The Edge of Forever (21 page)

Alora’s brow crinkles. “Excuse me? I
owe
you an explanation? I don’t remember asking you to come here today.”

The argument I’d already formed fades away. She’s right—I just showed up. She never asked me to walk her home. Still, it’s not right for her to let that idiot insult her and not stick up for herself.

The silence between us is thick and uncomfortable for several blocks. Finally I can’t take it. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have tried anything back there.”

“It’s fine,” she says, staring straight ahead.

“No, it’s not. It’s just . . .” I stop walking and place a hand on her arm. She freezes and I swear she shudders underneath my touch. “Something is wrong with you. Grace thinks it’s because you and Sela got in a fight, but there’s more to it. Like whatever is going on with you at school. And how you got home on Monday.”

Alora shakes her head. “I really don’t want to go there.”

“Keeping secrets could make things worse. Maybe you should tell someone what’s been going on.”

Her mouth opens and shuts several times before she can speak. “I was at school Monday afternoon . . . in the restroom. I felt dizzy. I remember I wanted to go home. And then . . . I was.”

“Has that happened to you before?” I knew when she materialized in front of me last week her shifting abilities were emerging. What I don’t know is how long it’s been happening.

“Yes. The first time was last Monday. That’s why I had to make up the history test. I blacked out at school and woke up in my bedroom.” She blows out a puff of air. “This Monday was the fourth time.”

If Alora slapped me, I wouldn’t be more surprised. She’s shifted four times in a week? That can’t be right. A natural-born Talent like Alora will probably develop in a different way. But when Talents manifest in my time, they start slow. Maybe one incident a week for a few months while the Talent intensifies. I wonder why her shifting abilities are emerging so fast. How she’s kept it from her aunt.

“Have you told Grace?”

“No. She’d drag me to the doctor, which she really can’t afford. And now I’m developing a side of crazy. Nice, huh?” She lets out a harsh laugh and starts walking again.

I fall in step beside her, processing everything I know. I probably shouldn’t keep pushing her, but she’s talking to me again and I can’t pass up the chance. “Look, something’s going on between you and Sela, so if you still want to talk to your dad’s friend, you’ll have to either find another ride or call him.”

“I already told you I want to talk to him in person.”

“Yeah, but you could always do a . . .” I trail off, trying to remember what the tech was called in this time. “A video chat.”

Alora huffs in annoyance. “Yeah, I could, but I don’t
want
to. It’s not the same as looking someone in the eye. I’ll get more out of Mr. Miller if we meet face to face.”

I think for a moment. “Okay. But you’re going to have to borrow Grace’s truck unless you have any other ideas.”

“She won’t let me. She’s freaky possessive of that truck,” she says as fat drops of rain begin to fall. “Oh, great,” she mutters.

“What? It’s just water,” I say, smiling. “You won’t melt.”

“Well, you stay out here if you want. I’m not waiting for it to get worse.”

She breaks into a run, and I follow. We barely make it two blocks before it starts to pour. By the time we reach the inn, we’re soaked and shivering. Alora cracks the front door and calls for Grace.

A minute later, Grace steps out on the porch and hands us two fluffy towels. “Good heavens, you better hurry up and dry yourselves off or you’re gonna catch a cold.”

I smother a smile. That’s such an archaic statement.

Once we’re no longer dripping water, Grace shoos us inside. She orders us to change clothes then meet her in the kitchen. I don’t argue. Grace always has something fresh from the oven in the afternoons. No way I’m going to turn it down. I’ll never get this kind of treatment again once I return to my century.

Grace has three cups of hot cocoa and thick slices of homemade bread sitting on the small kitchen table. I wrap my fingers around a warm mug and take a sip.

Grace sits across from me. “How did you two get caught in the rain?”

“I was on my way back here and happened to pass by Alora’s school as the bell rang. I thought she’d want to walk today instead of riding the bus.” At least that’s not a lie. I’ve never ridden in one of those autos before, but I imagine it’s similar to riding in one of the Academy’s shuttles—crowded, loud, and smelling like someone’s armpit.

“Uh huh. And did you find any more information about your father?”

“Not exactly.”

“What’s that mean?”

Damn, she’s not going to leave me alone. Possible answers I can feed Grace flit through my mind. I’m saved when Alora walks into the kitchen.

“What are you talking about?” she asks

“I was asking Bridger a few questions,” Grace says, keeping her eyes on me.

Alora sits between us and attacks her bread. I stare at her, fascinated, as she practically inhales the first piece and slices another.

“Didn’t you eat lunch?” Grace asks.

“No,” Alora says, her gaze locked on her plate. “I had to study.”

“Don’t lie to me. Did you skip lunch just to avoid Sela?”

“No, I really did need to study.”

Grace’s eyes harden as she looks between us. “Really? So why do I have the feeling y’all are keeping something from me?”

Alora stays silent. I picture the prick who insulted Alora and my fists tighten under the table. What is she hiding from us?

A loud rapping wrecks the moment. Grace’s head whips toward the front of the house. “I wonder who that is.”

Alora and I stay at the table while she goes to check.

Alora pushes her plate away and says, “There goes my appetite.”

“Is she always like that?”

Alora sighs. “Always. I love her to death, but she is so overprotective sometimes. It’s never really bothered me before, but now I feel so . . . smothered.”

I know exactly what she means.

Grace’s voice floats from the front of the house, sounding irritated. “What the hell does she want?”

Alora’s brows shoot up and she quickly stands.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, following her out of the kitchen.

“Aunt Grace only cusses when Celeste is here.”

I start to ask who Celeste is, but now we’re standing just outside the foyer, where a gorgeous woman with dark hair has started screaming at Grace. Grace says something back to her, but then the woman notices us.

My stance tightens as she shoulders past Grace, pointing her finger at Alora. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but you better stay away from my son. I won’t have a white trash tramp ruining him!”

Alora stumbles back as if the woman’s words physically hurt her. My hands curl to fists. I’m sick of people treating her like scum today.

Grace steps between Alora and the woman. “Celeste, you can’t just barge in here flinging wild accusations.”

Celeste pinches the bridge of her nose and loudly exhales through her mouth. “If you’d answer your damn phone, then I wouldn’t have to barge in here.”

“I’ve been busy,” Grace says.

“I’m sure you have,” Celeste huffs.

Grace’s nostrils flare. “Bridger and Alora, will you please give us some privacy?”

Gladly. Wishing I could do more to shelter Alora from this crazy woman, I entwine my fingers with hers. Then we retreat to the kitchen. When we’re in there, Alora pulls free from me.

I don’t say anything at first. We listen as Grace and Celeste talk in hushed, urgent tones. Finally I ask, “What did that woman mean? Who is her son?”

Alora lets out a shaky breath. “That’s Trevor’s mother.”

Crossing my arms, I ask, “Why would she accuse you of going after him?”

“I don’t know,” she says, her eyes filling with tears. “Maybe because he’s been spreading rumors about me at school.”

By the time Alora is finished filling me in on what Trevor’s been telling everybody, I would gladly make sure he’ll never be able to procreate. White hot anger washes over me. It’s all I can do to keep from marching back in the foyer, but I know it’ll be for nothing. Celeste is obviously one of those idiotic parents who can’t see the truth about their children.

So I do the only thing I can do. I cross the short distance to Alora and wrap my arms around her. She instantly melts against me. Her shoulders shake as she cries against my chest.

A heavy, familiar knot forms in my chest. I need a dose of Calmer. But I can’t leave Alora like this. Instead, I focus on holding her and how her body fits perfectly against mine. How she smells of lavender and rain. The heaviness in my chest begins to lessen.

I don’t know how long we stand like that—maybe seconds, maybe minutes—but I don’t care. A part of me knows I’m so drawn to her because she looks so much like Vika. But Vika is dead. And technically Alora is dead too. She’s a ghost. But I’m with her right now and she’s hurting and I want to make it stop.

If I could just tell her the truth about her abilities. That might help some.

But I can’t. I just can’t.

Alora severs our connection when the front door slams and mumbles an apology.

Moments later, Grace storms in the kitchen. “I can’t believe what that woman just told me.”

“What did she say?” Alora asks.

Grace sinks on the closest chair. She shares how Celeste learned from her beautician what’s been going around the school. The beautician’s daughter told her what Trevor had been saying. And of course, Celeste’s twisted mind put the blame on Alora.

Grace looks like she’s aged a decade by the time she finishes, graphic details and all. “Please tell me none of it is true.”

“It’s not. I’d never do anything like that.”

“I didn’t think so,” Grace says with a weak smile. “But sometimes the truth doesn’t matter in this town. It’s what everyone
thinks
is the truth that matters. That’s probably why Sela isn’t speaking to you, isn’t it?”

That’s interesting. Grace doesn’t know what the fight was about, either. I wish Alora would tell us, but she just looks down at her lap.

Grace makes a
tsk
-ing sound. “I may not get out much, but I’ve heard Sela’s mom has been brownnosing with all those big shots in town.” Grace snorts. “I never thought Sela would act like her. I guess I was wrong. I’m so sorry you’ve had to put up with all this, sweetie. It’s not fair.”

Alora tears up again, and Grace gathers her into a hug. “If there’s anything you need, just tell me. I know you relied on Sela for a lot of things, but I’ll do my best to help you out.”

Alora’s eyes were closed, but when she hears the part about needing anything, they pop open. I know what she’s thinking.

Should she ask Grace to borrow the truck now or wait and risk losing this moment?

Alora’s brows rise as if she wants me to tell her what to do.

I don’t hesitate.

Ask her for the truck
, I mouth to her.

25

ALORA

APRIL 20, 2013

“I
feel sick,” I say as I take the exit leading to the Starbucks where I’ll finally meet John Miller. My hands are sweating, so I rub them one at a time on my jeans.

“I’d suggest you pull over, but I don’t think that’s a good idea under the circumstances,” Bridger says, peering out the passenger window. He’s right. The Saturday morning traffic in Covington is worse than I thought it would be. Plus, I’m not used to driving in heavy traffic period. In fact, I’m not even supposed to be here.

Aunt Grace thinks I’m taking Bridger to Athens to track down a lead on his father. It was the first thing I could think of when I asked her to borrow the truck and, thankfully, it worked. She agreed under the conditions that we get back by three o’clock and check in with her every hour. So far she’s called twice.

By the time I find the coffee shop and park, my hands are shaking. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Bridger places a warm hand on my shoulder. I nearly jump as an electric surge shoots through my body.

“It’s just your nerves. As soon as you talk to Mr. Miller, you’ll be fine.”

“But what if I’m not? What if I make a complete ass of myself?”

“You’ve got to quit worrying. This is what you wanted. Now you’ve either got to go in there and talk to Mr. Miller or go back home and stay clueless. The choice is yours.”

As Bridger holds my gaze, waiting for me to decide, it hits me that I’m at one of those crossroads you always hear people talking about. Take one path and your life goes one way, take another path and your life will be totally different. I’m almost tempted to stay in the truck and keep living my life as it is now. It’s safe and comfortable, like a soft blanket. Or it was until I started having those blackouts.

Squaring my shoulders, I open the door. “Let’s do this.”

We go inside and immediately I spot Mr. Miller. He told me he’d be the guy with glasses and an Atlanta Braves cap. He’s sitting at a booth, checking something on his phone.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Bridger asks.

“No, I need to do this alone.”

Bridger offers a small smile. “Okay. I’ll be over there if you need me,” he says, nodding at an empty booth close enough to Mr. Miller that I will be able to see him, yet far enough away to allow privacy. “Do you want something to drink?”

“No,” I say as my stomach flips again. “It probably wouldn’t stay down.”

A part of me wishes I could go with Bridger as he leaves to place an order. But I can’t chicken out. I force myself to go over to Mr. Miller’s booth.

“Hello,” I squeak. Nice . . . I sound like a five-year-old.

Mr. Miller glances up from his phone. He smiles, but then it slides into a look of confusion. “You’re Alora?”

“Um, yeah.” Wow, I sound so brilliant.

He stands, towering over me, and extends his hand. “I’m John Miller.”

I shake it and slide into the seat opposite him. My tongue feels heavy and thick. I try to lick my lips, wishing I’d told Bridger to bring me a frappé. I glance longingly at the front of the store, where he’s still standing in line.