The Guardian (20 page)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I play.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she replies. “I want to know how you knew about the wreck.”

I shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable. “I’m not a mind reader,” I say.

“Then what is it?”

I s
hake my head.

“Please don’t pretend like it’s not a big deal, because something obviously made you come after me. You warned me before it even happened. I’ve had . . . nightmares every night. I’m afraid to drive. I imagine all of the things that could have
. . . .” She swallows hard. “And then I remember you. And that you
knew
it was going to happen. And that you tried to stop me.” She stares at the dunes just outside the window.
The rickety wooden fence leaning precariously to the left.
The sea grass and th
e plants sprouting through the sand.
“I guess it doesn’t matter, even. I don’t know. I just . . . I wish I would’ve listened to you, is all,” she finishes, voice quiet.

I’m not sure if this is her way of an apology, or a thank you, or if the trip itself i
s some kind of extended olive branch that will finally make things okay between us. I inhale deeply and let all of the air escape from my lungs before speaking. “Sometimes I see things.”

She glances over at me, eyes curious. “You see things?”

There’s no tu
rning back. I let out another quiet sigh before continuing. “I see things that are going to happen, before they actually do. I saw the wreck.
In my mind.”

“So you’re like, psychic or something?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.
Maybe.”

“I’ve talked to Carter a few
times. On the phone, I mean. I asked him about it, because, you know, the two of you followed me. I figured he had to know something. Half the time he acted like he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about, and the other half he was like, ‘you need to t
alk to her about it, not me. She was the one who tried to help you.’” She imitates Carter’s deep voice. I laugh weakly.

“He knows,” I confirm. “Only I swore him to secrecy.”

“He’s keeping it for you, but that doesn’t surprise me. I think he’
d do just about anything for you.”

I swallow hard. “I know.”

A heavy silence falls between us. Part of me remains on edge.
The fewer people who know about me the better.
Seth said so himself. The other part of me is relieved that I can talk to someone abou
t it.
Even if she does hate me.

“Why did you tell me?” she finally asks, breaking the silence. “You could’ve gone on, and not said anything, and it wouldn’t have made a difference.”

And this, I know, is one of life’s difficult questions. Something I battle
d with not only then, but now. Obviously, Selena refused to listen, and she was in a wreck anyway. If this happens again, odds are the next person won’t believe me. They won’t listen. The person after that won’t, either. And Seth is absolutely right. Even
if they listen, and avoid whatever it is I’m warning them against, how will they know the difference? I think about the work that Seth and the other Guardians perform on a daily basis, calculating moves to keep people out of trouble, or to lessen it. It’s
the ultimate thankless job, because not everything is preventable, and not everyone heeds the warning.

“I was being selfish,” I finally answer.

Her forehead creases. “What?” she asks, not
understanding.

“I was being selfish.
Because if I wouldn’t have said
anything about it, I would’ve spent the rest of my life feeling guilty.
Like, maybe I should’ve said something, because who knows what kind of difference I could’ve made. I don’t know. Maybe you would’ve listened. At least I know I tried. I didn’t sit bac
k and let something happen that I might’ve been able to stop.”

“That makes you a better person than me, then,” Selena says, voice low, quiet, eyes brimming with unexpected tears. “Because, um . . . I can’t honestly say I would’ve done the same thing for yo
u if the roles would’ve been reversed.” She chokes on a few of the words.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “I’m sure you would have,” I assure her.

She shakes her head. “No. I wouldn’t.”

We sit quietly for a few moments, listening to the crashing waves.
T
he seagulls.

“I
wanted
to hate you, you know,” Selena finally says.

The verb, I notice, is in the past tense. “It’s okay. I didn’t like you very much, either,” I confess.

She smiles, laughs quietly, then twists the key in the ignition. The engine hums to
life.

“And you don’t have to worry about me telling anyone,” she says.
“Because I won’t.
I promise.”

And that’s it. No questions, no pressure, just an understanding: that I have secrets—secrets that need to be kept—and that behind every seemingly unexplai
nable behavior, there’s an explanation bigger than anyone can imagine. 

T
WENTY-THREE

My mom and I argued before, but it was never like this.

I clear off the dinner dishes of
a family of four, piling plates and silverware and cups into a large, brown bin for the dish washer. The porcelain and glass clink against one another as I carry it across the restaurant.

“I’m on break,” I announce to whoever is listening, leaving the tub
on the counter as I pass by. I work to untie the knot in my apron as I head toward the door. I just do finagle it off in time to toss it behind the cash register on my way out.

The dinner rush is over. The sun is setting and the parking lot is nearly emp
ty. A warm breeze floats in off the ocean. I kick a few, stray pieces of gravel across the parking lot, then plop down on the sidewalk. Cars and trucks speed along The Strip in front of me. I watch them pass, following one until it disappears before seekin
g out another one. Times like this I kind of wish I still smoked. At least it passed the time.

“Hey.”
Arsen
moves in and sits down on the concrete beside me.
“Rough day?”

“You could say that.”

“What’s up?”

“Oh, um, nothing, really,” I reply, picking at the
grass growing between the sidewalk and the pavement. “The details are boring.”

“It wouldn’t be boring to me,” he assures me.

I let out a quiet laugh. “It’s okay.”

“Come on,” he urges.

Maybe
I’m not in the mood to talk about it. Maybe I don’t want to talk
to anyone at all. Maybe I came outside for a reason—to be alone
. I sit still, thin-lipped, refusing to go on.

“Okay,”
Arsen
finally says, as if reading my mind. “I’m a really good listener, though, if you ever need someone to talk to.” 

I toss a few piece
s of grass in the air, watching as they flutter back to earth. We sit in silence for a few moments, listening to the cars rush by, an occasional horn demanding something speed up or get out of the way.

“I was going to ask you,” I say. “There was an accide
nt at the beach the other day. A surfer drowned, or died or something.”

“What am I supposed to know about it?”

The iciness in his tone tugs at my skin. I glance over at him. “N—nothing, I guess,” I stammer, working to recover my composure. “I just didn’t
know if you knew about it is all.
Or if you were there.
Since you surf.”

The tension in his features seems to slacken, before melting away completely. “No, I wasn’t there,” he says. “I don’t know who she was.”

Did I mention the surfer was a “she”?

He mus
t have heard about it, though. It’s all over the papers, and everyone who came into the restaurant was gossiping about it.

“So how about that movie?” he asks, changing the subject. “There are a few really great ones playing. I’ll let you pick and everythi
ng.”

“That’s sweet,
Arsen
, but . . .”

“Genesis, come on,” he interrupts. “Give me a chance. I think you’re cool. I just want to hang out.”

“I think you’re cool, too,” I reply.

He lets out a nervous chuckle. “Then why do you keep turning me down?” He glanc
es over at me, arms resting against his knees.

“It’s just a really weird time right now,” I say. “That’s all.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s not me, it’s you.”

“It’s true,” I counter.

“It’s just a
movie
. I don’t see why hanging out is such a big deal. Friends do
it all the time. We’re still friends, right?”

“Yeah, of course,” I answer, though I’ve only known him a few weeks, we’ve only gone out once, and our work environment is hardly conducive to meaningful interaction.

“Then what’s the problem?” he asks.

“There’
s not one, I guess. It’s just that . . .”

He holds up his hand to stop me. “Don’t tell me it’s complicated.”

I laugh. I hate that word, truly. “But it
is
,” I whine.

“It’s only complicated if you make it complicated. You really need to learn to relax.” He l
eans back onto the sidewalk, staring up at the murky, indigo sky.  

“You’re probably right.”

“I know I’m right. You’re uptight all the time. Whenever I watch you, it’s like you’re on the verge of this nervous breakdown or something. What you need is to ge
t out more. Live a little.”

“The past few weeks have been kind of stressful,” I admit.

“Which is why,” he goes on, “you need to let me take you out again.” I can hear the smile in his voice. He nudges me playfully with his knee. I watch him for a moment as
he lies on the sidewalk, hands folded against his broad chest.
His wavy blonde hair that, even now, borders on curly.
His thin eyebrows.
The shading beneath his lashes that screams insomniac.

He pulls himself upright and kicks at a few shards of glass th
at glitter against the asphalt. In the next moment, he’s on his feet, moving reluctantly down the sidewalk.

I watch his retreating figure. “I’ll think about it,” I reply, though he’s already disappeared inside the diner by the time the words escape my lip
s.  

*
             
*
             
*

I jerk awake, bolting upright. Sweat trickles down my cheek and gathers near my brow. I swipe at my dampened hairline with the back of my hand, breathing heavily, heart pounding, sheets twisting around my legs.

The streetlight casts strange,
liquid shadows around my room. A siren wails in the distance.  

In a moment, Seth is here. “Are you okay?” he whispers, trailing his fingers down the length of my cheekbone.

“I had the worst dream,” I confess. I curl into a ball, bringing my knees to my
chest, and bury my forehead in my palm.

Seth lowers himself onto the bed beside me, voice etched with concern. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” I mumble. “Someone . . . someone was lost.
In trouble.
I can’t remember.”

“It’s over now.” He takes my hand in h
is, pulling me into him.

“No,” I mutter, pushing him away. “It was so
real
. I have to think.”

Seth remains still, motionless, while I sit there, rocking back and forth, eyes closed and face covered, trying to recall what was so urgent that it seized my su
bconscious, releasing nightmares. Like many dreams, though, the details have already slipped away, snatched from me the moment I jolted back to reality. They haunt my memory, but I don’t know why.

“I can’t,” I mutter.

“It was nothing,” Seth declares, a th
ick edge in his tone. “It’s not important.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Before, I would’ve brushed this off as a horrible nightmare and embraced forgetting. But now that my thoughts are punctured with visions that are somehow coming true, I can’t so easily d
iscredit what I see or feel. Who knows what is riding on my understanding, my piecing together the puzzle until it’s fully solved, acting on the information. The reality shrouds me like a heavy blanket, hot and burdensome. 

“Relax,” Seth urges. “
Go back to sleep.”