The Guardian (6 page)

He lifts his hand. I close my eyes, wantin
g to pull away from him.
Nowhere to go.

He runs his fingers through my hair, traces my
jawline
with the back of his hand. I stand frozen beneath his touch, which leaves my skin fluttery and tingling. I try to swallow, but my mouth is desert dry.

“I’m not a
ghost,” Seth says calmly, letting his hand fall to his side. “And I’m not going to hurt you. It’s not in the job description.”

“Then what are you?” I ask, breathless, hearing my pulse as it hammers in my ears, still reeling from his touch.

“I’m a Guardian
.”

“Are you real?”

“Are you serious?”

I stare into his liquid brown eyes, searching for the truth behind them. He holds up his hand. I examine it for a moment, then reach out and touch it. It’s solid, and warm. Just like mine. I trace the lines with my fin
gers, feeling the electricity as it passes from his palm to mine.

“Why can’t anyone else see you?” I whisper.

“They can, but only if I want them to. Some people have this sixth sense. They can feel when I’m around, but they can’t see me. Not like this.”

“S
o you’re saying you want me to see you right now?”

He backs away, moving across the living room, his eyes locked to mine. “Since we’re being honest, I’ve kind of wanted you to see me for a while now.”

My heart fumbles a beat. I take a deep breath, focusing
on squeezing as many answers as possible out of him before he vanishes again. “Okay, for argument’s sake, let’s pretend you’re telling the truth.” He sits down on the sofa. “What does a Guardian do?”

“Exactly what the name implies.
A Guardian guards.
It p
rotects.
Looks after.
Watches.
Whatever.”

“So you’re like, my Guardian Angel?” Even as I utter the words, my mind refuses to wrap around the concept. If he
is
an angel, why isn’t he glowing? Where are his wings? Angels have halos and play harps. Dress in a
ll white. Angels are heavenly doers of good. This guy is, well, borderline . . . and not entirely on the heavenly side.

And then, as if reading my mind: “It’s not like that.”

“But you said you watched after
people. And you come to their rescue when they need it. Theoretically speaking, that makes you a Guardian Angel.”

“It doesn’t make me an angel. And you’re the only one I watch over. Technically,” he adds, mumbling.

I stare at him, struggling to read his e
xpression, to understand what it all means. “So you hang around waiting for me to screw up?”

An amused smile crosses his face. “You could say that.”

“That’s kind of creepy. Why haven’t I seen you before?”

“You’ve never been in any kind of danger.
Until th
e car accident, at least.”

The words verify what I expected. “So it was you.
That night in the road.”

A peculiar expression crosses his face, and his eyes grow solemn. “You’ve been keeping me busy lately.”

I’m drawn to the hard cast on my hand, rememberin
g
the moments just after I crawled away from Carter’s
shattered SUV. “It was strange. I felt so calm. And today, when you picked me up. . . .” My eyes narrow. “It’s
like,
I knew everything would be okay. It was weird.”

“We pick up on one another’s emotion
s,” he explains. “We’re connected. I can sense when you’re scared, or panicking, or in danger. That’s when I know you need help.”

“And you show up, calm me down, save me, or whatever.” I marvel at the idea. “You’re like my own personal bodyguard.”

“Don’t g
et any stupid ideas,” he warns. He pauses for a moment, a serious expression crossing his face, conflicted. “I really shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?”

“Because we help and we leave. It’s the rule.
The fact that you know my name, even.”
He buries his face in
his hands, rubs his eyes with his palms, and groans. “I could be screwed already. I should go,” he says, tone colored with frustration. He stands quickly.

I jump up. “Wait! So . . . this is it? You’re just going to disappear again?”

“I have to.”

“Will I se
e you anymore?”

“I’ll be around,” he confirms.

I bite my lower lip. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

He moves to the front door, pausing long enough on his way out to train his eyes on me, to study my face, as if trying to memorize everything he sees.

“
Just do us both a favor and stay out of trouble.”

There’s no way to know how long I stand there, dizzy, staring into empty space, heart thumping, waiting.

Then I remember: I never thanked him.
For helping me the night of the accident.
For finding me in th
e locker room.
I rush to the door and open it, knowing what I’ll find.
And, when I step out onto the porch and into the cool breeze, nothing.

S
EVEN

“Hey girlie-girl.
Good to have you back.” Stu smiles at me through the kitchen window. Stu is a
thirty-something beach bum who happens to flip a mean omelet.
The spring breaker who never left.
The guy who applied for a summer job, and never thought to look for anything else.
Except for the dish washer in the rear, he’s the only one manning the kitche
n.

“You mean to tell me that Ernie
still
hasn’t hired another cook?” I ask, dropping my book bag to the floor and climbing onto a red barstool.

“Are you kidding?” He slaps a burger patty onto a bun and tosses a few trimmings on the side: lettuce, a tomato
slice,
the
rings of an onion. “Ernie is never going to hire another cook.”

“You’re too dependable,” I point out.

He considers this for a moment.
“You here to work or hang out?”

“Both.
Sort of.
I mean, I’m on hostess duty in thirty, and Mom said I should w
rap silverware while I’m waiting, just to show Ernie I’m still worth paying.”

Stu arranges the food, adds a scoop of fries, then carries both to the window. “Order up!” he calls.

I look across the restaurant. Mom is refilling the coffee cup of some guy in
a dark suit.
Tourist.
I roll my eyes. What a waste. He’s not even eating.

“What can I make you?” Stu asks, disrupting my thoughts.

I turn back to him. “What?”

“A welcome home dinner.
Just for you. You name it, I’ll make it.”   

“You can’t do that,” I say
, shaking my head. “Ernie will kill you. You know how he feels about employees who eat without paying.”

One of the perks of working at a restaurant should be free food or leftovers or something, but this is not the case at Ernie’s. Even if we do have left
overs at the end of the night they always go home with Ernie.
(Like he needs leftovers.)
Because the rest of us aren’t starving.

Stu peers around me, examining the dining room. “Ernie isn’t exactly here right now,” he points out, scraping the griddle clean
with a metal spatula. “And the dinner rush isn’t for another hour. I have no one to cook for.”

I bite my lower lip. Stu’s food is awfully good.

“Name it.
Anything.
A burger and fries, pancakes. . . .”

“Pancakes?
For dinner?
That’s just weird.”

“You aren’t
one of those girls who thinks breakfast foods are only meant for breakfast, are you?”

“Well, yeah, I guess. I mean, I don’t usually eat breakfast, but that’s
kinda
when they’re intended to be eaten. That’s what makes it breakfast.”

He eyes me carefully. “
You mean to tell me you’ve never eaten pancakes for dinner?”

I shake my head.

“And here I thought you rebelled.
That you trumped tradition.
Danced to the music inside your head.”
He grabs the pancake batter. He’s just beginning to pour when he looks up. “Y
ou like pancakes, don’t you?”

“For breakfast,” I confirm.

He dumps the batter on the griddle. “That’s because you’ve never eaten pancakes for dinner.
Pancakes, bacon, and eggs, coming up.
I’m going to convert you.”

I smile, watching him as he works. “
What if I don’t want to be converted?” I ask.  

“You
want
to be converted. Trust me on this. You’re a breakfast at dinner person if I ever met one. You just haven’t been given the opportunity to experience the miraculous-
ness
.”

“Is that even a word?”

He
shrugs.

In minutes, there is a plate before me, filled with pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon. The eggs are bright yellow and still steaming. Stu hands over a set of utensils wrapped tightly in a napkin.

“Orange juice or milk?”

“Milk, I guess.”

While h
e walks over to the refrigerator, I stare at the pile of food in front of me. It smells awfully enticing. I mean, there’s nothing inherently
wrong
with eating breakfast foods for dinner. I close my eyes and breathe it in.

“Knew it,” he says when he returns
. “And you haven’t even taken a bite.”

The thing is
,
I don’t need to take a bite to know it’s delicious—the best thing I’ve eaten all week. I reach for the syrup bottle and dump its contents on top of my pile of pancakes. My fingers stick to the plastic h
andle. “Yuck,” I mutter, peeling them away.

Stu watches intently as I shift the food around my plate, spear a forkful of eggs, and take the first bite.

I can’t hide my smile.

“Knew it!”
Stu dances around the kitchen, his crazy, brown hair sticking up all
over the place. “You know why, don’t you?” He points the spatula at me. “Because there’s a top secret ingredient and you don’t even know it.”

I pick up a piece of bacon and examine it between my fingers before taking a bite.
“Really?”

“Yeah.
It’s cheese.”

I stare at him in disbelief while I chew. “Stu, if it’s a secret ingredient then why are you telling me?” I
ask,
my mouth full.

“Because food is meant to be enjoyed.
Cherished.
Appreciated.
Only the truly negligent would keep a secret recipe an actual sec
ret. If you go home and make some killer eggs with cheese that make you smile and forget your problems for a while, then I’ve done my job as a chef.”

I laugh. Stu is hardly a chef. He’s a short order cook in a hole in the wall restaurant that practically s
huts down with the rest of the town during the winter. But I like his attitude, anyway.

“I’ll have to remember that the next time I make eggs.” I pick up my knife and cut my pancakes into little triangles.
“So eggs and cheese, what else?”

“A pinch of salt
and a splash of milk.”

“That’s it? You don’t have any kind of concrete measurements?”

He scoffs.
“Of course not.
I don’t cook with measurements. I cook by feel. It’s a gift.” He examines the nearly empty dining room.
“A gift that I’m wasting right now bec
ause we have no customers.”
He lets out a sigh.

“A gift.
Right.”

“Everyone has a gift.”

I cram a bite of pancakes in my mouth. “Not me,” I mumble.

“What?”

I reach for my glass of milk and swallow. “I said, not me.”

“Not me, what?”

I roll my eyes. I swear
, sometimes his attention span borders closer to a four-year-old than an actual adult.
“A gift.
I don’t have one.”

“Sure you do,” he replies, flipping a pair of pans around as if he were a practicing samurai. “
Everyone has something that sets them apart from everyone else. Some of us are lucky enough to have multiple skills.” He spins around the room then stretches into some kind of karate pose, crossing the pans in front of him.