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“Define weird,” I say. It’s what I always say.
“Daire…” She drags out my name, wanting me to know that kind of reply no longer floats. “Answer the question. You know exactly what I mean.”
“Paloma’s fine. I’m fine. Chay’s fine. Enchantment is … fine.” My fingers curl around the phone as I try not to choke on the lie. “I’ve already told you, I had a first-day freak-out. That’s all. And trust me, you’d be amazed by what Paloma’s been able to do. My wounds are healed and I don’t have one single scar—including the cuts on my arms that I got in Morocco. Oh, and the cast is coming off soon—maybe as early as tomorrow.”
“I need pictures! I need proof! You need to send me lots and lots of pictures. It’s the only way I’m going to believe you’re okay. The only way I’m going—”
I sigh, yank the phone away from my ear, and place it on the curb just beside me. Jennika’s frantic voice screeching, threatening, pleading—a song she’s sung too many times. Leaving me to bury my face in my knees and wait for the chorus to end.
Glancing up in time to see Chay waving to me as he heads back to the truck, the sight prompting me to say, “Jennika, I gotta go. Seriously though, there’s no need to come here, no need to worry. I’m perfectly okay. I’ll send you a photo—a whole slew of photos. I’ll send you so many photos, you’ll be sick of looking at me, okay? But until then, try to chill. Try to believe what I tell you.”
I rise to my feet, brush my hands against the seat of my jeans, and hobble across the lot. Maneuvering around an old, primer-gray Mustang pulling up to the pump, as a boy with beautiful, long, dark hair climbs out of the driver’s side, and an older female draped with the most exquisite turquoise jewelry opens the passenger door.
“Oh—excuse me!” she says, when the door nearly hits me. Her eyes meeting mine, exchanging a look that’s admittedly brief, but still enough to wash me in a cocoon of all-encompassing kindness that holds for a moment before succumbing to a sadness so deep, so insistent, I’m frozen in place even though she’s moved on.
Paloma told me about this. Said this sort of thing—these kinds of impressions—were to be expected. Claims it’s a gift that’ll serve me well in the future—that I should take time to hone it whenever I can. Every time I come across someone new, she says, I should rely less on what I see and hear and more on what I feel deep down inside.
Thing is, other than the trip to the graveyard and today’s outing with Chay, I’ve been recovering in bed. And from what I’m told, any future trips out of the house will be as tightly monitored as those were. Paloma claims it’s too dangerous for me to head out on my own, and Chay seems to agree. Though so far, neither of them has bothered to explain just exactly what that danger might be.
I switch my gaze to the boy at the pump, watching as he leans against the car and keeps a close eye on the meter—grimacing at the way the dollar amount multiplies as the gallons lag far behind. My eyes grazing over his dark glossy hair, his strong shoulders, and well-defined arms that spill out of his black short-sleeved T-shirt, seemingly immune to the weather. His torso long and lean, sexy and sinuous—narrowing into a pair of dark denim jeans that hang low on his hips. The sight of him so mesmerizing, so distracting, I’m forced to shake my head, close my eyes, and start over. Paloma’s words replaying in my head, reminding me it’s not what I see that counts but what I feel.
“A Seeker must learn to see in the dark—relying on what she knows in her heart.”
I close my eyes, keeping my breath steady, even, as I try once again. Instantly overcome by yet another swarm of kindness—much like the older woman before him; only this particular wave is so open, so pure, my knees grow weak in response. And instead of disappearing into sadness like hers, it leads to something else.
Something that—if I didn’t know better—I’d mistake it for love.
The true, unconditional kind of love.
The kind of love I’ve experienced only in dreams—and once, for a brief fleeting moment, right before fleeing the Rabbit Hole.
I should go. Escape while I can. Leave before he catches me staring, gawking—but I’m too stunned to move—too stunned to make sense of all this. And the next thing I know, he’s turned. His icy-blue eyes finding mine—mirroring my image thousands of times.
His gaze deepening, lips parting, as though preparing to speak.
The sheer sight of him causing my limbs to tremble, my body to sway toward his—much like it did in the dream. The two of us drawn to each other—bound by forces unseen. But before he can get to the words, I break free of the spell and make a mad limping dash for Chay’s truck.
Taking a long, greedy swig of the soda Chay offers as he pulls out of the lot—my gaze tracking the dry, barren landscape until it fades into night. Unable to shake the lure of the boy—the weight of those icy-blue eyes meeting mine.
fourteen
Chay pulls up to the gate as Paloma helps a girl my age into the passenger seat of a dust-covered SUV. Folding a long white cane with a red tip, she hands it to her, waves good-bye, and makes for the truck. Her eyes lighting on mine when she leans through the driver’s side window and says, “Nieta, did you enjoy yourself?”
I give a quick nod and hop out. Landing on my good leg, backpack in hand, I hobble toward the house, hoping she won’t ask if I had a good time riding Kachina, since I’m pretty sure I can’t lie with conviction—or at least not to her. She’s far too intuitive—able to sense the truth behind my words well before I can speak them.
“Bueno.” She smiles, watching as I push through the gate. “Go get yourself cleaned up, and I’ll meet you inside. It is almost nightfall—almost time to begin.”
I give her an odd look but do as she says. Heading into the house, down the short hall, and into my room, wondering what the sun’s descent could have to do with my training. Should I have taken her literally when she said all Seekers must learn to see in the dark?
I reach for the clean pair of sweats she left folded at the foot of my bed and carry my dirty sweater and jeans to the hamper, frowning when I take in the seam we had to tear from the ankle to the knee in order to make room for my cast. Despite Paloma’s promise to replace them with a new pair as soon as I’m healed—I seriously doubt I’ll find anything that compares. Those jeans are my favorite, dark and skinny—I practically live in them. Not to mention I got them in Paris, a place I won’t be returning to anytime soon. From what I’ve seen of Enchantment, there?
??s not one decent boutique. Heck, there’s not even a Target or Walmart.
But Paloma doesn’t view clothes the same way I do. For her, they’re less an expression of individuality and more a sensible way to cover the body. Although her clothes are clean and pressed, and well kept, it’s obvious that for her fashion is more of an afterthought, if she even thinks of it at all. From what I’ve seen, her wardrobe consists of a handful of light cotton shift dresses she wears in the house—her feet always bare—and those same dresses paired with a tattered sky-blue cardigan and navy blue espadrilles when she heads out. And yet, as strange as it is, I can’t help but find it refreshing.
Paloma’s indifference is a welcome change compared to the fashion meltdowns I used to witness on movie sets. When emergency meetings were called in order to discuss the pros and cons of some starlet’s hemline, as though the fate of the world, much less the movie, depended upon it. Not to mention Jennika’s penchant for treating my own meager wardrobe as an extension of hers.
It’s like, Jennika got an overload of the girly gene, I got a smidgen, and Paloma got none.
