The Counseling (15 page)

"Not really," Jess notes. "Not everyone in the session fully admitted their ... enlightenment."

My eyebrows lift in curiosity. "Oh, yeah?"

"Mr. Sunglasses and Gloves still won't fess up to anything."

"Patrick?"

"Yeah, your boyfriend," she teases. "He just sat there most of the time twirling a pen in his fingers." She stops and remembers. "Come to think of it, he bolted out of the room like Satan was on his heels at some point and didn't come back."

That would have been when he and I connected psychically or whatever it is we're doing.

Jess dives across the bed and lands next to me. "You two hooked up, didn't you!" "No! I swear we didn't!"

Jess frowns and inspects my aura. "Damn, no pink. I was hoping for a juicy story."

"Sorry to disappoint you. No hooking up here." I stuff down the embarrassment over wanting to add the word
yet.
"I just needed some time to myself."

"Perfectly understandable, kiddo. As Oliver said from the get-go, we're all here to take from this retreat what we need. And what I need is food." She flips over in a near gymnastic move and both of her feet hit the floor. "Let's go eat! Chris is making pork tamales."

My traitorous stomach responds for me and I laugh. I swear, with the gourmet meals Chris is feeding us three times a day, I'm going to be the size of a house. Oh, well. "Bring on the food!"

After dinner, the inevitable pairing-up begins again. I guess that's just what happens when boys and girls fraternize. It's as old as Adam and Eve. Course, look where it got them.

Speedy is sleeping on the sixth step down from the inn, and the cats are out on their evening prowl. Oliver is involved in some closed-door meetings with the counselors, and the La'Costons are camped in front of their plasma television watching one of those singing-and-dancing reality contests, which I'll never understand the appeal of.

I spot Willow and TF disappearing around the back of the inn, while Micah and Jess, Greg and Harper, and Erin and Ricky all get into the hot tub, which is already bubbling and steaming at full force. I could certainly go for the relaxation of the Jacuzzi, but I don't want to be a fifth wheel.

Maddie pads by in her swimsuit, a towel draped over her arm. She stops, though, and looks like she doesn't want to interrupt the couples either. "We're thinking the same thing, aren't we?" she asks.

"Probably so," I say with a smile.

"I really love my boyfriend at home," she confesses. "He's so cute and I'd never do anything to make him not trust me."

I think for one fleeting millisecond about Jason and how I haven't heard squat from him. I know he lives all the way up in Alaska, but last I checked, it was still one of the fifty states and people up there do have phones and Internet service. I mean, his sister found the time to text me and send me e-mails (okay, they were mostly forwarded jokes that I've seen a hundred times already, but still), and yet he can't seem to remember my phone number. Well, the hell with him!

Maddie smiles and touches my arm. "I'm sure he's thinking of you." When my eyes widen at her, she apologizes. "Sorry, it's that whole clairvoyant thing."

"No worries. Par for the course with this group." I pause for a moment and then finally admit what I've been unwilling to say out loud. Sure, I know Jason had to move to Alaska with his dad, but the breakup was inevitable. We were too different. On diverging paths. "It's okay," I tell Maddie. "I'm over him"

"Do we ever really get over that first love?" she asks seriously.

I lick my lips briefly, and without missing a beat, I say, "I certainly hope so."

My ears pick up the strains of a guitar. Maddie winks at me and giggles. "Now there's someone who's broken a lot of hearts, I bet."

"Oh, I'm sure."

With a nudge of her elbow, she says, "Maybe you should go see what you can do about mending his."

I roll my eyes and trot up the stairs toward the music—careful to step over the snoring papillon pup.

A crackling orangy-white blaze is going in the fire pit and Patrick sits with his back to me as he strums out R.E.M.'s "The One I Love."

"Anyone I know?" I ask coyly, making my presence known. "Will wonders never cease! I actually get a genuine laugh from Patrick Lynn." I flop down on the cushioned chaise next to him in victory. "Damn, I'm good."

"What
ever
, Moorehead," he says as he continues to pluck out the song. "There's no one I love other than my family. I'm too screwed up to involve myself in anyone else's life."

"Ahhh ... he speaks out on how his abilities are affecting his world. Just what
are
his abilities, one has to wonder." I have no clue why I'm speaking like some voice-over dude, but humor seems to be the elixir that's working on this complicated guy right now.

Patrick adjusts the guitar on his thigh and stretches out his jeaned leg. He's not wearing the glasses, gloves, or knit hat. I would say his guard is seriously down right now. Not that I'm going to take advantage of it—okay, maybe just a little bit.

In the darkness, the firelight dances and casts shadows from his eyelashes onto his cheeks. His shaggy black hair blows in the slight breeze as his chocolate eyes sharpen on a distant object. I watch hypnotized as his fingers pluck the strings, sending out the song Cel, Becca, Taylor, and I have tried to master on Guitar Hero. I've got the drum part down, and Taylor is a real natural on the vocals, but Cel and Becca could totally compete against the best at playing the R.E.M. hit song. As Patrick continues, I hum along, trying not to distract him. Instead of telling me to shush or go away, he sings softly with me, harmonizing here and there, our voices blending together in a swirling, melodious way that gives me chill bumps even though I'm sitting in front of a crackling fire.

At the end of the song, he lets his fingers dangle from the strings for a few moments. His thoughts are hidden from me; however, it seems like he's happy right now. I know I'm feeling at peace for the first time in a couple of days.

I so much want to know everything about this boy. What makes him tick? Why is he here? How can I help him? How can we help each other? How can we help Hailey?

Bravely, I ask, "Can I read you, Patrick?"

"I don't know," he says with a sexy little smirk. "Can you?"

I cross my eyes and stick out my tongue. "Thank you, Mom.
May
I read you?"

"I'd rather you not"

I lift up and lean on the end of the chaise, close to Patrick. I gather the intestinal fortitude to say what needs to be said. "We have this ... mental tie, Patrick. You can't deny it."

"I don't," he says and then strums out a random chord. "Nor can I explain it."

"Then why can't I read you?"

He lets out a sigh and sets the guitar down to his right. His long, lean fingers slide into his thick hair, moving the strands back momentarily. I notice a few more grays at the temple, underneath the other hair. They shine in the firelight.

I toss my hands in the air. "Look, I won't beg for your story. You've heard mine. You've heard pretty much everyone else's here, yet you're shut tighter than a clam."

I have my reasons.

"I'm sure you do," I say, acknowledging what he sent to me telepathically. "I'm here to listen." Without thinking, I reach out and place my hand on the sleeve of his shirt. He doesn't flinch or move away. Instead, he adjusts back into his chair and stares into the flames. I do the same, wondering if some ethereal message will be spelled out by the conflagration and sparks.

After a few minutes, I break the silence. "We shared a moment this afternoon with the whole Hailey incident. She's reached out to both of us. How do you explain that?"

He shakes his head, tossing his hair. "I can't explain shit these days."

"That's why you're here."

Patrick snaps around to face me. "I'm here because my dad thinks I'm a freak. He called an old friend and got me into this ... this seminar because he can't do anything for me."

"You're not a freak!" Because if you are or anyone else here is, then I am too.

You're not a freak, Kendall.

Neither are you, Patrick.

His eyes lock on mine and I sense that I won't be able to take a breath when I make the attempt. I'm paralyzed by the emotions surrounding him: fear, doubt, loneliness, confusion. I recognize them because they've been with me since I woke up in the hospital following my Sherry Biddison spill. But helping Hailey is going to get me over that hurdle. Maybe it'll cure Patrick too.

Can it? Can anything?

I want to take his hand and connect with him. I need to feel the heat of our fingers together. To solidify this union we've got going.

His beautiful brown eyes—unshielded by sunglasses finally—shift over my face, studying my nose, my eyelashes, my lips. I watch as his own lips move to form words. "I wish I could take your hand, Kendall." He turns away. "I can't, though."

I clear my throat to dislodge the emotional lump stuck right in my windpipe. "I want to know what happened, Patrick"

He shudders; no other response.

"I want to know," I reiterate forcefully and then add in my mind,
I promise not to judge or think badly of you, no matter what.

With that, he spins back around. "That's just it, Kendall. I don't
know
what happened. I was me one moment and then the next ... I wasn't."

I cross my legs underneath me and get comfortable. "All right. Start at the top."

P
ATRICK LETS OUT A PENT-UP BREATH
and then begins his tale.

"Dad and I like to travel. He's outdoorsy and we always camp and hike and swim and stuff," he starts out. "When I was fifteen, I got my open-water SCUBA certification. It was awesome because Dad went with me on my checkout dives. We've been avid divers together for the last two years."

"That's awesome that you have something in common like that." I can't imagine being that close to either of my parents. I wonder if Emily and I would have had a special bond if she'd lived to raise me.

Patrick picks up on my lamenting about what would never happen. I urge him on with a nod.

"So, the first of the year, Dad got this deal on a trip to Barbados, so we went. It was amazing there. We did so much together."

"How fun! I bet it's gorgeous there."

"It is. The water color ... well, I've never seen anything like it. We did the zip lines through the tree canopies of this sunken cave, and we went on a Segway tour on the northern part of the island overlooking the Atlantic."

"My best friend, Celia, has a Segway. Those things are
the
coolest," I say, wanting to connect with him even more.

"Right," he says with a smile. He really should do that more often since it makes these tiny little crinkles around his eyes that just light up my heart. "We were having a time, let me tell you. We didn't get to dive every day like we wanted to, but we had some righteous ones."

The thought of breathing underwater fascinates and frightens me at the same time. "What all did you see?"

His eyes shift into the memory. "Sea turtles, puffer fish, chum, sergeant majors; it was ... wow."

"I bet."

A darkness overtakes his eyes. "On the third dive, I was feeling all cocky. It was a wreck dive. Nothing too complicated. It was this ship called the
Pamir
that had been deliberately sunk to make a coral reef. The sea life there was frickin' unreal"

"That would totally creep me out," I say. "Swimming around a sunken ship? Yuck!"

"It's no big deal," he assures me. "It's not like anyone died on it. They clean it up, take all the oils and toxins out of it, and it provides a home and food for the fish, coral, and plants."

I scrunch up my nose. "I suppose. So, go ahead."

"Yeah, well ... it was a penetration dive, but I'm not certified for that."

I shift in my seat. "I don't know what that means."

Patrick licks his lips. "I'm only certified for open-water dives, which means I'm not supposed to be going in caves or ships or places like that without further training."

"Okay, that makes sense."

"It would have if I'd obeyed the rules." He scratches his head. "Like I said, I got cocky. So, when the rest of the group swam off to this small submarine that's sunk nearby, I scooted back to penetrate the wreck. It looked like a really easy one and I wanted to see what it was like."

I scowl at him. "Aren't you, like, supposed to always stay with your dive buddy? I remember seeing some program on the Travel Channel about that. Didn't your dad notice you were gone?"

Patrick hangs his head. "Yeah. It was a dick move. I thought I could penetrate and be back in a flash without anyone noticing I was gone." A long pause follows, and I know this is the part in the story where something goes wrong. "I was stupid. I went into the wreck, swam around—no big deal, right? Only problem was, my octopus regulator—the extra breathing hose you have in case your buddy or someone else runs out of air—got snagged in the lead rope that led back to the buoy on the surface. I sort of panicked and started taking in
a lot
of air. Then I pulled my dive knife from my ankle and tried to cut myself loose."

My hands move up to cover my mouth. I'm seeing everything that Patrick was going through; he's sending me images while he shares his story. I see him in his short wetsuit, his hair flowing above him in the water. His eyes are wide and panic has overtaken him.

"I must have been stuck like that a good six minutes. I totally forgot everything I'd learned in the classroom, in the textbook, and in the pool. It was the survival instinct, you know? I didn't give a damn about the bends or following my small air bubbles to the surface, I just wanted out."

"What happened?" I ask from behind my hands.

"I slashed at the lead rope to get loose, but I sliced my air hose instead."

"Oh, shit! But you had that octagon backup thingy, right?"

He chuckles. "The octopus regulator. It was stuck and I couldn't get to it. I was SOL."