Out of Focus (Chosen Paths #2) (39 page)

Sigh.

Reaching into my pocket—which happens to always be overflowing with “swear quarters”—I dutifully deposit one into the already half-full jar, pushing it past the make-shift “swear slot” in the top. Not bad, considering she just emptied it yesterday.

I have no idea what she does with the money, but I’m pretty sure she has a Swiss bank account receiving the earnings from the priceless gems that tend to fall from my mouth.

Just as the quarter lands on top of the mountain of silver, my eyes rake over the left side of the room. It looks like someone threw up cotton candy, drained an entire bottle of Pepto Bismol into their stomach, then threw up again.

Pink.

It’s everywhere.

Pink poster of a ballerina, pink knick-knacks lining the shelving built into the walls, pink scepter with matching tiara lined in clear crystals along its edges, and—wait.

Hold up
.

Is that a pink boa?

Fuck. Me.

Without even registering that the expletive was internal, I reach into my baggy Dickies to grab another quarter. Before I can retrieve it, Linda’s palm lands on my shoulder blade and she presses forward gently, trying to force my entry into the room. My feet, however, are in total sync with my brain and refuse to step any further into this atrocity. As I remain rooted to the floor, my hand makes its way out of my pocket and crosses my body until my fingers find the skin of my forearm, which suddenly has become unbearably itchy. Is it possible to be allergic to a color?

Pink teddy bear.

Pink comforter with darker pink crowns donning its surface.

Pink. Pink. Pink.

Every single time my eyes fall on something new, my brain is assaulted.

After shaking my head, I finally manage to force myself into the room just as the bathroom door to the left of me swings open and my eyes land on the person responsible for this mess. Long, straight blonde hair gathered into a high ponytail, exuberant light green eyes, and the widest, brightest smile you’ve ever seen make up the person suddenly standing right in front of my blank face. In fact, if I had an “exact opposite mirror” and placed myself in front of it, I’m pretty sure . . . no, I’m
100% sure
that this person would be my reflection.

I glance down at her attire, relieved when I see her donning a
blue
, button-up poplin layered over the top of a pair of
white
flare jeans that almost entirely cover her bare feet. My reprieve is short-lived though, because each one of her toes is painted . . .
yep
, you guessed it.

Her mega-watt grin doesn’t dim in the slightest as she extends her arm in my direction, hand held out for a friendly handshake. “Hi,” she states bouncing on the tips of her toes, “I’m Quinn. Quinn Matthews.”

Watching her ponytail swing from side-to-side as she excitedly springs up and down, I find myself wanting to offer her a valium.

Quinn.

Surprisingly, a pretty cool name.

As I take in her striking appearance . . . well, as much as I can because it’s really hard to focus on her as she bounds off the floor with an obvious case of “inability to stand still”, I’m taken a bit aback. I would have thought her to be named something more regal, due to her beauty and most likely the whole scepter/tiara combo I spied earlier.

Like Alexandria.

Or Diana.

Perhaps even Princess Fi-Fi, ruler of Unicorn Land, where rainbows reign and all things are pink and sparkly.

That one makes me smile inwardly in spite of my usual morose demeanor.

Before I have a chance to respond, Linda forcefully nudges my shoulder with hers and I break my gaze from Quinn’s blurry face to the hand in front of me, waiting patiently for me to reciprocate. Just the thought of touching someone makes me break out in a cold sweat.

Closing my fist, I tighten my grip and sweep my fingers over my palm in an effort to lessen the clammy condensation forming before finally managing to shake her hand. “Raven. Raven Miller,” I respond curtly.

Simultaneously, Linda expels a harsh sigh and I release my grasp on Quinn’s hand. Turning my head, my mouth pinches tightly and I widen my eyes at Linda, wordlessly requesting her to keep her mouth shut about my name. She mirrors my expression, and then ups the ante by crossing her arms over her chest and cocking her hip. The repeated taps of her shoe against the white linoleum floor fill the air, breaching the charged silence between us.

But thankfully, she says nothing.

My eyes find the back of my head, ending our silent argument. This form of communication is pretty much the norm for us.

When I redirect my gaze back at Quinn, who has been watching our entire exchange, she offers yet another beaming smile. After a brief moment of taking in my appearance, she merely states, “Raven. It suits you. I like it!”

You have absolutely
no
idea, Fi-Fi.

She happily pivots away from me on the balls of her feet and I watch as she skips off into a pink oblivion.

Throwing Linda an I-told-you-so look over my shoulder, I head to the bare bed on my side of the room and drop my backpack on the floor beside it. I’m extremely surprised by the lack of horrified expression that I expected to receive from my new roomie. It’s as though she doesn’t even notice the freak factor standing in front of her. I’m going to have to step up my creepiness or I might just end up liking this girl, and that could be very dangerous.

For both of us.

After a quick introduction between Linda and Fi-Fi, we make our way out of the room and back down to the car to gather my belongings, leaving Fi-Fi alone to pink-puke some more while I’m gone. While I grab my luggage out of the trunk, Linda collects all my priceless music posters: Garbage, Hole, Paramore, Poe—some of my all-time favorite female lead bands—and shuts the passenger door with a knock of her hip.

“Don’t bend those,” I remark, luggage in hand. I turn away from her to survey the normal first-day-of-college chaos and observe it as it unfolds, and as I watch the usual feelings of gloom and apprehension begin to coat the inside of my chest.

Although I’d never speak of it out loud, sometimes there’s an overwhelming sadness that manages to seep into my heart whenever I’m reminded that I will never be like any of the people in front of me. I’ll never giggle with my peers, walk arm-in-arm with my best friend or hand-in-hand with the love of my life, or even just allow a contented smile to cross my face. Yet, I watch in awe as all of these moments play out right in front of my eyes.

The simplicity of living astounds me.

But it’s the terror of death that devours me.

Breathing in deeply, I blink away the fire in my eyes and swallow the torturous knot threatening to form in my throat. I can’t afford those luxuries. I won’t allow it. Too many lives have fallen victim, lost due to my mere existence. No. Normality or simplicity will never be allowed to penetrate my walls.

Following Linda’s lead, I head up the cement path in front of me, the forlorn grief setting in that my time with her is drawing to an end. After the death of my parents, she took me in, no questions asked. Her love for me is unfathomable, considering I somehow managed to keep her at arm’s length while she raised me.

She loves me. I know this.

There’s no other explanation for her putting up with my shit for the last ten years.

Purposely withdrawing from the world hoping to never be found, successfully evading every single therapy session and grief counselor she attempted to force upon me, masking my true appearance in an effort to not only keep others safely away from me but also to mark my own death . . . she has taken my oddities all in stride. Not without mind-numbing lectures mind you, but I think she still holds on to the hope that this lost little girl will one day be found.

I do know, however, that while I will forever remain captive to my darkness, she will still be there loving me as much as I will permit her to. I allow myself a few seconds of comfort in that knowledge, but as I watch her smiling at several passersby, I quickly extinguish the tiny bit of warmth that sparks inside my chest, forcing it deeply into one of the many compartments in my heart before slamming the steel door shut behind it.

Upon reentry to Harris Hall, I continue to fortify my walls with a healthy reapplication of mourning and anger, hoping to God that this sudden release of emotion is purely the tragic side-effect of the uncertainty that comes with being in a new place, surrounded by loads of new people to fend off, and not the ultimate weakening of my defenses. Yet as I head up to my room, I also have to consider the waning could be due to the recent battering of my brain by a certain color covering the entire left side of my room which shall remain unnamed. A color that may or may not prove to be my kryptonite, or in the very least, the source of a newfound allergy.

Or maybe it’s just the person behind it.

Because as I watch my new roommate bounding barefoot over every square inch of the room, I’m repeatedly struck by her nearly contagious level of excitement and laughter.

And as each bounce pummels my fortitude, I find myself squashing the very unlikely desire to smile for the first time in a very, very long time.

CHAPTER THREE

MEMORIES . . .

“Can’t. Breathe.”

I struggle for the much needed influx of air to enter my lungs, but with Linda’s arms wrapped around me with the strength of Hercules, I’m unable to catch my breath. When the hell did she get so strong?

“I just don’t want to let you go yet,” she whispers lightly, her cheek resting snug against my shoulder as she follows it up with a sniffle. Hesitantly, I lift the arms pasted against the sides of my body to envelop her in a half-hearted embrace while giving her an awkward pat on the back.

“I’m not letting go until you give me a real hug, damn it.”

I begin to make a joke about the use of the swear jar, when she follows up her request with an even tighter death grip—
who knew it was possible?
—and I have no choice but to relent to Linda’s request. Softening my hold, I reluctantly ease into her embrace, allowing myself to nuzzle ever so slightly into her neck and inhale the floral perfume that’s just . . . Linda.

For roughly three seconds, I hold on and allow her fragrance to transport me to a once familiar place, one saturated with the essence of light and warmth—a complete contrast from the bitter darkness through which I find myself constantly wading these days. My eyes prick with tears, and I release her before my hardened shell begins to dissolve.

Stepping away from me, Linda inhales deeply and wipes her eyes with the tips of her fingers before she reaches into her purse to—I kid you not—pull out the swear jar and set it on the table between Fi-Fi’s bed and mine. Looking up at me, she holds a semi-serious expression as she states, “Be good.”

I open my mouth to reply with my usual wit-filled retort, but she stops me short. “You’re a good girl, honey. You have a lot of love to give to those around you, if you would just break free from whatever unnecessary chains you have bound around that heart of yours.”

She releases a weary sigh and reaches forward to take my hand into hers. “You’ve convinced yourself that you’re merely protecting those around you from whatever you
think
will happen, but the only thing you’re accomplishing is the guarantee of leading a very lonely and miserable existence.”

With a sad smile, she releases her hold and places her hand on my shoulder, squeezing it gently. “Life is full of so much that you refuse to let yourself experience. The blanketing comfort of love, the fulfillment of contagious laughter, the peace of finding true joy, the butterflies of uncontainable excitement . . . these are all things that make up
life.
They
should never
be taken for granted. You of all people should understand that, sweetheart.”

I sigh forcefully before finally making my long awaited clever response.

“I’ll be sure to add those to my Christmas wish list, Linda.”

The vigor of hope previously present in her green eyes quickly diminishes and I immediately wish I could take back those spiteful words. Shooting my mouth off is a defense mechanism that I haven’t quite learned how to control. Hence, the swear jar. Good thing there’s not a hateful spew jar. That one would rake in an ungodly amount of money.

Linda releases my shoulder and the somber expression displayed on her face makes me wish I was capable of simply reaching out; to bring her close and never let her go. But I don’t. I watch as she draws in a deep breath before turning away from me, quickly saying her goodbyes to Fi-Fi before heading toward the door. As soon as her fingertips skim the handle, my body seizes with regret.

“Linda . . .”

My own muffled voice is barely recognizable as I somehow manage to breathe her name. It’s coated with a painful mixture of heartbreak, sorrow, and shame. I hate the person I’ve become. I’m trapped in this pathetic existence, watching the only person who cares about me walk out of this room, knowing she’ll never know how I truly feel about her. Regardless of how much I ache to take the vulnerable steps toward her, I remain where I stay.

Linda stills upon hearing my voice, then swiftly turns and closes the gap between us in three long strides, wrapping me in her arms once again as tears build along the base of my lashes. Looping my arms under hers, my fingers clutch the back of her dress as I crush my cheek against her shoulder, squeezing her with a strength that I never thought capable. Silently, I offer my apology, and with one light stroke of my hair, I know she accepts.

The sound of the bathroom door shutting breaks the still of the moment and we release each other from our embrace. Bringing her hand to my face, Linda wipes the one traitorous tear that managed to escape, then dips her head to meet my eyes.

“See you in a couple of months?” she asks, swiping her own cheek.

Unable to speak and, therefore, at a loss for some much needed sarcasm, I simply nod my response. She offers me a genuine smile full of relief, and after another reassuring squeeze, Linda disappears through the doorway, leaving me on my own and sealing me in with Princess Fi-Fi.