldn’t be hard to add one or two new things to the menu. To give them options. We could shake things up a bit,” he repeats.
My heart twists, contorting, like it could split in two.
“It’s just potato soup,” I tell Ernie. “It won’t cost much.” Ernie doesn’t bother looking up at me. “I like it. I’d buy it.”
“You no pay for food you steal now.”
I roll my eyes. “Ernie, I swear I pay for my food.”
“It would be a good addition for the fall and winter,” Stu goes on. “When it gets colder. People want soup.”
“We have soup,” counters Ernie.
“But this will give them more choices.”
“We have few customers in fall and winter. New menus cost too much.” He waves his hand, as if physically shooing away the idea.
I roll my eyes. “Well, maybe we’d have more customers if there were soup choices. I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“Who die and make you manager?” Ernie asks, his beady, black, rat eyes boring holes into mine.
“I’m just saying.”
“You say too much.”
Ernie picks up the bowl. “Soup is good, but menu fine.” He stops in the kitchen doorway, spinning around to face us, his sizeable tan body filling the entire frame. “And what you do sitting down?” he asks, pointing to Arsen. “You work or I fire you.”
He waddles through the kitchen. We watch him pass the stove, then stop, turn around, and grab the ladle, filling his bowl with another scoop of Stu’s potato soup. Moments later his office door shuts.
Stu lets out a pent-up breath, face flushing.
“It’s okay. You tried,” I say. “The soup really is good. And you know how pig-headed he is.”
“I must have a big, fat ‘Reject’ stamped on my forehead. How many times have I made something new for him? And he goes and shoots me down every single time. You’d think I would’ve learned my lesson by now.”
“Some people are too scared to take risks. They hate progress,” I say. “Save the recipe, and when you start your own restaurant, you can use it. You’ll be a hit. And then I’ll come work for you. Your amazing potato soup will put Ernie right out of business.”
The corners of Stu’s mouth turn up ever so slightly, into a sad smile. He squeezes the bottom of my chin between his index finger and thumb. His fingers are dry and chapped, and they scratch at my skin, but, at the same time, they feel oddly comforting, gentle.
“You’re my favorite waitress,” he says, just before returning to the kitchen.
NINETEEN
I lift my shirt over my head on Sunday afternoon and toss it on the hallway floor. I reek of fried food and cigarette smoke. It’s nothing short of amazing—a smell I once found completely intoxicating makes me want to vomit now. I’m not sure why I’m surprised. Everything has changed.
The afternoon is mine. Mom is working through dinner, then has plans with Mike. I shiver thinking about him, pull on a clean tank top, and climb into bed.
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t like him very much, either.”
“Don’t you knock?” I ask, feigning annoyance as I pull my comforter to my chin.
“Not in my world,” Seth replies.
“You’re in my world now, Angel Boy. We have conventions here,” I adjust my pillow, fluffing it. “There are rules.”
“If I’m bothering you, I can go,” he tests.
I watch as Seth fades around the edges, shimmering as he disappears.
I groan. “Forget it.”
In the next moment he’s clear again, a smile curving his lips. “I brought something for you,” he says, sitting down on the edge of my bed. “I left it on your dresser.”
“But I was just. . . .” I roll over, and there, positioned carefully on top of my dresser, is a long-stemmed white rose, perfect and proportional. The air escapes my lungs. I toss my covers aside and climb out of bed. I grasp the stem between my fingers, cautious, but there are no thorns. I bring the petals to my nose and breathe deeply.
“Where did it come from?”
Seth smiles. “A garden.”
“A garden?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow.
He laughs.
“You think you’re so clever,” I mutter. “It must be nice, conjuring up whatever you want whenever you want it.”
“It has its perks.”
I climb back in bed, crawling beneath the covers. Seth lies down beside me.
I yawn.
“Well, I wish I could do it. You know . . . when there’s something I need.” I hesitate. “We’ve had to pawn or sell just about everything we’ve ever owned. We can’t keep anything. It’s like, Mom gets a job, and things look really great for a while, but then something goes wrong: something that seems unpredictable but at the same time isn’t surprising at all. Cutbacks. Layoffs. Winter. Whatever. And no matter how hard we try, we can never get ahead. It’s like, we’re not meant to, or something. We’re destined to rent crappy houses and scrape up change to order from dollar menus for the rest of our lives.” I let out a tiny laugh, amused by my uncharacteristic willingness to tell Seth every secret I’ve ever kept.
“That must really suck,” he says quietly.
“It does. For once, I’d love for something to go right. I swear, when I have money one day, I
’m going to be such a hoarder. I’m not going to buy anything. I’m going to save every last penny.”
“Or you’re going to spend every last penny on everything you’ve ever wanted,” he counters.
“Only if there’s money to blow.” I stifle another yawn and move closer to Seth. I lay my head on his chest, nestling in the crook of his arm, and let my eyes drift shut, breathing evenly.
There’s a dull explosion, a low rumble, as if something clattered to the floor, distant.
I bolt upright, concentrating on the room, struggling to listen over the sound of my manic heartbeat.
Someone is in the house.
“Are you okay?” Seth asks, propping himself up with his elbows.
“Did you hear that? That . . . banging noise?” I whisper. My throat is dry and scratchy and the words barely make it past my lips.
He shakes his head. “It’s quiet. You’ve been asleep. For an hour at least.”
“No I wasn’t. We were just talking.”
“Yes,” he assures me. “You were.”
This doesn’t stop my pulse from pounding in my ears.
“There was this . . . crashing sound,” I explain. “Like something fell over. It came from somewhere in the house.”
“Genesis, I’ve been lying here the whole time. I haven’t heard a thing. Believe me, I’d know.”
“But I could’ve sworn. . . .”
“Were you dreaming?” he asks.
I wrack my brain, forcing it to replay the moment, but I don’t remember dreaming anything. If I was, it’s already forgotten. “Maybe.”
But it was so real.
Seth watches me for a moment, studying my face, then rolls off the bed. “I’ll look around. Okay?”
I bite into my lower lip, nodding, grateful.
I follow Seth into the kitchen and we look around, searching for anything that seems out of place. Not quite right. We move to Mom’s bedroom. I open the bathroom door, flip on the light, and peek inside. Seth opens the hall closet. Nothing.
