The smile bleeds off his face, and he looks over at me with a somber expression.
“Fletch says you guys are heading home this weekend.” He gives my hand a squeeze as if jogging my memory. “He invited me to go.”
“Please come. I know nothing about ‘home,’ and I’d feel lost without you.”
“Sure I’ll go.” He glances over at me apprehensively. “You don’t remember home?”
“Zero.”
“Let’s see, you know that Jones and my mother are dating, right?”
“Did I? I don’t think so. That’s sort of weird, right? I mean, my uncle and your mom, Jen and Blaine, and…” I stop short of adding our names to the couples roster.
“And…” He tilts his head as if beckoning me to continue. “You and me?” He looks doubtful as if I should abandon all thoughts of our pairing right here in the middle of nowhere before my delusions get too out of hand.
“You and me.” I try to say it with an air of confidence but it comes out a question.
I decide to change the subject and segue back to my fabled family. “So why do people keep calling him Jones? Why not Uncle Jones?”
“He refuses, always has. Just goes by Jones. He runs the legal department at Althorpe, some big advertising company that has divisions all over the country. That, and your family’s dealings keep him busy. He and your mom inherited millions from your grandfather who passed away about ten years ago.”
“Millions? What kind of work did my grandfather do?” My mother worried about not bouncing a check. Millions was a term of exaggeration—something laughable, not a reality kept in government promissory notes that lined our bank account.
“He inherited steel. Your grandchildren will be living off the interest in the bank. I believe it was actually billions, but Fletch and I don’t talk money, so that’s all I know.”
“Steel,” I let the word roll off my tongue. “Fascinating. And, I hear I have a father.”
“That’s right, a complete set. I’ve got one of those, too. Mine lives in New York with his new family. Yours, however, is a bit more altruistic. Your parents are missionaries. They serve rice and wash people’s feet for fun.”
“Sounds like nice work if you can get it.”
“That’s what I hear.” He shakes his head at the road. “Right now they’re finishing up in Uganda. They’ll be coming in this weekend. Usually this is the part where they announce their new adventure.” Wes crimps a smile into the road. “Anything else you want to get up to speed on?”
“How did I ever not notice you before?” That alone is proof positive I wasn’t here.
“You noticed me.” He gives a dark laugh. “You threw water balloons at me from the balcony and filled my socks with toothpaste when I spent the night. You thought it was pretty funny to pass me a soda with nothing but water in it.”
All juvenile pranks I would easily pull on Fletch. I was immune to torturing Wes that way. Wes fascinated me. He let me follow him around and observe while he sketched gnarled branches, the anatomy of a leaf with all of its intricacies. In truth, it moved me to see him so passionate about something that didn’t involve sports or farming. Wes was his own piece of performance art.
“Sounds like I’m guilty of a bunch of petty offenses. All signs that point to a classic crush,” I offer.
“The real question is how did I not notice you?” He says it quiet, lower than a whisper.
Because I wasn’t here.
Our eyes lock for a moment. Wes bears into my soul with laser precision. Something stirs in him. It awakens him on a primal level.
“I have a confession,” he says it quiet while returning his focus to the road.
“You secretly like toothpaste in your socks?”
“Very funny,” he flat lines. “Actually—I’ve always felt something for you.” He loses his gaze straight ahead, as if simply verbalizing this births an epiphany.
My heart warms to hear him say it. Wes just declared his feelings for me, enwreathed me in a rainbow of his affection and I bask in the glory.
“I’ve always felt something for you, too,” I whisper.
He glances over at me as if he doubts this, as if he knows exactly how I felt before I “fell out of the tree house” and now my emotions are as misaligned as my memory.
We drive into a pitch-black reserve—so claustrophobically dark it’s like traveling in an abandoned portal of time, lost in a tunnel that never seems to end.
He pulls off on a dirt road and drives us down to a black lake that reflects the moon in one brilliant shock of light.
“It’s so beautiful. What is this place?”
“Charity Lake.” His eyes widen as though it just dawned on him what a blank slate I’ve become.
“Do we have memories here?” It reminds me a lot of the lake back home. It might have had a name, but we just called it the lake. You’d get sucked down into the mud if you weren’t careful, rumor had it twelve children had been swallowed alive by the mire over the years. It’s the lake Fletch and Wes drowned in, but it’s safe to say I’m not bringing that one up tonight.
He rubs the top of my hand and frowns into me. “Come on, let’s go outside and make new memories.”
Wes comes around and takes up my hand again. Sadly, his implications feel platonic rather than romantic. A part of me wants to slap him, teach him a lesson by way of smacking him across the lips with a nice long kiss.
I shiver in next to him. It’s cold out here. Solid ice might be warmer.
“Weather changes on a dime. Watch, we’ll have a blizzard before October.” Wes glows under the splendor of the platinum moon. His soft dimples pull into perfect commas as he takes me in. If he doesn’t kiss me here, under the influence of a navy sky, with the unblemished lunar sphere blessing us from above, it may never happen. This is magic, electric—a dream within a dream.
“Sounds like fun.” I try to focus in on his words. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a blizzard.”
His brows furrow as if I’ve seen a million, and here I was denying all their glory.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. It feels like I’m losing my safe zone with Wes. But there’s not another person on the planet I’d want to share this information with.
An entire ball of tiny lights drift out from under a huge willow to the right.
“Fireflies!” I jump on my toes.
Wes wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me in.
“Pretty,” he says, dusting over me with his eyes.
“Totally—like intensely beautiful.”
“I mean you.” He closes his eyes in defeat. “And yes, I think you’re intensely beautiful. Fletcher is going to kill me.”
“Who cares about Fletch?” I take him in as a river of light dances over his shoulders. I always want to remember him like this—perfect and pure.
“Who cares about Fletch,” he echoes below a whisper, pushing in close with his lips before backing away ever so slightly. Everything in me aches to pull him in, keep him there for all eternity.
He stretches his hands over mine and clasps our fingers in the air.
Wes leans in and gives the softest kiss—igniting an invisible fire around us, enough to charge the whole new universe.
He does another quick sweep then backs away leaving an aching void in his wake.
Wes holds my gaze for three solid seconds before crashing his lips over mine, pressing in a hearty kiss that says I know you, and I’ve always loved you with the every part of me. His lips skim over me. Wes covers my mouth with a groan that strains from deep inside. I push into him as his tongue spirals in and out in a hurry, then slows to a tender pace that certifies the fact this is holy and right, the only place he ever wants to be.
We kiss for weeks, minutes, miles—sharp protruding kisses, mild bleats of passion, an inventory of teeth and gums. His guttural moans, his thundering heart—I drink it all down. Wes picks me up by the thighs and pulls me over his hips. He gives a dizzying twirl while kis
sing me through a smile.
I never want this to end. I want it to stay like this forever with Wes.
I love him with everything in me. I’ve always loved him.
He pulls away and looks into me with a startled affection.
“I love you, Laken. I’ve always loved you.”
14
The Runaway
The sky rumbles overhead. A parade of boiling clouds amass in one midnight procession of grandeur as the sky prepares to unleash its fury.
Wes mentioned there was one more place he wanted to take me tonight, so we drive over hills and valleys on dark lonely roads for miles.
“You mentioned earlier you had practice. Are you playing football?” Wes played football—he breathed football back home.
“Water polo.” His head ticks to the side when he says it. “Got a game against Rycroft next week. Miles will be there.”
“Who?”
“Tucker.”
“Oh.” Sounds like an unfortunate disaster brewing. “I doubt I’ll recognize him.”
“I will.” He raises a brow into the road.
I like this side of Wes, protective, just enough jealousy to let me know he cares.
A tall building emerges, a giant white square with a backlit sign out front that reads, Flanders’ Institute.
“What’s this?” A wisp of fog twirls around the base of the structure. The lights on the top floor extinguish themselves simultaneously.
“Psychiatric facility.” Wes slows as we pass the grounds before speeding back up onto the highway. “I’d better get you home—ten minutes to curfew.”
“So, that’s it?” No offense, but I would’ve opted to extend our marathon of lingual affections by fifteen minutes then do a drive by of the local psych ward. “What’s the point?”
“I’ve seen three friends end up there.” He chews on the inside of his cheek.
“Too late for a visit?” I try to make light of it, but seriously? Wes must be convinced I’m a loose cannon. If I don’t shape up and conform to what the people— excuse me—the angels around here believe in, I’ll be shipped off to Flanders’ field for the mentally degenerate. This non-ubiquitous little drive-by definitely falls under the category of “not that into your insanity.”
He picks up my hand and presses it against his lips, breathes over my knuckles rife with worry.
“I’m not crazy,” I say. It’s looking like the prospect of any kind of real relationship has just been taken off the table. With each of us swimming in our own realities and pointing the insanity finger at one another, the only way for this to ever work is for one of us to cave.
“You’re not yourself,” he says it low. “Not everybody here knows you fell this summer. You were in a medically induced coma for three weeks. You had tubes coming out of every part of your body.” He chokes on the thought. “You’re just confused. You probably needed continuing treatment. Look, I’m not trying to scare you or offend you, but I don’t think you should run up to every person on campus and tell them about Kansas.” He says Kansas like it’s a dirty word. “I’m really worried, Laken. It’s like you had this dream and you believe it.” He bears into me, solidifying the fact he doesn’t.
“Maybe this should be our secret. Just bring your questions to me. I’ll be more than happy to help. I’m not too sure Fletch or Jen should know either, but I’ll leave it up to you.” He eyes the facility in the rear view mirror.
“So you don’t want me to end up there.” I bite down on my lip to stave off this feeling I have to rip his head off and examine his brain from the inside.
“In a way, I do.” He lets out a dull laugh.
Unlucky for me, Wes is feeling charitable with the truth tonight.
I glance down at the door and eye the lock without turning my head should the need to tuck and roll into the open road overcome me. The last thing I need is Wes turning me into the authorities because I accused him of being my boyfriend—the artist who drowned in a lake.
God—he probably thinks I’m going to drown him, that I have homicidal tendencies toward him and my brother. I’m so stupid. I should’ve seen this erroneous psychiatric incarceration coming a mile away. That was probably a mercy kiss he offered me back at the lake. He was simply displaying erratic emotional behavior before turning me into the authorities, i.e. guilt.
He said he loved me, but maybe “I love you” is just one of those things you say to people you regard as family before you throw them into rehab or juvy and turn their life into road kill because you care so damn much. It’s clear he doubts my sanity.
I sink in the seat and eye the highway—wonder if we’re going too fast for me to do a little concrete-diving? I might prefer flesh-dripping Spectators or violent Fems to this new, intrusive, and perhaps even sinister version of Wes.
“What I mean is,” he goes on, “my mom has known Dr. Flanders for years. He’s the lead psychiatrist. If anyone can figure out what’s going on with you, he can.”
“Do large jolts of electricity play a part in his treatment plan?”
He shakes his head with a wry smile.
I don’t think I’ll be spouting off about Kansas anymore.
I have a feeling this is going to be one percent trying to play along with this new world and ninety-nine percent trying to figure out how to convince Wes this is all a lie.
I watch as the Flanders house of horrors recedes like a bad dream through the passenger’s side mirror.
What if that’s all this is—one long, bad dream?
Ephemeral is lit up like a hazmat scene. A fire truck and a police car sit outside Austen house with spasms of light reflecting in a blaze of blue and red glory.
“What the hell?” Wes parks high on the ridge, and we run down together expecting to see a massacre, or a triage unit set up on the front lawn with a line of gurneys pulling out countless victims—a Spectator, a Fem—but there’s nothing.
We head inside and find the girls in a mass huddle in the great room downstairs.
“Where have you been?” Jen doesn’t bother hiding her rage.
“Relax.” Wes steps into me. “It’s five minutes past curfew,” he says it soft in an effort to defuse the situation.
“Don’t tell me to relax.” She bats him in the chest. “She was supposed to have been studying in the library with Casper, who, by the way, took off. They’re combing the area right now looking for her.”
“Took off?” I know damn well she didn’t get very far, but hold my tongue lest Wesley do more than drive me past Flanders.
“They’re checking to see if any of her things are missing from her room.” Her voice shakes. “Flynn’s up there right now trying to conduct an inventory.”
I bypass Jen and take the stairs two by two, past the police officer and a worried Ms. Paxton, who I’ll never believe is Wesley’s anything. His real mom is all country, apron in the kitchen, dinner on the stove every night at six. Ms. Paxton looks like she’d rip the balls off the nearest male for sport—eat them for breakfast for their nutritional value.
Flynn is lying on my bed with his arm covering his face while a man and woman hunch over Casper’s laptop scrutinizing its history.
“Are you okay?” I go over to him.
Flynn gets up on his elbows and twists his lips as though he were indifferent at this point. “I’m hanging in there. My parents are trying to figure things out.”
“Who’s this?” A tall blonde turns around exposing fresh glittering tears.
“This is Laken. She just got here two, three, days ago.” Flynn lets out a breath.
“Did she say anything to you?” His mother sighs, frantic with worry. Her hair is set in a disheveled chignon with a turquoise clip threatening to dislodge itself in the back. Flynn’s father slaps the laptop shut and turns with the expectation that I might have news.
“She said she had to leave early. She had kitchen duty,” I offer just as Ms. Paxton steps into the room.
“She came back and left a no
te.” Wes walks to my desk and hands it over to her mother. I don’t know why it feels like he cut me off. Maybe he’s afraid I might spout off more of my crazy into the world. If anything, Casper was my predecessor in that realm.
“Did you check the forest?” I shoot a quick look to Wes as I say it. He damn well knows she went in because I told him. I’d be shocked if he didn’t believe me now.
“The forest?” Her father’s face bloats with grief and anger. He might explode like a grenade, if I told him what really happened.
“That must be the direction she ran off in.” Ms. Paxton nods into me with a dare. I look for traces of Wes in her, something remote that might betray my trust in who I really am and where I came from, but her entire person is foreign to me. She looks far too thin and frail to have ever produced a child to begin with, let alone a god like Wes. “The morning fog can be deceitful.” She pulls her lips in a line. “You probably saw her heading to the highway just left of the woods.”
Why do I get the feeling Wes and his mother are playing for the same team—the one that wants me to keep my arms and legs inside this crazy train at all times.
She places a hand over the grieving woman’s back.
“We’ll have to file a missing persons report.” Ms. Paxton is quick to escort them out of the room.
“Sorry, man.” Wes comes over and sits on the edge of Casper’s bed.
“She’ll come back.” Flynn shakes his head in a daze.
Wes and I exchange glances.
“I’d better go.” Wes gets up and heads to the door. “I’ll pick you up for class in the morning, if you want.” He rubs my shoulder, consoling me in the process.
“I want.” I push my fingers to my lips in a mock kiss as he leaves.
“She say anything else to you before she left?” Flynn’s lips quiver, turning a bright red as though he were about to lose it.
“I don’t know where your sister is,” I say it low. “But one thing I know for sure. She didn’t run away.”
15
Get Nervous
In the morning I rouse to a dull grey world as God’s breath of illusions float around campus, vapid and stale. The fog is so thick you could take a bite out of it if you wanted. It’s as if summer were conveniently turned off like a faucet in time to usher in the colors of fall, the crisp air you need to pick apples from the trees.
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