Well, her clothes are probably a little too brightly colored and those curls are undoubtedly from a curling iron, not overnight curling rags, but hey—that’s what modern conveniences are for. A smile steals across my face as I realize the doll is even that old-fashioned rag type.
Her cute little chin jerks up and I see a man walk out of the house to join her on the porch.
Not a man, I guess. Too young to be her dad. I only see a wisp of his face, but he looks about eighteen, same as me. Maybe a tad older. Reenactments must be a family affair in the red house because he’s dressed in a navy-blue jacket and has a tall hat atop golden blond hair that’s pulled back at the nape of his neck.
He’s nice to look at; I won’t complain about that.
Sadly, his luxurious hair is probably a wig. Most people aren’t hard core enough to actually grow it out. And the ones who are; well, they’re a little scary in their own right.
As the guy crouches by the little girl, I wonder why breeches went out of style. Let’s just say they look amazing from the back. I arch an eyebrow in appreciation and squint to get a better look, glad the Beemer has dark-tinted windows and I can enjoy my little eye-candy feast in private. It seems like my moments of casual contentment are so few and far between these days.
The guy stands with the little girl’s hand in his. Showtime, I suspect.
As if sensing my laser-focused gaze, he pauses, then turns. My mouth goes dry when he stares pointedly in my direction.
He can’t see me, can he? The tinting on Reese’s car windows is almost a mirror from the outside. But his eyes stay focused and widen in an expression of surprise I can make out even from here.
He takes a few steps in my direction and I clench my fists as his eyes burn into mine. I’m certain he can’t know I’m here. How … ?
On the second step he stops and looks back at the little girl, who’s gripping his hand and pulling him back. He pauses, hesitates. He looks at the girl for a moment, then back at the car, his expression conflicted.
I can’t look away, even though I feel warmth rushing to my cheeks. From this distance I can’t tell what color his eyes are, but they pin me in place and it takes a few seconds to realize I’m holding my breath.
A sudden chime from my phone shatters the silence and breaks the spell. I look down to see a text pop up labeled Benson Ryder.
All done?
“Perfect timing,” I mutter. But I can’t suppress a smile as I jet off a quick response.
I had friends back in Michigan—in my former life, as I tend to think of it—but they were casual. My art was my life, and friends tended to pull me away from that. At-school friends, I guess. When Reese and Jay told me I’d have to cut contact with everyone in Michigan to keep my location a secret from the media, I admit I wasn’t sad to give them up. They felt … frivolous.
Benson, is … well, it’s just different. I see him almost every day. We text a lot. Have long phone calls sometimes.
And he knows. Everything.
No one else does.
Being the sole survivor of a major disaster leads to attention. Questions. And that means having to remember—the pain, the surgeries, the shaky memories.
My parents.
It’s easier to lie, to just tell everyone I broke my leg in a car wreck. No one questions it. Sometimes they tell me I’m lucky to be alive.
The people who say that have never lost anyone close to them.
My doctors know what happened, my physical therapist, Elizabeth, and of course Reese and Jay, but no one else. Fewer people to leak my location to the media, who would love to swoop in and grab an exclusive story, even months after the fact.
Well, I told Benson too. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say Benson worked it out of me. Not exactly unwillingly. The closer I got to Benson, the more I wanted to tell him. To stop lying. When it finally came out, it was a huge relief. It was nice to tell the truth. Especially to someone I chose.
I haven’t mentioned to Reese that I spilled it all to him. I don’t know if she’d be mad or not—it’s my life, after all—but the fact that I’m not sure is reason enough for me not to tell her.
Besides, Benson will keep my secret.
Sometimes I think I need him—need our easy camaraderie—and that scares me.
Everyone I’ve ever needed in my life is dead.
As soon as I hit send, my eyes dart back to the tall boy on the porch with the little girl, but they’ve gone in. I try to shake off the bizarre melancholy that has enveloped me. I stare at the house—wishing, I guess, for the strangers to reappear—and just as I blink, something flashes over the door. I open my eyes wide, but the flash is gone.
No, not completely gone—
Almost like a shadow in my peripheral vision, so faint I have to blink a few times to make sure I see it, a shape glitters just above the door. A triangle.
And for reasons I can’t comprehend or explain, my heart begins to race.
CHAPTER THREE
Usually my nightmares are about the crash, about those moments I don’t remember. Sometimes I’m forced to watch as my parents’ bodies rip apart in slow motion, blood splattering across my eyes and painting my vision that unmistakable red. Sometimes it’s me—my hands—being crushed in the debris. They curl into unnatural angles, the bones snapping until they’re nothing but a mangled mass.
Which is what should have happened.
Maybe I’m morbid, but while I was in the hospital I spent a lot of time on the Internet looking at photos of the crash site. And even though the media didn’t get my name, they knew which seat I was in.
Her cute little chin jerks up and I see a man walk out of the house to join her on the porch.
Not a man, I guess. Too young to be her dad. I only see a wisp of his face, but he looks about eighteen, same as me. Maybe a tad older. Reenactments must be a family affair in the red house because he’s dressed in a navy-blue jacket and has a tall hat atop golden blond hair that’s pulled back at the nape of his neck.
He’s nice to look at; I won’t complain about that.
Sadly, his luxurious hair is probably a wig. Most people aren’t hard core enough to actually grow it out. And the ones who are; well, they’re a little scary in their own right.
As the guy crouches by the little girl, I wonder why breeches went out of style. Let’s just say they look amazing from the back. I arch an eyebrow in appreciation and squint to get a better look, glad the Beemer has dark-tinted windows and I can enjoy my little eye-candy feast in private. It seems like my moments of casual contentment are so few and far between these days.
The guy stands with the little girl’s hand in his. Showtime, I suspect.
As if sensing my laser-focused gaze, he pauses, then turns. My mouth goes dry when he stares pointedly in my direction.
He can’t see me, can he? The tinting on Reese’s car windows is almost a mirror from the outside. But his eyes stay focused and widen in an expression of surprise I can make out even from here.
He takes a few steps in my direction and I clench my fists as his eyes burn into mine. I’m certain he can’t know I’m here. How … ?
On the second step he stops and looks back at the little girl, who’s gripping his hand and pulling him back. He pauses, hesitates. He looks at the girl for a moment, then back at the car, his expression conflicted.
I can’t look away, even though I feel warmth rushing to my cheeks. From this distance I can’t tell what color his eyes are, but they pin me in place and it takes a few seconds to realize I’m holding my breath.
A sudden chime from my phone shatters the silence and breaks the spell. I look down to see a text pop up labeled Benson Ryder.
All done?
“Perfect timing,” I mutter. But I can’t suppress a smile as I jet off a quick response.
I had friends back in Michigan—in my former life, as I tend to think of it—but they were casual. My art was my life, and friends tended to pull me away from that. At-school friends, I guess. When Reese and Jay told me I’d have to cut contact with everyone in Michigan to keep my location a secret from the media, I admit I wasn’t sad to give them up. They felt … frivolous.
Benson, is … well, it’s just different. I see him almost every day. We text a lot. Have long phone calls sometimes.
And he knows. Everything.
No one else does.
Being the sole survivor of a major disaster leads to attention. Questions. And that means having to remember—the pain, the surgeries, the shaky memories.
My parents.
It’s easier to lie, to just tell everyone I broke my leg in a car wreck. No one questions it. Sometimes they tell me I’m lucky to be alive.
The people who say that have never lost anyone close to them.
My doctors know what happened, my physical therapist, Elizabeth, and of course Reese and Jay, but no one else. Fewer people to leak my location to the media, who would love to swoop in and grab an exclusive story, even months after the fact.
Well, I told Benson too. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say Benson worked it out of me. Not exactly unwillingly. The closer I got to Benson, the more I wanted to tell him. To stop lying. When it finally came out, it was a huge relief. It was nice to tell the truth. Especially to someone I chose.
I haven’t mentioned to Reese that I spilled it all to him. I don’t know if she’d be mad or not—it’s my life, after all—but the fact that I’m not sure is reason enough for me not to tell her.
Besides, Benson will keep my secret.
Sometimes I think I need him—need our easy camaraderie—and that scares me.
Everyone I’ve ever needed in my life is dead.
As soon as I hit send, my eyes dart back to the tall boy on the porch with the little girl, but they’ve gone in. I try to shake off the bizarre melancholy that has enveloped me. I stare at the house—wishing, I guess, for the strangers to reappear—and just as I blink, something flashes over the door. I open my eyes wide, but the flash is gone.
No, not completely gone—
Almost like a shadow in my peripheral vision, so faint I have to blink a few times to make sure I see it, a shape glitters just above the door. A triangle.
And for reasons I can’t comprehend or explain, my heart begins to race.
CHAPTER THREE
Usually my nightmares are about the crash, about those moments I don’t remember. Sometimes I’m forced to watch as my parents’ bodies rip apart in slow motion, blood splattering across my eyes and painting my vision that unmistakable red. Sometimes it’s me—my hands—being crushed in the debris. They curl into unnatural angles, the bones snapping until they’re nothing but a mangled mass.
Which is what should have happened.
Maybe I’m morbid, but while I was in the hospital I spent a lot of time on the Internet looking at photos of the crash site. And even though the media didn’t get my name, they knew which seat I was in.
