Everneath. Part 16

She turned toward me. "I'm not asking you to do that. You've already been doing that, and it's like he's chasing a ghost." She looked down at her hands. "I don't really know what I'm asking." She lifted her head. "If you could just talk to him and give him some sort of answer, maybe he'll stop running."

I looked at her helplessly. "Jules, I don't know what to say."

"Do you know what he wants?" Jules pleaded. "He's not being straight with me. I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was important." The edge of her mouth pulled up in a rueful smile. "His car was wrecked, and I'm not sure how many more concussions he can get before brain damage sets in. I believe you that you don't want to hurt anyone, but you're hurting him. Can you think of anything that would help?"

I thought back to the fragments of conversations we'd had. What did Jack want?

Tell me you remember, Becks, he'd said.

"I'll try to think of something," I said. What I wanted to say was Does Jack know you love him?

I couldn't help thinking Jules was a hundred times better for Jack than I was. And I couldn't help hoping Jack would never realize it.

The next day, Jack didn't speak to me again in Mrs. Stone's cla.s.s, probably because I'd ditched him one too many times. I thought about Jules's request. I ruled out talking directly to Jack; I wasn't exactly a model of composure when we were face-to-face.

He wanted to know if I remembered. So at lunchtime I took a small piece of paper out of my notebook and wrote two words on it.

I remember.

I slipped the piece of paper into his locker before I could think about it for too long. But during history cla.s.s, all I was doing was thinking about it. I pictured him reading the note, and my fingertips started to sweat. I tried to get a better look at his face in my imagination. Was he smiling?

By calculus, I was second-guessing myself. Would he think this was just another confusing message? Would he be even more frustrated?

By the end of school, I still hadn't seen Jack. Why did I ever think two little words would make things better? So stupid. I walked past his locker on the off chance my note was sticking out of one of the slots and I could yank it away.

But it wasn't.

The note was small. Only two words on it. Maybe he wouldn't find it, and if he did, maybe he wouldn't know who wrote it. There could be other girls out there who would write those words on a paper. And shove it in his locker.

By the end of school, I'd had no word from Jack. No sign that he'd read anything. He kept a messy locker, and I started to believe the note was lost, and maybe that was a good thing. I breathed a sigh of relief as I put away the last of my books and took my backpack out. When I slammed the door, I gasped.

Jack was behind it, waiting, with the corner of his lip pulled up in not quite a smile. "What?" he demanded.

"What what?" I asked.

He held my note up in front of my face. "What do you remember?"

Everything. But I couldn't tell him that. I shrugged and said, "Things." Then I made a move to leave, but Jack's strong arm blocked my way, his hand pressing against the locker behind my back.

"No you don't. You can't leave a note like this"-he waved the paper-"and then say 'things.' I want to know what, exactly, you remember."

People in the hallway stared and I could feel my face going red. Jack noticed, and put his other arm up against the lockers, blocking me in. My pulse went nuts. It had to be visible on my wrists.

Jack's face was inches from mine. His breath was minty, and I could smell the rustic scent of his aftershave, and whatever strong emotion he was feeling, it tasted sweet. I breathed it in, and the inhalation was embarra.s.singly loud.

His eyes searched mine. "This is the first opening you've given me, and I'm not letting you get out of it." He paused. "What do you remember?"

I looked behind him, at the curious spectators, and squinted my eyes shut, unable to bear the scrutiny anymore.

"Say something, Becks. Say anything."

"You," I said. "I remember you." I kept my eyes shut, and felt his hands drop. He didn't move back.

"What do you remember about me?" There was strong emotion behind his voice. Something he fought to control.

With my eyes closed, I could easily picture the other side of the century.

"I remember the way your hand could cover my entire shoulder. The way your lower lip stuck out when you were working out a problem in your head. And how you flick your ring finger with your thumb when you get impatient."

I opened my eyes, and the words no longer got stuck in my throat on their way out. They flowed. "And when something surprises you and you don't know what to say, you get a tiny wrinkle in between your eyebrows." I reached up to touch the divot, then hesitated and lowered my hand. "It showed on the day the coach told you you'd made first-string quarterback. And it's showing now."

For a moment the s.p.a.ce between us held no tension, no questions, no accusations.

Finally he leaned back, a stunned expression on his face. "Where do we go from here?"

"Nowhere, really," I whispered. "It doesn't change anything."

Eyebrows still drawn together, he said, "We'll see." Then he turned and left.

I tucked this moment away.

In the dark, dank world of the Tunnels, I would call upon this memory. And there would be a flicker of candlelight. If only for a moment.

I closed my eyes, as if my eyelids were the levers of a printing press, etching the fibers into my mind. Memories were outside Cole's reach. As long as I held them, memories were mine and mine alone.

SIXTEEN.

NOW.

Home. Two and a half months left.

Time was doing strange things to me. Sometimes a week felt like a day, and sometimes a minute felt like an eternity. It was like a clock that was running out of power, winding down except when it received an occasional jolt, and a week was suddenly gone.

Telling Jack the truth-that I did remember him-seemed to adjust things between us. Softened some of the tension. I could see it in the occasional glances he sent my way during cla.s.s. And when I caught him staring now, there was no hostility in his gaze.

We had reached an equilibrium. A way to exist living in each other's world again.

I thought about my other efforts. I wasn't making any headway with Mary, since she'd missed the last couple of Sat.u.r.days at the soup kitchen. But things were getting better with my dad.

After school one day, he asked me to run the latest design change for his campaign flyers into town to give to Mr. Macy at the printing shop. His office had the latest technology, but when it came to my dad's campaign, it was strictly old-fas.h.i.+oned. He believed a handshake was the best social-networking tool, and a computer couldn't convince someone of the sincerity of a smile.

I grabbed the folder with the designs. As I opened the front door, my dad called from the kitchen, "The exercise will do you good."

Because exercise and service to others fix all problems. It was a good step, my dad giving me a task. We were approaching normal.

I made the trek into town and delivered the instructions to Mr. Macy, and when I came out of his shop I could hear music coming from somewhere near the center of town. I started wandering toward the sound. The song was soft enough that even though it sounded familiar, I couldn't quite place it.

I kept checking down side streets, looking for the source, so I wasn't paying attention when I turned the corner at the pharmacy and ran headfirst into someone's chest.

Jack's chest.

Several boxes he was carrying-all but one-fell to the ground. He froze, holding tightly to the last box.

"Oh," I said. "Sorry."

"Becks." He dropped the remaining box from his hand.

We both started to speak.

"What are-"

"I was-"

Neither of us finished.

Jack regained his composure. "You know, just once I'd like to run into you without actually running into you."

"You're the football player," I said. "Think about what it's doing to me."

I'd noticed a couple of these moments lately-the ones where things seemed so normal between us, if only for an instant.

"Are you working?" I asked.

"Yeah. Same job as always."

I panicked. I couldn't remember where he worked, and that moment of being normal was gone. His job wasn't one of the memories that had kept me alive, so technically it'd been a hundred years since I'd thought about it.

He bent down to pick up the packages. Each one had a name and address written on it.

"Delivery," I said with a start, suddenly remembering. "Of packages."

Of course, anyone with two eyes could've guessed that. He stood and gave me an amused look. "Yeah. I wish I shared your enthusiasm for it." He handed me the top two boxes. "Walk with me, Becks."

We strolled down the sidewalk. The air had a wintery bite to it, even though it'd been a record warm November. Winter came early in our town. Even the hottest summer days always held the threat of a rainstorm.

We pa.s.sed a few tourist shops, Indian beads and jewelry places mostly, until we reached a window displaying turquoise artifacts.

"Wait here," Jack said, and he took two of the packages inside.

Now that I was still, I could hear faint music again coming from somewhere. It wasn't uncommon to find two or three street musicians near Main Street on any given night, playing for change. A breeze picked up, carrying the music with it, making the melody swell louder in my ears.

The door to the shop opened, and Jack came out just as I recognized with a sinking feeling the song that was playing.

Jack heard it too. "The Dead Elvises are in town again," he said. "They've been giving impromptu street concerts most nights."

Cole and his band, performing in town. Feeding on the audience, as they had done for centuries. They'd evolved from lyres and harps to sitars and lutes to guitars and ba.s.ses. They played concerts until their lack of aging became obvious. Then they would disappear for a while, switch genres and locations, maybe even learn new instruments and start again. Starting over for them wasn't that big of a deal when they could manipulate the emotions of the people they played for.

I could feel Jack's gaze on my face, waiting for my reaction. Cole was somewhere nearby, with his band, but I made sure my face showed nothing. Holding the next box up, I said, "Where to next?"

Jack smiled. "This way. The Rusty Boot."

We had just finished delivering the last of the packages and had pa.s.sed Mulligan's Saloon when a man called Jack's name from behind us. We turned around. Carson Smith, a bartender in the saloon, was waving us toward him. Jack looked at me and sighed, as if he knew what Carson wanted and he didn't like it.

"Sorry, Jack," Carson said, and he held the door to the bar open for us. "It's Will."

We paused at the door. "Will, your brother?" I asked. Last I knew, Jack's brother was serving in the war. I couldn't remember if it was Iraq or Afghanistan.

"Yeah. He's back. Wait here. Or if you need to go..."

"I'll wait."

Jack nodded and followed Carson into the bar. A few minutes later, the bar door flung back open, and Jack stumbled through, half carrying his brother. The last time I saw Will, he looked like a slightly shorter, slightly older version of Jack. But when he lifted his head, I barely knew him. He'd lost some weight, and a sheen of sweat covered his face; little tear droplets pooled in the corners of puffy eyes. His drinking had obviously only gotten worse.

"The other guy started it!" Will said to a couple of tourists walking by. They gave him a wide margin.

I rushed to Will's other side and put his arm around my shoulders.

"Thanks," Jack said. "My car's back at the store. If we can just make it there."

Will noticed me for the first time. "Hey. A girl." He studied my face for a moment, and then he gasped and stopped walking. "Nikki Beckett. You'd better get out of here before my brother sees you. He'd freak."

"And, we're walking," Jack said, heaving Will forward.

"Oh, hey, Jack. Didn't see you there." Will smiled again, undisturbed. His eyes glazed over and he seemed to have forgotten all about me.

Jack looked at me around the slumping head of his brother. "Will was wounded. And discharged."

Will swung his head around to face me. "They expected me to wear pants!" He sprayed the last word across my face, and I gagged at his foul breath. "Like, all the time... It was so hot." He stared at me again. "Hey, you look familiar. Hey, Jack, 'member that girl-?"

"Yes," Jack interrupted.

"You know, the one who totally messed you up-"

"Yes," Jack cut him off again. His eyes met mine, and he gave me an apologetic grin. I felt my own lips turning up.

Will pulled up short. "Uh-oh." He made a gurgled sound and Jack yanked him toward some bushes just in time for Will to empty the contents of his stomach.

I stepped aside as Jack patted Will's back. "It's okay, Will. It's okay."

Will straightened up, wobbled a bit, and then sank directly to the ground, barely missing the tainted bush. "I gotta rest."