by Dyan Brown
“But I was done,” I say. “You win. I’m going to stop.” Exhaustion sets in.
“We’re going back now.”
I start to form a question, but I’m answered by the feeling of being sucked back into the water-tumbling vacuum that transports me in and out of my body. I feel the merging of my soul and body, and my eyes pop open and air inflates my lungs like a balloon on a helium tank.
I sit up with a start. Uncle Carl is already up and pulling on his shoes. Was he also shoeless through that whole thing? I feel a twinge of guilt for not noticing. “Are you serious?”
“Of course I am, Sam. Being there, watching you…” He shifts his weight. “I know what’s in store for you. I know what it means to have taken over for your sister. You being untrained and asleep won’t change that. Not training you has obviously not stopped you from developing some sort of laser beam in your hand.”
“Energy ball,” I correct again, fighting a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
“Yeah. That.” He sits on the edge of the sofa beside me, torn between wanting to talk and wanting to get to Jason. “As much as I would love to believe the war isn’t coming, I know that isn’t true—you’re the proof. You know who it was the last time, don’t you?”
My face drops. I’d tried my damndest not to think about it. “Yes.” A frown creases between my brows. “The last Chosen was Joan of Arc.” I breathe in and try not to imagine myself being burned at the stake for my beliefs. “I figured it out after our last… conversation. Well, for sure anyway.”
“Where she failed, you will succeed.” He places a hand over mine. “I know how strong you are, even if you don’t. I see it—even more now than I thought I did this morning. You learn from the past, and move forward through the fire, learning not to get burned along the way. That’s how it goes, Sam.”
His phone rings. “I have to go.” As he rises, he answers the call. After a pause, he says, “When?” Another pause. “How?” Another pause. “What hospital?” He ends the call and looks down at me. “You coming?”
I shake my head and hug my blanket to my chest. I don’t think I can face another hospital with any of my family inside it. He doesn’t ask why but starts toward the front door to grab his keys as a thought jumps back into my head. “Wait! What are the five Divinely Touched? Drifters, Samaritans, Muses, Ciceronians, and what else?”
“Sam,” he says chidingly.
“I know, I know—verbatim.” I wave away his disapproval and raise my eyebrows in question.
“The Guardians. Our protectors.”
30
Grayson is a Guardian.
Grayson is my Guardian. How could I not see that? My face droops.
“You didn’t know about Grayson?”
My face snaps up to my uncle in shock. “How did you—”
“You don’t really think I wouldn’t have tried to protect you just in case, right? Divinely Touched always connect themselves with Guardians when we come of age. His father and I are friends from when we were younger.”
“I thought you said there weren’t any more Guardians.”
“When I was trying to convince you not to drift, I didn’t want you knowing, just in case. But it was better to have one near you. I just didn’t want you connecting any dots since Grayson doesn’t know yet.”
“I saw more,” I confess. “More Touched, I mean.”
“I know. That’s part of being Chosen. You see the ones who are and who are yet to be.” He glances at a clock. “I need to get to Jason. They say he’s okay, but I want to be with him.” His hand grips the knob.
“I know. Let me know how he is when you get there.” My shoulders drop at the end of the conversation that was so long overdue.
He pauses. “We’ll talk more later, all right?”
I nod, standing to clear our bowls, and I’m surprised when my uncle walks back over to me. Before I pick up the dishes, he wraps me in a warm hug.
“I won’t doubt you again. I mean it, Sam. I promise.”
I stifle a sob at the redemption I receive. The promise that I now have his trust. The promise that I now have my uncle back—a man to whom I’ve looked for approval my entire life. “Thank you.” It’s all I can mutter as I bury my face in his shoulder.
We break the hold and laugh a little at ourselves. He’s teared up some as well. “You need to go!” I laugh and push him toward the door. “Thanks to us, you have a kid who’s alive and in need of a hug. I’ll make dinner for us. I doubt they’ll keep him long after they cast his hand.”
“I’ll bet you’re right.” Uncle Carl kisses me on top of my head, then adds, “Thanks again, kiddo,” and walks out the front door.
He hasn’t called me that since I was Jason’s age at least. The sentiment makes me smile.
I stand, listening to the sound of my uncle’s car backing down the drive and speeding off to the hospital. I look over our movie-and-vegging-out mess and gather trash and dishes in my arms until the pile is nearly too unbalanced to carry. Making my way into the familiar kitchen, I let the dishes clank into the sink and toss the empty potato chip bag into the trash in the pantry.
I take the time to rinse and clean our dishes before putting them back into the cabinet over the dishwasher. Looking through the fridge, I see there aren’t a plethora of options, but there is a silly amount of cheese in the drawer in the middle. I’ll have to walk to the store and get some salad.
Back at the pantry, I find spaghetti sauce and lasagna noodles. I set them on the counter and dig through the freezer until I find some frozen ground beef. Setting it in the sink to thaw, I plug up the drain with the stopper and fill the sink with water.
All the while, my thoughts keep returning to Grayson. Being a Guardian explains why he feels the ever-present need to protect me. But is that over? Did he break up with me? I go back into the living room and sit in front of my phone, which is on the coffee table.
Interestingly enough, it sits as it did this morning. I look at it for a long while, just wanting contact with him. There is a tightening in my chest. Is it wrong to call him? He wouldn’t break up with me without saying something, would he? He’s more respectful than that.
No, he would have done that face to face. I don’t think it’s over. I can’t let it be over. I clearly overreacted. Abby was right; it’s just a guy thing. At least I can slightly assume he was thinking about what we’d just been doing, right?
After twenty minutes of contemplation, I pick up the phone. Sliding the lock bar, I pause for a moment to look at our picture on the screen. He took a picture of us cuddled together in the stands at a game about a month ago. I love that I look tiny huddled up under his massive arm. We look happy. Truly happy.
My other hand flips my locket back and forth between my thumb and forefinger. It seems like a lifetime ago and yesterday all at the same time. This was such a stupid fight. I finish swiping the phone open for the first time today.
It opens to his contact page in my phonebook. That makes me smile. Grayson telling me to call without a word. I let my thumb levitate over his number for a moment and then tap it down before I have another chance to change my mind.
While it connects, I realize I have no idea what I’m going to say. My heart speeds up in a moment of panic. ‘Sorry I walked in on you whacking off’ sounds a little wrong. A single ring is all that he allows.
“Samantha?” His deep, baritone voice is rushed and concerned.
Bumps spread over my skin at his voice, and I suck in air.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” I nod even though I’m on the phone. “You?”
“Me?” He gives a short chuckle. “Samantha, without you near me, I could never be all right. Can we talk?” My mouth opens, and I hear a short breath from him as he pauses. “I need to explain… and apologize. Really apologize.”
“All right,” I repeat, trying not to let the smile show in my voice. “When do you—”
“Now?”
&nb
sp; It’s my turn to chuckle. “Okay, but I’m making dinner for Uncle Carl and Jason tonight, and I need to go to the store—”
“I’ll take you,” Grayson says in a rush. “What do you need to get?”
“Stuff for a salad.” I frown at the awkward question. “I’m making lasagna.”
“There’s a farmers’ market not too far away.” Hope saturates his words. “It’s a nice day; we can walk around for a bit. And then maybe… do you think perhaps I could help with dinner?”
This time I do laugh. “You cooking hasn’t been the best idea in the past.”
I hear the smile in his voice. “Oh Samantha, there is still so much you don’t know about me.”
There’s a drawl in his voice, making me roll my eyes and smile. I giggle again. I love him making me smile like this. “Okay, fine!” I take a breath at the normalness of the conversation. It feels like us again—laughing, teasing, flirting. “You want to pick me up?”
“Actually, I’m outside,” he says with a hint of smugness.
“Actually…” I linger on the word. “I’m at my uncle’s house.”
“Look out front,” he says.
No.
“What? You’re here?” My voice increases an octave with each word.
I stand and practically bounce to the front door, swinging it open to see Grayson. He’s at the end of the bricked path, leaning against the passenger door of his truck, tucking his phone into his pocket.
I keep my composure as I walk toward him. “How in the world did you know where I was?” I say when I am feet from him.
He frowns, tilting his head slightly to the side. “Funny thing. Honestly, I have no idea.” The frown deepens. “I was driving and thinking about you. I almost turned to go to your apartment when I just started going the wrong way and ended up here… like I was being pulled to you. Is that weird?” he asks cautiously.
I smile. My Guardian… Mine.
Epilogue
“Jason!” Carl calls out to his son, finally reaching him inside the emergency room. Bypassing the white coat in the room, he rounds to the far side of the gurney.
In the small, ten-by-ten room of the OU Medical Science Center, everything else is a blur as he wraps his arms carefully around the small frame of the teenager. “My God, are you all right?”
“Yeah, Dad,” Jason says, dismissively. “They’ve done the X-rays. It was a few breaks from being surgery-worthy, but they think they can just set it and do a cast for six weeks.”
“Eight weeks,” corrects the large, dark man sitting on the far side of the bed. He is strategically administering several shots throughout the mangled hand. Carl looks up, noting the MD on the doctor’s badge.
“How’s the pain? Have you given him something for it?” he asks, each of the questions directed at different people.
“The IV is giving him a steady drip. Morphine. Once the numbing agent takes effect, I’ll be back in to set it,” Doctor Tryon says, clearing the vials and syringes away methodically. “I’ll check on you in about fifteen minutes,” he states pointedly at Jason. The paternal note in the doctor’s voice gives Carl’s shoulders some ease from the tension he’d held the whole drive to the hospital.
“Thanks, Doc,” Jason says, poking at the edge of his wrist far from the mangled fingers as the door closes with a soft clunk. His arm is propped onto a medical version of a hospital food tray that’s been locked into place, and Velcro straps are layered across his forearm to remind the patient not to move the appendage. “Did they tell you what happened?”
His father nods and swallows audibly. “You can tell me later. Right now, I don’t think my heart could take hearing the details.” Carl laughs, more in pained relief than humor. “Are you really okay?”
“I’m fine, Dad. Really. I’m hungry. Isn’t it time for dinner? Can I have a Coke? And chips? And a Snickers? Do you think they have peanut butter sandwich crackers?”
Carl smiles at the normalcy of the long list of food requests. The wonder of his son’s easygoing and calm demeanor has always astounded him. No telling where that came from—certainly not his mother or me, he thinks, softly chuckling.
“I’ll go to the vending machines and check for you. I don’t mind getting it all, but let’s make sure you’re allowed food before you dive into anything. How about I get you some ice to crunch on until the doctor comes back to check on you?”
“Thanks, Dad,” Jason says. He relaxes back onto the propped pillows as his dad grabs the standard-issue hospital water mug from the actual food cart pushed against the wall. Jason begins flipping channels on the flat screen as Carl steps into the hall, closing his son up inside.
Letting out a long, low breath of relief, Carl heads toward the nurse’s station to ask for directions to the ice and vending machines. Propping his arm on the counter, he waits as the woman in scrubs talks in hushed tones into a phone. After making eye contact, he nods to her, a silent acknowledgement that he’s willing to wait for her call to conclude, and drums his fingers absentmindedly on the laminate counter, even though he’s trying to be patient.
“How is he?” A melodic and familiar voice asks behind him. Carl’s posture stiffens despite the melody in her voice.
“Well enough for you to leave, Karen,” he snaps, only half glancing at his ex-wife over his shoulder.
“I’m perfectly within my rights to see our son,” Karen replies.
“Yeah, I can tell by how much you come around.”
The words sting her like venom. “It’s not my fault you won’t listen to reason.”
He turns. Blood has boiled into his face, making him as red as the emergency exit signs around him. Leaving the cup on the counter, he grabs her wrist, nearly dragging her toward the two sets of automatic doors that open into the parking lot.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing, Carl? You can’t stop me from seeing our son just because it’s been a few months.” She yanks her hand loose from his hold. Sunlight is fading, night only an hour or so away, and already the air is cooler.
He scoffs, incredulous. “Oh, please. Try a year. And may I remind you, it wouldn’t kill you to call him on his birthday. Or are you too busy with your boss to remember what day your own child was born?”
“I sent a gift card and a text!” she exclaims in protest, straightening her high-dollar silk blouse.
He sucks in air, holding his breath to try and suppress his anger at her audacity. “I’ll be sure to nominate you for mother of the year,” he finally says in a suppressed voice, rubbing the bridge of his nose in exhaustion, his other hand on his hip. Dropping both of his hands after a moment and opening them halfheartedly in question, he asks, “Why are you really here?”
As he waits for an answer, he examines her. Her hair is still long and dark, straight until it curls for the final few inches just below her shoulders. He wonders if she started to color it, since she still doesn’t have a gray in sight. The once-lovely, whiskey-colored eyes he’d adored for so many years now burn with distaste for the accusation in his question, and her willowy figure seems unchanged in the last six years they’ve been apart.
Reminding himself of everything he knows she’s done and everything he suspects she had a hand in, he attempts not to still be physically attracted to her—although he’d rather cut off his own left nut before admitting that fact out loud. It’s like having feelings for a female praying mantis after she’s already started chewing your throat out.
“You know why.” Arms crossing over her chest, she shifts her weight to one side and waits for his reply.
“Sam won’t back down. I tried my damnedest to talk her out of it—you know I did. But you know what I realized? She’s right, not you.” His index finger jabs the air between them in emphasis, then his arm swings back toward Jason’s hospital room. “I went with your fucking stupid theory to keep her out of it for Jason’s safety, and look what happened to him anyway. No one can really keep him safe. Not you, not me, and not that asshole. But
she can, if she really can end this all.”
“What are you saying?” Karen asks incredulously.
“Tell your boss he can go fuck himself.” Turning, he heads back to his son without a single glance back.
Mouth agape, she stares after him until he disappears around a corner. A warm tingle of anger flashes up her neck as she reaches into her pocket for her smartphone. Not pressing a single button, she presses the phone to her ear. “Did you hear all that, Sir?”
“Yes,” rumbles the deep, soothing tone of Dantanian. “Seems he’s decided to play the odds. Sad. I thought he was smarter than that. Both he and the girl need to be brought back down to earth. It’s time to pay his brother a long-overdue visit.”
Thanks for Reading!
To stay up to date on sequels in the Divinely Touched Series, visit www.dyanbrown.com.
Acknowledgments
Cynthia Shepp, thank you for being honest enough to tell me to take back my sad first draft. If it weren’t for you, Soul Drifter wouldn’t be the work I am now so proud of. Thank you for continuing to teach me on my writing journey and for being one of the most bighearted and best friends I’ve had in my life. Save a book—hire an editor!
Rene Folsom, thank you for reaching into my mind and pulling out an image I’d thought I’d hidden from my own imagination. Thank you for making my book visually come to life—inside and out. Your advice has been invaluable this year, and I’m so glad to have you in my corner. I hope you know I’m always in yours.
To my wonderful group of beta readers, you guys rocked my imaginary world! Thank you so much for taking the time to read a book you knew nothing about and returning invaluable feedback. The changes you helped me see not only enriched Soul Drifter, but also improved everything about the Divinely Touched world.
