Almost (21 page)

“Jess. Earth to Jess Jordan.”

Crap. Crap. And Crap!

My stomach growls then twists. There's no need to walk around the stack of boxes to confirm what I suspect.

She's asleep.

Which means many painful things.

1. I'm going to stay here to watch over her.

2. I'm going to resist the temptation to head back around those boxes stare at her beautiful face and feel sorry for myself while she sleeps.

3. I'm going to ignore my stomach and build enough frog-lily-pads to cover for both of us until she wakes up. No matter how long it takes.

4. When she does wake up, I'm going to play it off and get us both a snack from the machines in the employee break room so we can start on the lanyards together.

Because I have a paycheck and she doesn't.

Because we have a contract. And because she needs me to honor that contract.

Not for any other reasons.

No other reasons.

Chapter Eighteen

Jess

The jellyfish tentacles in the lamp are in focus now, but something's still not right.

I unclamp my arms from around my knees and stand, wincing as the blood rushes back into my legs with thousands of pin-pricks. My comforter falls to the floor. I pad across the room, pausing at my desk to scratch the number 617 below the recent 456, and last week's winning number of 507.

All numbers I've logged since the internship started. 617. Record high. Not a good trend.

To try and regain my breathing—my bearings—anything, I let my gaze travel through, into and out of each of my favorite movie posters.

Pride and Prejudice always comes first. Mr. Darcy, staring at the Keira Knightley version of Elizabeth while the sun comes over their shoulders. The last scene. Where they vow to never part. I love the way he's got his forehead next to hers. In that whole, perfect movie…they only kiss once…

Next: Jack and Rose from
Titanic
. They face the ocean on the ship's bow. Soaring together, facing the world.

The most captivating poster of all is from
Romeo and Juliet
. It's from the 90's movie that starred Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes before they got all old. The whole play is filmed, word for word, in a modern, gang/mobster setting.

I have the poster of Romeo and Juliet staring at each other through an aquarium.

I've stared at this poster and watched the movie, not to mention the YouTube clips of this one single moment—the moment where they first meet—countless times.

Romeo sees Juliet first. His expression is so sure. He
knows
that he will never be the same. H's lost and in love with Juliet forever. With zero words exchanged, his course is set.

Juliet's expression is equally startled when she sees Romeo. She seems amazed—but cautious. Like she's smarter—at first. But if you watch the YouTube clips closely enough, I swear you can see in Juliet's eyes that she
knows
she's going to die because of how she feels for this guy.

I think, this scene is where the true tragedy lives. It's not because they both die in the end. The tragedy is all right there…in the very beginning. When he smiles at her. When she instantly forgets.

Forgets how dangerous he is.

You can't blame her for how it plays out. Romeo's so amazing in this movie—what he says to her—how he looks at her. She's obviously drowning in butterflies.

I know for a fact now, butterflies like that can be horrible, beautiful things. I tear my gaze away from the posters and head for the door. Leaning my head against it, I breathe in as deeply as I can, willing the voices to stop. It's not working—nothing is working tonight. The flashes and voices won't quit.

I even think I heard Gray's voice in my nightmare! He's become so tangled into my messed up life, it makes sense that he'd wind up inside my head. Trapped in my nightmares—my dreams and the in-between parts of my mind where I hide secret, unspeakable wishes. I suppose he's mixed in there forever now, with all the rest.

The most amazing, best thing, floating through everything that's the worst.

That thought gives me this incredible surge that I hate Gray. Hate him a lot.

Then I wonder if I've started to go crazy. This time—crazy for real.

That has to be what's happening to me. Why I can't get control. This is all too much. How long can one person live on a few hours of stolen sleep each day before going bonkers? Hopefully a few more weeks. That's all I need, and then this madness can be over.

I shudder because I'm afraid. Afraid like I haven't been in a long, long time. What if I can't make it? What if I'm stuck in this bedroom for the rest of my life?

I fling open my door and head out on shaking legs to my sister's room. I need help. Some sort of solace. Kika's the only beacon of light I trust. I know she'll at least distract me from the tornado of confusion that's attacking me.

Her room's lit up green from the fish nightlight she's had since she was six. Even though it's summer, she's afraid of insects and keeps her windows closed tightly. It's a phobia that makes her room endlessly suffocating. That's just what I need. To be suffocated so my thoughts don't have any more room to breathe is just perfect.

“Kika? Can I snuggle in? Just for a bit?” I whisper.

“Mmph.” Kika scoots to one side as she holds up the covers. “Time is it?”

“You don't want to know.” I snuggle in back-to-back not caring that she'll feel my shakes. I resist the urge to cling to her and cry like a baby. “What's that smell?” I ask instead.

“My lotion. BathLand discontinued it,” she mutters as she yawns, waking up. “I bought all they had.”

I smile a little. “Is that the lotion you hit me with before I went to the rink the other night?”

Kika taps her nightlight one notch brighter and turns to look at me. “Peach Cobbler.”

Her light blue eyes, so much like mine, sparkle even in the dim light. Her feather-wisp brows are drawn together and she's frowning. Watching my face.

Kika always tracks me with the same worried expressions Mom uses. Their voices are also exactly the same. On the phone, no one can tell them apart. But unlike Mom, Kika seems to know exactly what I need after my nightmares. She's quietly watching and waiting for me to get myself together—minus any sort of question and answer torture session.

No judgment, no speculation on ‘what it all means’. I love her for that. For everything.

“So…you liked the lotion?” she asks finally. She must have discerned that I'm not going to bawl all over her or flip into a deeper level of shaking like I've done in the past. She snuggles back into her pillow. “I'll lend you more if you want—for any other
special occasions
you might have coming up,” she hints, but her voice is too low. Heavy. She's worried about me.

I try to joke, “I appreciate the offer, but I think that lotion should only be worn on a consistent basis if you're thirteen, trying to repel insects, horrify guys and attract bears all at the same time.”

“Hey now…”

“Not that I'm saying I won't need to do all of that…some day. I'll let you know.”

“Should I mention there is only one
gallon
left in the whole world? And it's going fast,” Kika huffs, insulted. “I'm sure it doesn't repel guys. Though you might be right about the bears.”

“Just in case, you might apply that stuff with a lighter touch. Although…” I take in another breath, feeling steadily better. “Corey—he—knew right away your lotion was peach—he guessed pie, not cobbler, though. Said he loved it. So you could be on to something,” I add, shaking my head, remembering.

“It worked and you
mocked
it? How dare you make me doubt. You should bow to me, right now.”

“Tomorrow. I promise. I'll be your slave.”

She giggles and my heart swells with warmth. The nightmare can't compete with my sister. She's always had some special brand of magic. Asleep or awake, any space she occupies somehow instantly becomes the sweetest place on earth. Right now, that place has morphed into this messy, peach-infused, darkened room.

Kika moves her shoulder closer to mine before speaking again. “I heard you cry out. You practically shook the walls,” she whispers.

“Ugh. That loud?” I sigh. “If Mom heard, she's probably emailing Dr. Brodie right now, trying to get me an appointment.”

“I was going to come in, but you quieted right away. I figured you'd gone back to sleep. Was it bad?”

“The usual,” I lie. But now that I've had time to process it, I think the nightmare has changed more than I'd thought. The images had come at me faster. Clearer. The police officer had been wearing a gun in a black holster, and he'd had a walkie-talkie thing too. I've never remembered looking at those so clearly before.

Dr. Brodie told me the dream, after all this time, could easily be a mixture of current memories and past ones. He told me I shouldn't trust them as any sort of definite truth or memory. He also told me that despite how drunk I'd been, if I truly ever
did
remember, that it would all feel
different
. I'd simply know what was real and what was wasn't.

Remembering is remembering. Not a foggy, messed-up dream.

Only I don't want to remember anymore. I haven't wanted that for a long time.

At first, I'd spent every waking moment trying to decipher my nightmares. Wishing I could remember. But last year I'd decided to ignore the whole thing. That's when things started to get better. I don't obsess over the past any more. I just want to move on.

Kika asks, “Is it getting to be like before? You sounded like you did when—”

“No! Not even close.” I refuse to let her finish. I don't want to talk about how it was when I'd lost it. Screaming and crying night after night, month after month. That was when everyone in our house had circles under their eyes—not just me. When they all thought I'd be crazy—forever.

“It's just a bad night, fine—a bad week. But that's bound to happen sometimes, right?”

“If you weren't shaking so badly right now, I'd believe you.”

If I weren't shaking so badly, I'd believe myself
, I think.

“Don't tell Mom and Dad. They'll just act all weird. I'm off my usual schedule because of the internship. Things will settle. Honest. I'm fine.” I turn to stare up at the ceiling fan and Kika finds my hand. She holds on to it extra tight until the last of the shudders have left my spine.

“Wish one of my checklists could fix you,” she says in a voice as deflated as I feel.

I force my tone to sound cheery. “You have fixed me. Because of your last list, I'm well on the pathway to normal on all fronts. I've got places to go, people to see and a cute boy's texting me every day.” I ramp up my subject change. “Which reminds me, I need the list you promised me about the text messaging. What does g-t-g mean?”

“Duh. ‘Got to go?’ You're hopeless. I'll get it to you first thing.”

“Thanks.”

Kika sighs. “I know you want privacy and all that, but will you at least admit you
like
this Corey Nash? At least tell me
something
about him? You owe me for the lotion that trapped his heart, after all. I want details.”

“Okay.” I smile and turn to lean on my elbow so I can peer down at her. I'm stalling. Searching for something true to tell her after two weeks of evasiveness and full-on lying. “He's tall. Lanky, but solid and strong looking. And he says I make him laugh. That part is annoying really, because you know that I pride myself in being NOT funny.” Kika giggles as I continue, “He also mumbles to himself. Like all the time. It's cute. And his voice. OMG. You should hear it. It's all low rock star…and…goose bump worthy. And his eyes. I can't even explain them. They're magic. Dark forest—sparkling green.”

“What?”

“I mean
blue-green
…really deep blue with teensy green flecks. They change all the time. And he's growing out his hair to look like surfer hair,” I add quickly, trying to recover from my slip. I've said all along Corey's got
blue
eyes. My bad.

I conjure Corey's face and hold onto it, pushing away all thoughts of Gray. “His personality makes him very impish. And he's—how can I explain him—he teases everyone. He's sweet, and he kind of flirts all the time. But not in a creepy way. He's charming,” I add.

“Nice,” Kika says, still half lost in her giggles.

“Yeah…well.” I meet her gaze. I'm grinning back, but I can't hold on to Corey's image.

As I continue, it's Gray's in front of me all over again. “The way he
looks
at me—sets off major heartbeats. If you must know, standing still, this guy fills my brain with taffy, makes me act like a fool, and stops my heart with butterflies at least twice a day. I have them just mentioning the guy, if you must know.”