Earthbound (13 page)

But Quinn’s house isn’t there.

The white porch, the red door, the triangle, even the cheery maroon and gold tulips—all gone. The whole space is covered with grass and a couple of trees, and I think it’s actually part of the yard of the house to the right … and has been for a long time.

The minutes fly by as I stand in the middle of the parking lot thinking about everything bizarre I’ve seen this week: the house, Quinn, the triangles, the alley that disappeared, the flickering woman, the vanishing ChapStick and pencil.

Benson saw them too
, I remind myself.
Some of them.
My chin trembles as I fight back tears of despair. I clench my fists and suddenly there’s an icy, cold weight in one of them. I open my palm and drop its contents to the ground as though it would burn me.

It’s the locket my mother used to wear—one she got from her mother. She was wearing it on the plane. I never saw it again. Couldn’t bring myself to ask about it.

Now it’s here. On the ground. I
made
it. Without even thinking.

Like the water. The water that could have killed Benson’s roommate.

Terror makes my whole body shake. How do you run away from
yourself
?

“I’m not crazy,” I whisper into the wind, then stand and stare at the curlicued silver on the ground until the locket pops out of existence.

I
’m exhausted already. Not only from my long walk to avoid my tail, but because of everything that has happened. That keeps happening. My pace is slow and dragging, but eventually it gets me to Elizabeth’s office, where she invites me in as though it were just another day.

It’s not.

She doesn’t even mention that this appointment is at
her
request, not mine.

Or that Reese is gone.

The only reason I’m even there is to keep up the appearance that everything is normal—that I’m still the ignorant child they think I am. My emotions are completely muddled; I’m angry and frustrated and confused, and desperation is slowly devouring me from the inside. I know I need to do
something
; I just don’t know what.

However, the first thing I have to do is sit through at least fifteen more minutes of BS with Elizabeth. Then I can make my escape. Until then, I’m stuck here with my lying shrink, trying to convince her I’m okay.

I’m not good at lying. But I’m pretty good at not saying anything at all. So, here we are at a total impasse as I sit silently on her couch and try not to glare at her.

Or maybe just glare on the inside.

Part of me wishes I could spill everything, but after yesterday I know it’s impossible. I scoff inwardly at how close I came to telling her about making stuff out of thin air.

What would she have told Reese then? I vividly remember Reese’s all-too-serious question:
Is she too damaged?
If I had confessed it all, would Elizabeth have said yes?

“Why don’t you want to talk, Tavia?” Elizabeth asks, after I let too much time pass in silence. She’s calm and quiet, but I swear I can hear the frustration bubbling beneath the surface like a river of lava.

Or maybe it’s my imagination.

If it was, how would I know the difference?

“I have nothing to talk about,” I burst out, the thought of Quinn’s refusal to tell me anything unraveling my patience. “I don’t even know why I’m here; I’m
fine!
”

I rub my neck; it’s sore from carrying my lies, and the tight control I used to have on my temper is gone.

Now Elizabeth sighs and it sounds real, but I know better. “Tavia, I have no idea what’s changed, but I’ve lost your trust.”

Liar.

She straightens and then leans forward, her elbows on her knees. “I don’t know how to convince you that all I want is for you to be okay. You used to believe that.”

I
did
used to believe it. I wish I still did. She has no idea how much I wish it.

“You didn’t bring a new sketch.” Her voice is calm, casual. Her shrink voice.

That’s because you’d just show it to Reese and Jay.
“I had homework,” I mumble, staring down at my fingers twisting around each other until they ache.
Homework, creating things from thin air, the problem of two boys who’ve each laid claim to half my heart, whatever you want to call it.

“Have you seen Quinn again?” Elizabeth continues without pausing to give me a chance to deny it. “It would be natural to want to keep a new romance like this secret—special, I guess. But you know you can tell me anything.”

Right.

I sift through the last few days, wondering if there’s anything I
can
tell her—something true to keep her swallowing my lies.

But I hesitate too long. Her shrink instincts latch on and she pounces like a cat.

“Come on, Tavia. Talk to me,” Elizabeth pleads. “I know strange things are happening to you. That’s what I’m here for. To help you understand.” She reaches out and grabs my wrist before I can draw away, her fingers tight against my skin. “I want you to understand, Tave. Everything. But you’ve got to give me something to work with.”

“Th-there isn’t anything,” I insist, pulling my hand back hard. But even if the stutter hadn’t given me away, my words are obviously a lie. “I haven’t seen him.”

Elizabeth studies me for a long time until I squirm. I don’t like the look in her eye.

Not because it looks dangerous, but because it looks
safe
.

She’s as good an actress as Reese—maybe better. I meet her eyes and all I can see is genuine fondness, a real concern and desire to help.

Maybe I want it so badly I’m
making
myself see it.

Or maybe I’m just easy to trick. The last eight months certainly support that theory.

But those eyes …

“Are we done?” I barely whisper the words, but it’s enough of a distraction to let me rip my gaze away from hers—to break the hypnotic influence she seems to have on me. Our session is less than half over, but we’ve always had the rule that I can leave if I feel the need.

And I am feeling the need.

“Are we?” she asks.

I don’t look at her; I can’t. I just nod and pick up my backpack from beside the couch and tromp to the door.

“I … I’ve been speaking with your aunt lately,” Elizabeth says, stopping me.

I manage to not snort in derision.

But only just.

“And I know she’s gone on an important business trip for a couple days.” Elizabeth hesitates and my nerves are suddenly tingly. I glance back, my fingertips resting on the doorknob, itching to escape.

Something’s crackling in the air—a change—and it frightens me.

“When she returns, we’re going to try a different method of … of therapy. I think you’ll like it,” she adds.

I nod and my fingers pull on the knob, granting me my escape. I slip through the doorway without opening it fully, hoping she doesn’t see the quaver in my now-weak knees.

They’re really going to try it, the
pull
or whatever it’s called—the thing that she’s afraid will fry my brain.

Thoughts of electricity and hot acid float through my head and I try not to dwell on them—surely she wouldn’t.

But then, what the hell do I know about what Elizabeth would and wouldn’t do?

I fight the urge to run out of the office as her words echo through my head
. I don’t know how to convince you that all I want is for you to be okay. You used to believe that.

Am I so gullible that I believe
everything
I hear?

Maybe.

As I step out from under the awning in front of the office building—it’s raining
again
, of course—I pull my hood up against the wind and the drizzling mist, blocking out my peripheral vision. I almost miss the guy standing on the northern corner of the parking lot.

I’d have ignored him entirely if I didn’t—even in my panic-driven haze—recognize him.

Recognize his sunglasses.

F
ear courses through me and I avoid looking at him and start walking toward the library.

When I catch sight of him again, he’s walking casually, a good block back, but it’s the second turn he’s followed me around. His black pullover—almost identical to my own—blends in with the sparse foot traffic, but it’s not hard to pick him out.

Still. I don’t want to be paranoid. There is the slightest of possibilities that we just happen to be going the same place.

Twice.

In the same morning.

I hesitate and then turn left instead of right—it’ll only extend my walk by a couple of blocks, but I don’t want to lead him straight to the library.

My steps slow as I approach the first corner on my new route and I sneak a peek behind me. I don’t see him yet.

Slower.

Slower.

Angling to the right, I glance up the sidewalk from beneath my lashes. Just as I’m about to step out of sight he comes around the corner, his eyes darting about. I snap my face away and begin power-walking again.

Terror ratchets through my legs, tingling in my toes, and I wonder briefly if it was a really bad idea to slow down enough to see him, if I should have gone with my gut and made my escape while I had a chance.

Problem is, I don’t trust my gut anymore. It was wrong about Reese, it was wrong about Elizabeth.

And while I wasn’t exactly wrong about Benson, I apparently was misreading him.

And I don’t even
know
where my gut stands with Quinn.

But now that I’m sure this guy
is
following me, I want to hide. Flee. Or maybe … to
do
something. It’s an instinct I don’t recognize as my own—or maybe just one I’d forgotten, after months of helplessness in a hospital bed and further months of painstakingly gradual recovery. Regardless, it’s unmistakable now.
Do something.

But what?

Make something
, I finally realize, identifying the unfamiliar urge. But I reject the possibility. No. Not a chance.

I duck into the doorway of a colorful candy shop, hoping to maybe lose Sunglasses Guy that way. After a minute or so a very tall man walks past the door going the opposite direction I had been walking and I decide to fall into step just behind him, use him as a human shield. I’ll follow him to the end of the block, then double back on another street.

I stall, pretending to mess with the zipper on my backpack, then edge into the crowd so close behind him that I almost step on the heels of his shoes. Even with his head hunched down and the way he pulls his coat around him like he’s tired—or sick, maybe—the man is huge and makes me feel safe and hidden.

Until he flickers.

Just like that lady the day I ran into the wall.

I draw in a loud breath but manage to keep walking. I glance around me, but no one else seems to have noticed. I look at the tall man again, his back broad and solid. He’s still hiding me.

I squint, focusing on him, waiting for it to happen again.

But I don’t expect him to disappear entirely.

I stop walking and someone plows right into me, making me stagger forward.

“Watch it,” the woman says, hardly glancing back as she and her boyfriend step aside and keep walking.

I whip around. No one else even pauses.

They didn’t see him disappear? But he was really tall—and now it’s like he was never even here. Like he blinked out of existence.

I tighten my fists over my backpack straps and face forward, trying to walk evenly—
I have to get to Benson
, I think.
He’ll help.
Good sense manages to pierce through my panic and I begin counting so my limp doesn’t make me conspicuous.

One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

I’ve completely lost sight of my tail, and I don’t dare look around to check.

I’m about two blocks from the library when the sky bursts open and starts really pouring on me. “Wonderful,” I mutter under my breath. “Just fan-freaking-tabulous.”

I’m soaked in seconds—as if the world seriously wants to spite me—but I can see the library now and it looks like a sanctuary. I know it’s not, not really—Sunglasses Guy can go in there too.

But Benson is inside and
he
makes me feel safe.

Nervous sweat trickles down my back as I reach the stairs and adrenaline fuels my steps. I pull the entrance door too hard and it clatters against the wall behind it, earning me the attention of every library patron within earshot.

Great.

I’m soaked to the bone as I step into the warm lobby, wishing I didn’t look quite so bedraggled. Benson is by my side before I can take more than about three steps and I want to throw my arms around him, hold myself against his chest until the trembling stops.

The impulse shocks me into stillness. I shouldn’t want Benson so strongly—especially after having
just
seen Quinn this morning—Quinn, who makes my chest ache with longing and my mind spin in bliss.

So why do I?

I don’t know. But I keep coming back to the burn of Benson’s lips on mine, the possessive way his arms wound around me, how warm it felt to have his body pressed against me. I look up at him and know the sheen of wanting is shining in my eyes. But I don’t have the energy to hide it.

“You okay?” he asks, his face lined with concern. “Rough morning?”

Tell no one.
“You could say that,” I grumble.

The main doors open, and just past Benson’s shoulder I catch a glimpse of dark hair. I take half a step to my right to put Benson’s admittedly slim profile between us and peek out.

Black pullover and sunglasses.

He found me.

“Can we go to your office?” I ask, desperation in my voice. “Right now? Please?”

“Yeah, sure,” Benson says, looking confused. He doesn’t ask any more questions, though, and leads me zigzagging across the floor, through the study tables, to the doorway of a barely closet-size alcove.

With a fast but searching glance behind me, I sit in the chair across from Benson and shove my backpack underneath the table. Then I scoot to the side of the chair, attempting to hunch out of view.