by Carey Corp
“Who won’t kiss me.”
“What?!”
Suddenly, I need to talk about this. Well, as much as I can talk about it without going into the whole Greater Seraph sent to protect me from some horrible future occurrence thing. “We’ve got boundaries, or more accurately Gabriel does. I think it’s a PDA thing.”
Becke’s green eyes are incredulous. “You’ve never even kissed?”
“Once. Afterward he said it was ‘terrible’.” I shiver as that one word triggers an onslaught of feelings best left buried. Even after several months, the memory of our kiss is a stranglehold on my heart with no signs of diminishing.
Becke places a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure you misunderstood. He’s probably just being a gentleman. You know how the slightest little things get guys all worked up. He’s probably just afraid of going too fast or being able to control himself.”
Not having the whole story, she can’t know there are more compelling reasons for his behavior. My response is skeptical, half hearted at best. “You think?”
“I know!” She stops to regard me in earnest. “I see the way he looks at you. Alex, you’re his whole world. I can’t even believe a guy could look at a girl the way Gabriel looks at you. It’s so rare. I’ve never seen my parents look at each other like that. I’ve never seen anyone look at the person they love that way.”
Desperate to change the subject, I admit, “I’ve got no clue what to get him for Christmas. You’ve got to help me.”
Two hours and nine stores later, my arms are laden with bags brimming with deliberately chosen gifts that, while just short of perfect, make me excited for the upcoming holiday.
Carefully navigating our way through the crush of humanity—which seems to have tripled in the last hour—we set our sights on a smoothie shop at the far end of the food court. Halfway to our goal, Becke abruptly halts, causing me to nearly knock her over. It’s lucky she doesn’t go down, because as crowded as it is she’d most like be trampled to death by the oblivious multitude.
“Sorry.” She reaches out and we steady each other as she apologizes. “Do you mind if we go over there?” Following the direction she’s pointing, I note a little kiosk promising Everything Dolphin. My eyebrows lift in surprise, and despite my best intentions, I can’t settle them back to normal as I nod my agreement.
Self-consciously, Becke chuckles. “I’ve had a thing for dolphins ever since I was a little girl. In kindergarten when we shared what we wanted to be when we grew up, I told my class I wanted to be a mermaid so I could live with the dolphins.” She rolls her eyes. “And I don’t know why I just told you that.”
“It’s cute,” I assure her as I choke down a benign snicker.
“If you ever repeat that story to Jonah, I’ll—uh—I’ll, uh—well, I don’t know what I’ll do. But you can bet it’ll be horrible and of epic proportions.”
Her threat carries all the weight of a soap bubble causing me to roll my eyes and laugh outright. “I’m so scared.”
She swats my arm as we make our final push through a clump of shoppers to get to the kitschy kiosk. Examining the large case of dolphin jewelry, Becke looks like a kid in a candy store. The salesperson—like a blood-scenting shark with a halo colored to match—zeros in on her, pointing out the finer points of various “one of a kind” pieces and emphasizing the “unbeatable” holiday sale prices.
Becke hovers, mesmerized by a pair of silver earrings, “embracing dolphins to symbolize peace, love, and unity and marked down from $99 to $32,” so we’re told. After some quick mental calculations, she lets out a soft sigh and says to the salivating salesperson, “I think I’m going to pass, but thank you.”
The clerk’s face pinches in disapproval, and without a word, she dismisses us in search of new prey. Turning to me Becke rationalizes, “A week before Christmas is hardly the time to spend that kind of money on myself, right?”
“Maybe your parents will—”
“Doubtful.” Becke’s smile is sweetly understanding as she explains, “They’re much better at boy gifts than girl ones. My mom was a tomboy, she played softball and everything. They try hard but it’s like they see something pink or frilly and think “that’s meant for a girl—and Becke’s a girl—so she’ll like it.” One year they gave me one of those life-sized Barbie heads you can style and make up.”
“That’s not a bad gift.”
“I was fourteen!”
“Oh.” I start laughing as I picture it in my head. Fourteen-year-old, earthy, dolphin-loving Becke faking enthusiasm over a Super Stylin’ Barbie head. “I’m really sorry.”
But Becke is so kind, her shoulders start to quake as shrugs. “Don’t be, I’m used to it. They don’t mean any harm.” Laughing with me, she adds, “This year I’m hoping for a My Little Pony play set.”
As hilarity overtakes us, I make a mental note to get Gabriel to speak to Jonah about a certain pair of silver, “so cheap they are practically a steal” embracing dolphin earrings.
Resuming our quest for smoothies, we pick our way across the food court. Just steps from our goal, I feel a strange tug on my arm. Then a gravelly voice that’s part growl, part hysteria, cries, “What do you want from me?”
The voice sounds like an old woman, but when I turn toward it all I see is a gaping maw of blackness. My stomach violently seizes as my legs give out. I sink to the ground, curling into the fetal position as nausea claws its way up my throat. My arm’s on fire as the woman’s sharp nails dig into the skin.
The darkness, which still sounds like someone’s little old grandma, croaks at me, “You did this to me! You did this!”
My eyes are clenched shut against the vision. I clamp my lips to keep from begging, but the voice in my head is pleading, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop! The hands—now scratching and tearing at my skin—are ripped away and another voice, a man of indeterminable age, apologizes, “I’m so sorry. My mother has Alzheimer’s—she imagines things. Ma, come away. Leave that girl alone.”
“She’s no girl! No one else can see but I see—I know what she is!”
“Again, I’m sorry. I, uh, hope she didn’t hurt you.”
Sensing their retreat, I try to stop the internal spinning that renders me unresponsive. Becke calls to me, as if from a distance. I feel her hands on my shoulders, but all I can focus on is the uncontrollable roiling inside of me. I’m being swept along a ferocious current of darkness. Helpless and exposed. I will myself not to pass out.
Then it stops. Relief, like I’ve never felt before in my life, overpowers me as the tumultuous blackness is eradicated by light. Warmth. Stillness.
For a time I revel in the protective cocoon enveloping me in safety. Then, bit by bit, I return to my surroundings. No longer prone, I’m sitting up, supported by and wrapped in the light. A gentle hand caresses my cheek, fingertips heated and soft. A brush of air stirs the sensitive hair at my neck—a warm breath against my ear. A soft shushing sound registers. My face nestled against skin, surrounded by the spicy scent of the outdoors.
Gabriel.
He cradles me on his lap, surrounds me with his impenetrable embrace. Beyond us, everything is still.
Becke’s quiet voice penetrates the solitude. “Is she all right?”
Softly, Gabriel says, “She had a panic attack. But she’s going to be fine.” His chin brushes against the top of my head as he speaks.
“Thank goodness you showed up when you did. That little old lady was crazy—she just attacked Alex—it was so scary.” Becke’s voice sounds on the verge of tears.
Before she can cry, I flutter my hand in her direction. “ S’kay.”
Gabriel holds me tighter. Into my ear he whispers, “Take your time.”
My eyes feel grainy and pasted shut. Painfully, I blink until my surroundings come into focus, but the nondescript hallway isn’t familiar. Pulling back to gaze at Gabriel, I ask, “Where are we?”
“Service hallway.” His clear blue eyes are r
eassuring as he gives me a knowing look. “No one’s going to bother us here.”
Becke’s phone chirps, making me start with a little involuntary jump which causes Gabriel’s arms to tighten around me in response. Still somewhat overwhelmed—maybe in shock—she curses under her breath. “My grandma’s here so I probably need to go. Unless you want me to stay?”
Rather than answer right away, I rest my head against Gabriel’s shoulder, angling myself so that I can see her better. As our eyes meet I give her a wan smile, the best I can manage under the circumstances, weakly saying, “Go.”
For a moment, she just stares at me, her green eyes narrow, flickering with uncertainty. “Are you sure you’re okay, Alex?”
Carefully choosing my words, I explain, “This isn’t the first time something like this has happened… I have some stranger anxiety but mostly, I don’t let it stop me from doing things. Every once in a while, it catches me off guard. I freaked out…but I’ll be fine.”
Sympathetically she nods as she slips her phone back into her purse. “I wish I’d known. I didn’t know how to help you. I was so relieved when Gabriel showed up.”
Recalling my precisely chosen presents, I groan, struggling to break free of Gabriel’s embrace. “My bags—”
“Got them.” Becke points to a jumble of bags against the wall, straightening mine as she gathers hers. “Okay then—I guess I’ll go. Call me when you’re feeling better. Bye guys.”
As soon as she’s gone, I twist in Gabriel’s arms just in time to see his calm mask dissolve into concern. The image of the black gaping maw is heavy in my mind, causing shivers to ripple up my spine. “What was that old lady? Was she human?”
“That was a very tortured soul. Someone who has done terrible things with no remorse.” Gabriel’s halo blazes as he speaks. “Sometimes, when they’re close to death, their evilness consumes them.”
“And they’re drawn to me…” I think back to the dark boy at The Children’s Center, Mr. Creepy, the faceless person at the CD store, and countless others. “Why?”
The vulnerability in his expression as he looks at me causes my heart to clench. Very gently, more of an apology than an explanation, he says, “It’s part of your gift.”
Gift. Curse. I can’t have this conversation right now, and I tell him as much as I struggle to my feet. While I revel in the simple accomplishment of standing on my own, Gabriel gathers my bags, handing me my purse.
“What’re you doing here anyway?”
Giving me a wry smile, he interlaces his fingertips with mine, initiating an electric current that spreads through my whole body as he answers easily, “Same as you, I suppose. Shopping.”
Shopping. In the ensuing silence following his explanation I hear all things he’s leaving unsaid. Staying close in case you need me… Protecting you… Doing my duty… Being your guardian.
His celestial eyes sparkle impishly as he hefts my bags, seeming to test their weight. “Speaking of shopping—what did you buy today?”
Snatching a forest green bag from his hand, I hold it behind my back as he continues to grin expectantly. “Nothing.”
“This seems like a lot of ‘nothing’.” He steps into my personal space, playfully reaching around my back. “Is my gift in there?”
“Nope.” Stepping deftly backward, I feel a cool wall at my back, blocking any further retreat. Gabriel advances and I can nearly feel the contours of his lean body against mine. My traitorous hormones stir.
“So you won’t mind if I peek?” His full lips are contorted into a smirk that matches the challenge in his sparkling eyes.
Holding the green bag out to my side and high in the air, I ask smugly, “Can’t you already see what it is?”
A tiny frown furrows his left brow. “Like x-ray vision?” When I nod, he shakes his head negatively. “No. That would be cool though!”
But he’s no ordinary boy and I remain unconvinced. “I mean—can’t you just tell?”
Rolling his eyes, he looks at me in exasperation. “I’m an angel, not a clairvoyant. For the most part I’m subject to mortality and average human behavior.”
While there is nothing average about Gabriel, it’s his “for the most part” that captures my attention. “What does ‘for the most part’ mean?”
Becoming more serious, he shrugs. “I’m allowed to bend the rules now and then.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I’m very attuned to you. I can sense when something’s wrong—when you’re not okay. And in times of peril or duress my survival skills are enhanced.”
I think back to that day at the record store—how we traveled from the sidewalk outside the shop to the Fosters’ porch as if by magic. “Enhanced how?”
Inspecting the tip of his boot, he modestly admits, “Speed, strength, stuff like that.” His eyes lift to pierce mine, causing heat to suffuse my body. “When it comes to your safety, if you’re in danger, my divine nature takes over—kind of like a supernatural adrenaline rush.”
Remembering the first day of school, my terrifying and beautiful rescuer, I reach up with my free hand to stroke his cheek. “Do you ever feel afraid?”
“Not of facing danger… not of protecting you.” His voice, while truthful, is rough and heavy with the strain of what he’s not saying. While he may be my fearless guardian, there’s something that frightens him. It hangs in the air between us, unspoken but there regardless. The shadow of his fear flickers across his eyes, growing as my fingers trail from his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth.
Gabriel swallows, and the sound is loud in the scant space separating us. His eyes close as I trace the shape of his full lower lip, slowly leaning forward until we’re sharing the same breath.
And I need to kiss him—with every fiber of my being. Shattering my resolution to keep my own boundaries, undeterred by the memory of him whispering “terrible” after the last time, and despite the knowledge he’s with me because it’s his duty—I need more.
Parting my lips, I feel his hand cup the curve of my jaw. My eyes flutter closed as I prepare to defy gravity, to experience heaven.
Suddenly the world shifts, and I come crashing back into reality. Gabriel has captured my roaming fingers, halting their exploration as he takes a nearly imperceptible step backwards. His eyes reveal nothing as he announces in a gentle but firm voice, “I’ll take you home now.”
Too shocked to recover, I grab my bags from his arm, ducking my head so my hair hides my wounded expression. I spend some seconds rearranging my parcels as I wrestle with the hurt and shock of his rejection. My eyes sting. My throat aches. Resounding in my head is the knowledge that I ignored the boundaries. I brought this upon myself.
When I’m certain I won’t cry, I begin to walk toward the exit sign without saying a word.
CHAPTER 11
Still debilitated from my encounter with the old woman, not to mention Gabriel’s latest rejection, I climb the Fosters’ porch with heavy legs. Gabriel holds most of my bags and supports my arm as I sag against him. If I wasn’t so drained I’d pull away and tell him to leave me the hell alone.
Rather than keeping her usual respectful distance, Nana steps out to greet us, a severe frown pinches her normally youthful features. After a quick appraisal, she gestures from me to the living room with a wrinkled finger. “You inside.” Then, turning to Gabriel, she reaches for my bags. “Go home, young man. Alexia will call you later.” I barely have time to glance at him—left speechless and conflicted in the face of Nana’s authority—before she ushers me inside.
Setting my bags in the entryway, Nana continues to take stock of my condition, shrewdly watching while I amble toward the roaring fireplace. “Rest. While I make you a cup of tea.”
Sinking into the couch, I drag a blanket over my shivering body, waiting and trying not to think about the lies I might have to tell to explain my condition. I don’t like lying to her, but I can’t tell her the truth, either. Staring in indecision at the fire, I watch it
crackle and pop.
When she returns, I’m in a semi-stupor-like state, induced by the heat and post-trauma fatigue. She hands me a large steaming mug that feels surprisingly good in my hands. Since the attack, I’ve been clenching my fists. My hands are achy and cramped from stress. Inhaling, I let the warm chamomile warm them as its mist fills my nose and throat.
“Relax.” Nana Kransky’s voice is soothing, nearly hypnotic as she gently sits beside me. “Drink.”
After watching me swallow a couple of tentative sips, she nods approvingly. “Better?”
“Yes.” Holding my breath, I expect her to start asking about what happened at the mall. But instead, she selects one of Kate’s large picture books—the kind for coffee tables—and opens it to the center. The picture is actually a collage of many paintings, Catholic or orthodox Saints of some kind. The difference in style and representation lead me to believe that the focal point is intended to be the Saints themselves, not the various artists.
Leaning in next to me, Nana Kransky asks, “What do you see, Alex?”
“Saints.”
“What else?” She gives me an encouraging nod indicating I should elaborate.
I look again, this time noting similarities and differences—but interpreting art has never been a talent of mine. Paintings don’t elicit my emotions; music, lyrics make me feel. Still, I try my best to pass what feels like a test. “Different artists and periods, but the focus is that they are all Saints.”
“How do you know they are all Saints?”
“The halo around their head. The golden circle—I mean, that is the sign of a Saint—right?”
“And how do you think the first artist to paint Saints as such, chose to depict his subjects that way?” Her mild question is at odds with the shrewdness in her eyes.
Trying to think like an artist, I imagine seeing a really good person, a Saint. How would I know they were good? If I wanted to capture them on canvas, what would I paint? For me, I would see the shimmering halo surrounding them. That is what I would strive to capture—
