PINELIGHTforkindle (2 page)

I heard him toss his shades onto the dashboard, but I kept my eyes focused ahead on the tree.

“You wish to ignore me,” he said. Though it was a statement, he sounded confused.

I glanced long enough to realize he was inching his way toward me, and then shot my attention back to the tree.

“Come on, Clarabella,” he continued with a grin. “That’s not what you want.”

His hand slid over mine, like it always did when he wanted something, but I pulled away. I felt my mind slightly spin for a moment, before realizing his grin had faded and he was studying me.

“So ripping a few entries from your journal was a bad idea. I get it,” he said, releasing a heavy breath of peppermint into the air. “But surely you can get over that.”

 His words fueled the fire inside of me. I thought back to all the times he had been in my house—in my room. All the unintentional opportunities I had given him to go through all of my things, to steal my journal. Everything I felt, my unexplainable thoughts and emotions, were written within those pages. I was mortified he had read them.
He wants me to just get over it?
My temples pulsed.

“I want it back.” I paused to correct myself. “I want back every single page.”

He chuckled to himself before letting me in on his bad joke. “The only page you’re going to find is the one in your hand.”

“Where are the others?”

He was silent.

“Tell me, Erik!” I demanded an answer.

“Listen, Clara—forget about it. You don’t need them back.” His eyes were black poison when he looked at me. I couldn’t look away from them. His voice buzzed in my head. “Forget about it,” he repeated slowly.

My mind went fuzzy again.

Somehow I managed to tuck his words in my pocket—to shake out the buzz. My mind cleared and soared back to what I wanted.
The pages.

“Give them to me,” I demanded.

He appeared surprised by my reaction, almost irritated. I noticed his mouth tighten as if he were biting the inside of his cheek.

“Give them to me now—or never talk to me again.”

He was glaring at me with sinister eyes, while his chest expanded and breath quickened. Maybe he was angry that his usual charm had failed to work, or maybe he didn’t approve of my demands. Either way something had stirred him.

“I can’t do that.”

“Fine,” I said. “I never want to see you again.” I slid over to the truck door and pushed it open. I was finally free of the truck—free of him—but now I was standing with my bag in the pouring rain.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Get back in the truck, Clara.”

His voice faded into the sound of rain as I broke into a frantic run. It was all I could do. I ran through the old cypress trees that shadowed the cracked parking lot, and then ran some more. I ran, seemingly for miles in the rain, darting through the woods that overlooked our school. Feelings of betrayal churned inside of me. Agony and humiliation drove me. I couldn’t stop. I wanted nothing more than to be numb. The rain continued to pour down through the trees, soaking every inch of my body.

Time passed, I know, but I didn’t feel it pass. My clothes felt heavy, my legs weighted, as I treaded through the muddy landscape. My eyes burned, and nothing appeared clear anymore. My body was giving in. I had put up a good fight, but I couldn’t run from this. I couldn’t stop this. I slowly crumbled into the soggy earth and began to cry.

The soft, wet earth embraced my body while my mind spun with thoughts I didn’t understand. Over the last few years, I had learned to cope with many things—the numerous rumors concerning my move to Red River Parish, the emptiness of not knowing my past, who I was, or what had become of my family—but not this. I had never confided in anyone the way I had with Erik—never allowed myself to be this vulnerable. And here I was exposed, defenseless to the pain.

Lifting myself from the mush, I purposed to forget Erik—to forget I ever called him my friend. I could be strong, I told myself. But I knew I was lying.

-2-

THREAT

Our house looked dark and unwelcoming in the downpour. Pools of rain always collected on the roof before dripping down the white shutters. The house looked like it was weeping. Appropriate, I thought.

I stepped carefully up the slippery steps of the porch—one, two, three, four. I always had to count them—one of my idiosyncrasies. With my remaining energy, I raked off my sneakers and reached for the door.

The familiar cluttered walls welcomed me home. I dragged myself upstairs, past the crooked paintings that Alice had recently hung, sliding my hand along the rail. Twelve steps to the top, six steps into my room, and eight more into my bathroom. I made it to the bathroom sink in ten steps.

Staring back from the mirror was a face I hardly recognized. My eyes were swollen and pink from the tears—my hair a knotted mess. Traces of splattered mud speckled my face and neck, while the remainder of it caked my clothes. I was exhausted from it all—the running, the crying, the deception. And for the first time, I could see the damage.

I stumbled over to the old claw-foot tub, still dewy from my morning shower, and twisted the hot water nozzle to the shower on—all the way on. I shifted out of my jacket, then stepped into the tub wearing the rest of my muck-covered clothes and pulled the plastic lining, until I was sealed in with a cloud of steam.

The heat and the pressure from the water calmed my nerves as it washed away the brush and grime from my skin and clothes. Before long my jeans were clean enough to take off, then my shirt. I closed my eyes and sank to the back of the tub, listening only to the hissing of the water. My mind was almost at ease.

“You normally shower with clothes on?”

Erik
. One hand quickly shot over my chest to cover my bra, and the other one to my underwear.

“What are you doing here? Get out!” No one had ever seen that much of my skin before—I felt my face turn red.

“No.”

“No?” I waited, fuming with detest.

“That’s right. I’m not going anywhere—but you can try to run again.” He chuckled. He seemed to be enjoying the situation. He looped his fingers around a red towel hanging on the wall. It moved back and forth on its hook, taunting me.

“Give me the towel.”

“No.” Our eyes met. “We’re going to talk first,” he said.

“You think this is funny, don’t you?” I pulled my knees up and curled my arms around them to hide my exposed skin. I still felt mortified that he was seeing me this way. “This is nothing but a game to you.”

Erik pulled at his soaked T-shirt, loosening the gray material from the hard lines of his abdomen, and then tossed the towel over his shoulder. There was no doubting his beauty and my attraction to him.

“I find it entertaining, yes. But this isn’t a game.” With a devilish grin, he trotted forward to the tub and turned the water off. “I was very surprised with your reaction today. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t think of a clear way to address what was just said, and in all honesty, I agreed with him.
When have I ever stood up to anyone?

“Something big is about to happen, Clara. And it will be easier if we are friends.”

“I don’t want anything to do with you,” I blurted.

“You’re only making this process harder on yourself.” In one smooth motion, he lowered himself, balancing his weight on the edge of the porcelain tub. “You will eventually have to let go, or there will be much to endure.”

He was telling me what to do again, and I didn’t like it.

I quickly grabbed a handful of his shirt and pulled with all my weight. He toppled over the edge of the tub, while I jumped out with the red towel in hand. I sprinted through the bathroom door and slid into my room, but before I could slam the door behind me, his arms closed around my shoulders.

“Let go of me!” My voice came out like a growl.

“Stop fighting me, doll.”

Doll. His voice. His touch.
My knees went weak. He loosened an arm to rest it against my collarbone and then moved his hand over my skin. I couldn’t speak. I felt his cold fingertips follow the freckles on my shoulder to my neck. It was a gentle touch, barely making contact with my skin, but it had a chilling effect.

Chill bumps formed on my arms as he pressed the palm of his hand in the crease of my neck. I could hear his breath quicken behind me. His scent, the scent of peppermint, filled the air as his fingers moved to trace the contours of my cheek. He carefully tilted my head so that our eyes met—I was trapped somewhere in his dark gaze.

“We are not like the people in this parish. You and I, we are different. We come from another place.”

Different.
I had heard that word before.

“Clara.” His voice was soft and low, flowing through the air like a distant song. “I know about the dreams. I know you are afraid of them. Don’t be, Clara. He calls for you. Give him control—let him in.”

 He leaned down so that his cheek rested against mine. His silky hair brushed against my face. I could smell the woods in his hair—I could feel the warmth in his sweet breath. Everything stopped. I could no longer hear the rain beat down on the roof or the branches of the ancient cypress tree scrape against my bedroom window. The load roar of the old air-conditioning unit seemed to whisper now, and I was no longer breathing. His words had taken a hold of me.

“I’ll take you to him when the time is right.” He sandwiched my face between his hand and cheek. “Don’t try to run. We will find you.”

I couldn’t speak for what felt like hours, but in reality was only seconds. My mind was whirling around like a tornado had landed. I could only focus on the words he fed me.
Let him in.

And then I felt a part of my mind fight back. Like an opposing magnet—pushing his words away. A spark of some sort.

I felt his grip loosen as he slowly shuffled back from me. Even though I despised him, I wasn’t ready for him to let go.

Darkness had already filled my room when my mind came soaring back to me. I was standing alone, staring blankly at the shadows in the window. My towel was still loosely wrapped around me, my hair still slightly damp. I’m not sure how long I had been standing there alone. I’m not sure when he had left me or why.

I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and disappear amongst the blue and brown waves of sheets. I sat down on the edge of its lumpy surface and looked back.

I spent the rest of the gloomy night in that one lumpy spot, rolled in the red towel that once teased me. My stare stayed fixated on the crooked branches that waved outside my window, until the limbs were completely swallowed by the night.

Throughout the evening, the air conditioner kicked on and off, blasting gusts of piercing cold air through my room. My hair turned to a cold mass of curls. I shivered, but had no desire to move. The cold felt right. I hoped that the thoughts Erik left me with would go away, but as the hours rolled by, they remained stuck in my head. Every word. Every look. Every touch. Stuck. And no matter how hard I tried to push them away, my mind kept coming back to one thing
.
We will find you.

I couldn’t sleep. Every time my eyelids closed, I replayed the entire day. It was like watching a poorly written movie. It kept replaying and rewinding. My mind chose to create alternate endings—things I could have said, should have said to him. Before long, I was romanticizing about the very person I thought I hated.

Erik’s look had never been an innocent one; it always implied an undeniable desire, a longing for something unobtainable, and an unfaltering passion. His look had been even more convincing tonight. That look said it all. I wanted to know how his lips felt. I wanted to know if the chilling electricity that flowed from his touch would tingle from his lips. My heart jumped erratically. I didn’t
mean
to have these thoughts. I didn’t
want
to have these thoughts. They simply appeared in my mind, like any other idea or feeling.

I let my eyes wander around my dark bedroom, hoping that something would catch my attention long enough to push all the uncomfortable feelings aside. The moonlight splintered through my window and softly touched the posters of Paris, Ireland, and Hawaii. They were all places I had hoped to run away to. My dresser sat against the decorated walls, organized as always, everything dusted and positioned forward in a straight line. It wasn’t much to look at, but everything there was significant to me.

The line began with a framed picture of my Aunt Alice—a picture I had taken last year while she was blowing out her birthday candles. She had a smile stretched from ear to ear; it was my favorite picture of her. Stacks of journals and figurines sat next to the frame, all gifts from an old friend. The line ended with a small leather bible—my mother’s childhood bible. It had been my homecoming gift from Alice. Many nights had I pored over the pages, reading every printed word carefully and tracing over the notes my mom had once scribbled in the margin. What little peace I possessed came from that book. It was all that remained from my forgotten past.