by Ella James
“I don’t know…” Against my will, I felt my own lips twitch. I glanced over his tux. “Nick Carraway?”
He considered that for a second. “The Great Gatsby?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s human. Or would be if he was real.” Still smiling that brilliant smile, he raked a hand back through his hair, trailing down over his face and over his jacket. Slowly, the smile faded. He looked down at himself for so long I forgot to breathe.
“Um… Hey,” I said. “Are you okay?”
He looked at me like he’d forgotten I was there. His mouth was pinched tight now, his brown eyes flat.
“Do you feel bad?” I asked; my voice quivered.
My victim shook his head. “No.” His mouth moved slowly, as if testing out the word. “I don’t feel…bad.”
“Are you sure?” I was leaning forward now, hands clenched in my lap.
“I don’t know.” The words were mumbled, like he’d just woken up…which he kind of had.
The guy stared blankly at his legs, and I felt the chilly air condense. “Do you feel confused?” I tried. “Like, dizzy?”
His eyes lifted. They were darker and more guarded than before.
“It’s okay,” I told him. “Tell me what’s wrong. I’m pretty good at medical stuff and—”
He shook his head. Like I was a fly buzzing in his ear. Then, without warning, he lumbered up.
He’d seemed tall all sprawled out, but at his full height, he looked even taller: easily above six feet. There was something about him that brought to mind James Dean—all swarthy and mussed, like he’d just rolled out of bed and was spoiling for a fight.
I jumped up, too. One minute, I was racking my brain for what to do. The next, he was walking—well, weaving—along the creek.
“Hey, wait! Hold on a second!”
But he wasn’t holding on for anybody. He jabbed his hands into his pants pockets and shouldered through the firs, moving with surprising coordination for someone who’d just been sedated.
It felt like forever that I chased him, his big, dark form the center of my world. If I couldn’t catch him, what would I do? What had I done?
A few strides later it didn’t matter. He sighted the pancake rock and froze mid-step. Then he turned a slow circle, his face a mask of baffled disbelief. He raised his arms, turning his palms out, toward me.
“Where am I,” he asked flatly, “and what the hell am I doing here?”
CHAPTER THREE
I wanted to believe his question was rhetorical. Philosophical. Where am I metaphorically and what am I doing with my life.
But his brown eyes flashed with barely restrained panic.
“What are you doing here,” I repeated, to his frozen face. “You mean…like…how did you get here?”
I prayed he’d beam me one of those thousand-watt smiles. Then he would turn another circle in the field, fix his eyes on the Simpsons’ house, a small white dot in the distance, and say, “Okay! I remember now. I was leaving my aunt and uncle’s house—you know them, right? The Simpsons— And I’m on my way to the Saturday Morning Prom. I had to walk to that road out there—” which would be Mitchell Road— “to meet my friend Paul. He’s picking me up, and then we’re going to get our dates for brunch.”
Instead he whirled around, his back to me, and I watched his shoulders rise and fall; I could hear his fast and shallow breaths.
Oh, no.
I had stun-gunned some impeccably dressed guy and now his brain was scrambled. What was I going to tell my mom? What would I tell the Golden Police?
The thought of the cops made me cold with fear. I’d been in fourth period last November when our school had been the target of a drug bust, and I could still remember the police whistles, the snarling German Shepherds that looked like they wanted to chew off my fingers.
If the police found out what I had done…
If the people at my school found out…
Oh, no. No one was finding out. I could handle this. I’d handled lots of other things, hadn’t I? Many of them were things I didn’t want to think about, but still, I’d handled them. You’re too old for your age, my dear. Isn’t that what my Grandma Lisa had said just a few months ago?
My brain switched to fast-forward mode. I stared at my victim, feeling an awful swell of regret that I quashed with my resolve. I could fix this. I could fix him.
My arm swung up, my hand closed over his thick, woolen shoulder.
There was a moment of quiet where he looked pale and unsteady, and my fingers itched to brush those half-curls off his forehead.
Despite my pounding heart, I forced my voice to come out strong. “We’re outside Golden, Colorado. This is my family’s land. See those?” I turned and pointed to the turbines: enormous things like malevolent pin-wheels with three knife arms, perched on the edge of the Front Range. Strangely, they didn’t seem to be spinning and I couldn’t hear their usual faint hum.
“Those are our turbines,” I told him calmly. “This—well, that is Mitchell Windfarms.”
I watched his stark face. His eyes slid to the turbines, back to me.
“I’m sorry. So sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you. I don’t know how I did.” The state of things was fairly clear, but in my shock I needed clarification. “You’re saying you don’t remember…anything?”
His gaze cut left, then right. I waited half a breath, and when he didn’t move I shifted forward, standing close enough to see the throbbing of his heart beat at his throat. “So... Come with me to my house. We’ll figure it out. I can get you something to eat. I can look at the gun’s manual, and we can figure out what to do to help you—” Help him what? “To help you remember what’s the what,” I finished lamely.
We had friendship cake at home. Friendship cake and hot chocolate. My mom’s friendship cake could bring anyone to their senses. It had to.
“Come on.” I held my hand out and nodded down the flat field that stood between us and my house.
He nodded, slow and small, and stuffed his hands back into his pockets. He hunched his shoulders and blew out a thick, cloudy breath.
“Are you cold? You want my coat?”
He shook his head. His throat worked silently, and I wondered if he was going to be sick.
“Are you okay?” Stupid Milo. My eyes flew up and down his body; his curved shoulders, tucked chin, pinched lips made him look lost. Which he was. “I’m so sorry. I’ve never done anything like that before. I took a hunting class—you know, the one you need to get a license—and I’m usually so careful.” I realized how self-centered I was being and my cheeks flushed, warm in the cool air. “You’ll remember everything soon, I’m sure you will. The stuff in the gun was a sedative, for deer. It was only enough for a small fawn, but still…I’m sure that’s what’s making you feel weird.”
I started walking, eager to be home, where I could do something. He followed half a step behind.
“You’ll probably like what you remember,” I continued. “That’s a nice suit you’ve got on and— Hey, your suit. Take off your jacket!” I flung my arm around, like that would help him understand. “Check your pocket! There might be a wallet in there.”
He blinked once—he still looked a little dazed—and shrugged out of his coat, revealing a starched white dress shirt and a soft-looking cummerbund, which he removed and tossed over one of those lineman’s shoulders. He fished into both side pockets, frowned, then checked the breast pocket, and came up with… a whistle?
Yep. My victim held up a small, red whistle. It looked almost like a child’s party favor, except metal. I rubbed my head. “Maybe the coat tag will have a name…”
He was still staring at the whistle.
Staring, like…staring.
“Do you remember something?”
He shook his head, but this time he tucked the thing into the coat’s interior pocket. I watched in silence as he checked the tag of his coat. Brioni. That was all.
“Maybe you’re the n
ext James Bond. He wears Brioni suits, you know.”
A second passed, a second where his face was deadpan flat and I felt like an idiot for being so flippant. Then he gave me a small, crooked smile; it was almost smug. “You think I’m a secret agent.”
I laughed, an awkward giggle. “Umm. It’s always possible. I hope not, though. ’Cause if you are, that would probably get me in big trouble.”
As soon as the words were out, I realized my faux pas. “I guess I’m already in big trouble…”
He looked down at his shoes—leather dress shoes that must have been shined that morning—and shifted his shoulders so he could massage one of them. I tried desperately to lengthen my strides. He followed, moving at a pace that seemed leisurely for him.
“How did it happen?” He sounded clinical, like he was asking me how turbines worked.
How did it happen?
“Well, I was up there—” I was going to point, but realized we weren’t anywhere near where we’d started. “I was in the tree house with a dart gun because I’m trying to tag deer. It’s for a project.” I skipped the part about how I’d lied to state officials. “The herd showed up, and I saw Ashlyn…” I shook my head. “I saw the little deer that I was aiming for, and I shot at her. I’ve never had a problem before, but this time I—” I swallowed. “I have no idea. I shot Ashlyn. I know I did! But there was this light…” And what had that light been? I wanted to think it over, but he was looking at me expectantly. “Anyway, uh, when I looked down…you were there.”
His lips twisted. “Maybe I’m Deer Boy.”
“I know. I totally already thought about that, but here’s the problem: I had my gun aimed at Ashlyn—a girl deer.”
He cocked a brow, which could have meant anything, but likely meant he thought I was insane for having already thought through the Deer Boy angle. For a few minutes there was only the wind stinging my ears and the whoosh of our footsteps in the grass. When his began to lag, my stomach clenched.
“You getting tired?”
“I’m fine.”
“Not tired?”
His brown eyes slid my way—unreadable under drawn brows. “Yeah, I’m kind of tired. It doesn’t matter.”
“I’m so sorry,” I murmured. “You must really hate me.”
“I can’t,” he said dryly. “You’re the only person I know.”
I opened my mouth to blurt something, but he held up a hand. “I don’t. Hate you.”
I looked down at my boots. “That’s generous.”
Lame-o. Man, I was super lame. How could I have made it to eleventh grade and still be this lame?
“You might change your mind.” If you don’t remember anything soon… “But you probably won’t— won’t change your mind, and decide to, you know, hate me— because I’m sure any minute now you’ll remember…everything.”
I fumbled with my gloves, head down. “When you’re back to normal and you know why you’re wearing a tailored suit, you can probably do anything you want to me. With me, I mean.” My cheeks flamed. “What I’m saying is… Maybe I can compensate you somehow.” My face got so hot, my eyes actually watered. “By compensate you, I mean I don’t have much—” my eyes flew, against my will, down to my chest— “but I can give you food and…rocks. I collect rare rocks. Mountain rocks!”
I squeezed my eyes shut, mortified.
Again, there was a stretch of silence, during which I really thought I might die. During which Deer Boy actually smiled. He looked almost silly with abandon, like it was the first time he’d ever smiled. His brown eyes crinkled, and his wide grin flashed like a commercial for Crest Whitestrips. “Mountain rocks, huh?”
“Yes.” I hung my head, willing to acknowledge what a total ninny I was. Because only a ninny used the word ninny, right?
I clenched my jaw, searching for something redeeming to say.
He beat me to it. “So I know you pick on deer—” he rubbed his starched shirt where the dart had struck— “and you collect mountain rocks.” He smirked a little, not unkindly. “I’m also going to guess your last name is Mitchell. What’s your first name?”
“Milo.”
“What do you think mine is?” He dropped back, staring thoughtfully at the ground, and I slowed to match his pace.
I looked over his suit, over his face—so honest and clean. “Nick,” I said. “Your name is definitely Nick.”
“Nick Carraway.”
“Yeah. But not for long. Soon we’ll be at my house, and I’ll be calling everyone who lives near here and we’ll be finding out who you really are. Or, hey— you’ll be remembering.”
“Maybe.” It sounded like he was talking through a cloud.
“I’ll help you. I’ll do everything I can.”
He looked at me, a strange expression on his face. “Thanks, Milo.”
We walked to the rest of the way to the house in slightly less uncomfortable silence. I kept thinking about the way he said my name. Mi-lo. It seemed to roll out of his mouth. I glanced at him a few times, desperate to know what he could possibly be thinking.
When we reached the row of firs that lined the driveway, I slid through first, and he followed me across the tire-sized indentions in the grass. Mom wouldn’t be home, but that was probably a good thing.
“No one’s here,” I said as I climbed the stone steps and fished the keys out of my coat pocket. “It’ll just be us. I can get you something to eat and then we can decide what you want to do.”
“What I want to do?” He stared at me skeptically, like I’d suggested we go fly a kite.
I shrugged. “You know… I can go through a list of all our neighbors, see if anything seems familiar. You could be a cousin or something, visiting from the East Egg. If that doesn’t work, maybe we should call someone.”
“Someone.”
“You know, like the police.” He didn’t say anything, but his brow furrowed, and I could tell he didn’t like the idea. “Or the hospital? I don’t know…”
As I pulled the screen door open, Nick lagged. I turned to face him, leaning my back against the heavy cedar door.
“We don’t have to do anything,” I said. “It’s your choice. You call all the shots.”
He cocked a brow and rubbed his abs. I blushed. “Almost all of them…”
CHAPTER FOUR
As “Nick” followed me into the house, I wondered how the kitchen looked to a stranger’s eyes.
He’d see dark hardwood—unidentifiable because our floors were made of enviro-friendly scraps—lots of indwelling shelves crowded with books, wall-mounted miners’ lamps converted to use LED bulbs, my dad’s old Persistence of Memory print, and our dining room table. The table was totally schizophrenic, incorporating so many colors it almost made you dizzy. The slab where’d you’d sit dishes or rest your elbows was made of road signs, welded together with strips of stained glass; its legs were a bed post, an old Native American walking stick, and two oversized wooden baseball bats. The chairs: four big eggs in primary colors.
“It’s kind of…cluttery in here,” I said—as if he’d lost his eyesight as well as his memory.
I loved our house, but with someone new seeing it—and maybe judging it—I felt embarrassed. Like Halah had said once: “For well-off people, your family lives like rednecks, Milo.”
Anybody wearing a Brioni suit would surely see it as junky.
Nick just shrugged and, after a second, slouched down in the blue chair.
I walked behind the island and spread my hands out on its rough stone counter. “Okay. So I’ve got milk, cider, lemonade, carbonated stuff— oh, and hot chocolate. It’s my mom’s recipe. Pretty good.”
Nick pulled off his jacket, tossing it roughly over the back of his chair. “Yeah, that works. Your mom’s stuff.”
As he said it, something flickered over his face. Wonder about his own mom, maybe? I wanted so badly to ask.
I turned to the refrigerator, then glanced over my shoulder for a look into the den. It was unu
sually dark in there. Dark and…quiet.
“No power,” I realized, stepping to the microwave. I rubbed my hand over the blank gray rectangle where the digital clock was supposed to be. “So weird,” I mumbled. There hadn’t been any weather, nor was any in our forecast. I recalled the flash of light, and I tried to remember: Was that real, or had it happened in my head when I’d shot Nick?
I walked behind his chair, close enough so that I could have indulged my insane impulse to touch his hair, and peeked through the wooden blinds of a front-facing window. “Uh-oh…”
“What?”
“The turbines really aren’t moving.”
“That’s bad.” It was a statement, but I sensed his question.
I turned toward Nick. Slits of murky light made broad lines across his face and chest. “We sell the power that the turbines make to a power company. One of the good things about them is that they don’t ‘go out’ ever. They’re considered energy independent, but they need some electricity. Some models work with gasoline, but… gah. I’m sure this is boring you to tears. Basically if the turbines are down, that means something big happened. With the power. Not that that matters compared to...”
He leaned forward, looking even more striking in his white dress shirt than he had in his coat.
“Compared to what’s going on with you,” I finished.
I had a vision of Nick in his tuxedo, sitting at a worn desk at a social services office with his gorgeous coppery head in his hands, alone in the world, unable to go to school, be with friends, live his life. And all my fault.
STOP MAKING NEGATIVE PREDICTIONS.
Moving purposefully, I strode over to the kitchen counter and pulled open the drawer with our emergency numbers list. My mom had typed them for my babysitters years ago, and none of our neighbors had changed.
As soon as I got the laminated paper in my hand, I realized I still hadn’t offered Nick anything to eat or drink. I sneaked a glance at him, found him sitting with his eyes shut, his head in one hand with the tips of his fingers pushed into his hair. I swallowed hard.
“Do you want something cold? Lemonade? Maybe with some cake?”
