by Rue Volley
I bit my lip and released it. I don’t know why Killian’s approval mattered, but somewhere, deep down inside, it did. I was too busy smiling to be annoyed. It felt like I had officially shared my true passion with the people that mattered the most to me—I mean, Liv, Court, and GG. Not Killian, of course.
“So, what’s the first book?” Liv asked. I blinked. Oh man! I hadn’t picked one.
“Um.” I sounded so stupid after appearing so cool. It chipped away at my confidence.
Killian spoke up, offering a solution. “How about we vote?”
“Voting is good,” Liv responded while nodding to GG. Court shrugged her shoulders.
“Okay, we’ll vote.”
Killian winked at me. I had to look away. “How about you come up with two books, then tell us—”
“Vampire Academy, or Beautiful Creatures.” I blurted out. I wanted to read both so that it would be a win either way.
Liv tapped the table with an open palm. “I vote vampires. They are the hottest dead boys, hands down.”
“Oh, that’s a hard one!” GG added.
Court offered her approval with a nod. “Yep, I’m cool with that.”
I looked at Killian. “That’s three.”
“Vampires it is, but we should definitely read Beautiful Creatures after this one.” He spoke while rising. He walked toward the door and then paused to look back at me. “I read really fast.”
I licked my lips. I do, too. “That’s great, but it may take some people a little longer.”
Court raised her hand and laughed. “Give me a couple of weeks.”
He nodded. “Okay, just let me know when we meet again,” he locked eyes with me, “and cool idea, Harper. Really cool. Thanks for letting me in.”
I didn’t respond, but I wanted to. He slipped out the door into the hallway, and the room seemed to relax.
Liv tapped the table and grinned from ear to ear. “So, do you think he’s—”
Court laughed. “No—he isn’t. He’s totally into one person here, and it isn’t you, Liv.”
GG whispered in my ear. “Wow, Harper.”
I agree.
Wow.
Chapter Ten
I tried to read—I did. I dove into the first book and then found myself reading and re-reading one page, then another. It had nothing to do with the book. It was totally me. I couldn’t focus on a single word, even though I desperately wanted to.
The frustration finally forced me to get up and out of bed. I need a new spot. I thought about going to the cemetery, but the thought of Killian finding me there made me nervous. I know it shouldn’t, but he does something to me—something no other Middling had ever done—he intrigues me as much as any dead boy ever had in any book I had ever read.
I half-grinned.
How could he? Was it his eyes? His hair? His words?
Maybe it was his lips, all full and kissable. Or that messy hair that slips over one eye at just the right moment?
I blushed. I really shouldn’t be thinking about him like this. I don’t know him well enough to be this way. It’s a crush. It has to be. My first, which makes it so special. Or maybe he had shown up at the right time, on the right day—at the right moment, when my heart sat in my throat.
This book had made me feel so vulnerable. So raw and real. I loved everything about it and every character in that world. Ending it was painful. I still wanted more—and maybe that’s what Killian is for me—just more.
A substitute for the real thing.
A surrogate.
A distraction.
The thought of it upset me.
I shouldn’t use him in place of anything. He may bother me, but he doesn’t deserve that. All he had done is show up when I least expected it. That isn’t a crime. He had reached out, too. Wanting to talk to me when so many never had. That takes courage.
He was like a book I wanted to read from cover to cover, savoring every hidden message. Every beautiful word. Every breathless moment. It would be so much easier if he were in this book I now hold in my hands. I stared at the cover, running my hand across the image. My thumb lingered on edge, sliding down the side of it. My body hummed while I thought about him.
He knew every quote, word for word. He loves books, maybe as much as I do. I shouldn’t have been so mean to him. I’ve been terrible. Fighting him and this, for what reason? Because he’s alive and breathing? Because he’s tangible?
Why am I so frightened?
Shame spiraled through me.
I should apologize, but how? How do I undo what I’ve done?
The butterflies raced around in my stomach. I pressed my hand against them, hoping to calm them down, but it only got worse. The thought of him just—oh.
I may be in trouble.
Big big trouble.
“Killian Porter,” I whispered. It was the first time I’d said his name without remorse or irritation. It rolled off my tongue, but a sweet flavor remained.
He remained.
I grabbed the book and clutched it to my chest.
No—I won’t be going to the cemetery today. That would be like asking for it. It would be what I’d expect to happen in a book. I don’t want to be predictable, or appear desperate—because I’m neither.
I’ve never been that way.
Ever ever.
I’m not going to start acting like a girl in one of my books.
I’m going to remain level-headed.
If something happens, it happens, right?
Funny how many times I’ve watched as the girls in the books I love have been in this position. Confused, flustered—somewhat lost, but desperately trying to find a way to make sense of how they’re feeling. I get it now—more than I ever had before. I secretly wanted this as I finished book after book, crying, yelling, sometimes wanting to toss them across the room. I assumed I’d do things so differently. But I wouldn’t have. I’m just like them, the people in the books.
We all are.
Proving that the one thing that binds us is how irrational we can be. It’s beautifully chaotic and so humorously predictable.
Mortal. Which is what I am.
I left my room and headed down the hallway. I caught sight of a few birds flying by. They seemed to move slower than usual, drifting on the wind. The dark clouds had eaten away at the sunlight, making it appear later than it actually was, but days like this are my favorite.
I prefer to read when the sky is gray—or rain—rain is the best. Always best. Besides, a misty hue makes us all even. All pale. I love that. I love this town.
I grabbed the railing and glanced back. The birds were now gone. I couldn’t remember the last time it rained. I couldn’t remember past Fall. Probably because I don’t like any other season and we don’t really experience a “Summer” here. It never gets hot or humid. No, it’s always somewhat chilled. Always right on the verge of changing seasons, but it never really does. We hover in between, on the wind, slow and steady like those birds. But I love Juniper Hollow, and I wouldn’t change a thing.
Needed changes are for people who are looking for something else.
Who are not happy.
I’m happy. I am.
And I’m not looking for a change.
I have everything I need right here.
We have a creepy house — an eccentric family. I have the best friends a girl could have, and five cemeteries guarded by iron gates and paved in cobblestone surrounding me. Picturesque, frozen in time. Every day it’s the same. Same weather patterns, same faces, same everything.
Comforting. Predictable.
And trees, old and wise, and beyond that—well, the ocean, but we never wander there. Ever. There’s no need, but I guess you sort of take things for granted when you grow up in a place like this. I’m sure we’re not the only people in the world who are guilty of that.
But why wander when you love where you are?
Why change things and risk losing everything?
Well, I though
t I loved it. I thought I was totally fine and didn’t need anything else.
Then he showed up and changed things — bit by bit, moment by moment.
Should I be mad? I don’t know how I could be.
Killian wasn’t the intruder, like Angel and Max.
Ghost hunters. Really? The town council needs to boot them and their car spewing carbon monoxide, hydrocarbons, nitrous oxides, carbon dioxide, and particulates into our atmosphere.
Juniper is a very eco-friendly environment. We live with nature here, not against it. It’s a perfect balance. Cars aren’t something that we have in town. As I mentioned before, it’s bicycles or nothing. We’re not big enough that you can’t get anywhere you’d like to go without using one, anyway. We also eat all organic food. No pesticides, and because of that, we have a vast population of certain creatures, butterflies being one of them.
Every kind, too. Every color.
It’s amazing.
Most everyone in town are vegetarians, too. By choice, no one ordained it.
We are and have been since I was little.
There’s plenty of protein in other things like seitan, eggs, tofu, lentils, and bread made from sprouted grains. My mom loves to cook and can things. Honestly, I’ve never eaten any other way, so I don’t miss things like fast food.
I’m sure they’d probably make me sick anyway with all the preservatives and whatnot.
The other thing is that we don’t get sick here, either, minus the allergies, but it’s also just us, the people who were born and grew up here. We don’t get visitors very often.
My mind wandered back to seeing Angel and Max getting out of their car. The whole thing was so unsanitary and unusual. We have a big sign up at the edge of town, clearly stating that cars are not allowed. There’s even a place to park them for free and rent bicycles.
We’re not mean. We like people, but we don’t want anything disturbed. Is that too much to ask? I don’t think so.
I shouldn’t worry about Angel and Max. I’m sure they’re long gone by now. I bet the council issued them a firm warning and shooed them right out of Juniper Hollow.
I found myself in front of the door without remembering taking the stairs. I really need to stop getting so deep in thought. I exited the house to a gust of wind and decided that I needed a coat. I grabbed my long black one from the coat rack and put it on, careful to button it up to my chin. I looked down at my black and white striped thick tights and shiny platform shoes and made a conscious decision to go to the atrium instead. The twins never went there. They had been banned after playing leapfrog over one too many plants, shattering a potted bundle of lavender on the white bricked floor. My mom was devastated. It was our oldest plant in the atrium. So—they’re not allowed to go in there anymore, which suited me just fine. At least it reserved a sanctuary for me.
I nearly frowned when I entered the kitchen, and it sat bare. Nothing was on the stove or in the oven. No fire was roaring in the standing oven, no family to be found.
They must’ve gone to the store to get the few things we didn’t have, like milk and eggs, but again, odd that they didn’t tell me or ask if I wanted to go.
But they knew I was reading.
My one true love.
Love.
I pressed my lips together and cleared my throat. The cough was returning. I tapped my chest. It would come and go as much as the leaves continued to fall, making way for a winter that would be milder than most on the east coast. The trees—they shelter us from so many things. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. I know that cold winters kill germs. Maybe that’s why we’re always sick here. But even then, it’s never bad enough to make anyone want to leave.
But again, we’re lucky. Guarded. Safe.
I reached for the long antique silver handle and turned it, opening the glass door and allowing the earthy scent from the atrium to engulf me. I took a deep breath and held it in my lungs, letting it fill me with peace and calm. I scanned the room and smiled. My mom had taken such great care to plant everything she could here. I stepped in, closing the door behind me. I didn’t want to let what heat was in the room out. The plants depend on that and us.
I eyed the vines, reaching out toward me. I gently touched the leaves. They felt warm, not like Juniper, or Killian. This room holds life. Delicately balanced and maintained with a gentle hand. It depends on us to provide safety and sustenance. I’m grateful that my mom has taught me this lesson. It instills empathy and a greater understanding of all living things.
It’s humorous that I despise living boys—or used to. Obviously, I think that’s changed.
I walked along the line of raised beds, each housing a multitude of herbs. Basil, oregano, lavender, sage, rosemary, thyme, mint, parsley, dill, chives, coriander, and fennel. Then the scene changed to fresh vegetables. Lettuce, spinach, green beans, cucumbers, squash, and more. Then fruit. Strawberries, blueberries, figs, tomatoes, and again, more.
But my favorite are the pumpkins, who had somehow jumped ship and escaped the atrium and began growing in the yard. My mom said it was inevitable and compared them to me—which I still don’t understand—but no one complained in town, so now everyone seems to be enjoying them as they creep toward the cemeteries. Eventually I expect them to grow there, too, which will be amazing. I would think that the dead would enjoy a pumpkin patch twisting in between their tombstones, collecting fog as the full moon rises. How lovely would that be on a moonlit night? So very Jack and Sally.
Oh. I understand what she meant now, by comparing the pumpkin patch to me. I love Juniper Hollow. All of it. So do the pumpkins, so much so that they couldn’t just stay in this house with us. They had to wander throughout the town. I smiled. I love her analogies, even if some of them take me longer to figure out than other ones.
I made it all the way to the end of the atrium, taking a seat on the oversized wooden swing. It was equipped with an overstuffed cushion in black with multicolored flowers speckling the material. It was soft and warm. A perfect addition to this place. Blending in and not disrupting it. Thin green vines connected every single one of the flowers on the material like a family tree. I ran my hand across the cushion, enjoying how it felt. I’m a texture person. It’s the same with my books. Matte finish is best, but raised text is even better. I’ve been known to grab a few at the local bookstore just because of how they look and feel.
I haven’t even read them all. Some are just so pretty I can’t bear to bend the spine. In that case, I usually get a second copy.
One to read. One to preserve in perfect condition.
No shame in that.
That’s how someone who truly loves a book will react. We don’t have any control over it. And the smell. Oh! The smell of a print book. Honestly, I don’t get how people use those electronic devices to read. I love holding it in my hand and carefully turning the pages. I also love seeing that bookmark sprouting out of it, telling me just how far I’ve gone and indicating how far I have yet to go.
There’s nothing like it in this world.
Nothing.
I leaned back and began to swing while staring at the glass ceiling. I’m so glad I decided to come out here. It had been far too long. I guess it’s habitual for me. I find my patterns, and I stick with them because they comfort me, but this place and all the living things in it deserve attention.
I watched the clouds moved by so slowly overhead as I relaxed into the overstuffed cushion. A few birds dotted the gray sky here and there. This atrium has been a part of my life as far back as I can remember. I learned to walk in here as my mother potted her plants and whispered into the leaves. She’s a big believer in everything having a soul, and I don’t disagree. Her love had made this place flourish as much as it had our family.
She is the heart of it. Magical.
The first time I fell, it was in the soft dirt, right here. I swear I can remember how it felt, but it might be her telling me the story over and over again. She loves to tell stories, b
ut only ours. It’s her favorite one of all. But isn’t that how we live forever? Through stories told by others, keeping memories and people alive far beyond the mortal coil?
That’s what she says, anyway, and I agree with her.
I guess that’s how I’ll live forever, right here, like this, because she would never let it die. Not me—not any of us.
I closed my eyes and settled in. I may sleep and dream. I wouldn’t fight it. But then the temperature changed. The pressure also dropped, nearly forcing my ears to pop. It left me slightly dizzy. I narrowed my eyes and could see a white butterfly fluttering by. Everything slowed down, and I leaned in. I could hear the wings against the air. I could see the sparks of light as they bounced off of the specks of dust surrounding it. I leaned in closer, and I swear I could see my reflection in its large black eyes. I let out a short breath, and it floated before my eyes, turning white. The atrium was losing heat. Things would die! I nearly panicked, leaving the swing so quickly that it swung back and forth on its own, with my favorite book on the cushion where I had once been sitting.
I cleared my throat. My eyes darted around the atrium. I could hear myself breathing.
In and out, in and out. Slow and steady. A puff of white smoke escaped my lips.
I called out, “Hello?” I felt eyes on me, but no fear. It felt familiar—comforting.
Vines swayed, and a pot shifted on a wooden bench. Something was in here with me but didn’t want me to find it. Maybe an animal? Was it frightened, alone? My heart ached for it — poor thing. I was determined to find it so I could set it free. We would never hold anything captive here—ever.
But what could it be?
More rustling, and then I heard a door open and close. I turned to see the side door sat slightly ajar.
Okay, how did an animal open the door? That isn’t possible, right? I doubt that my mom left the door unlocked. She’s very careful with the atrium. It sustains us. It’s a living, breathing part of our family. Sometimes I think she loves these plants as much as she loves us, and I wouldn’t blame her.
