Seven Weeks to Forever, page 7
If I’m lucky, I’ll figure out how to deal with this before my uncle or aunt talks to me again. It’s exactly what I don’t need to be worrying about right now.
Chapter Seven
When five days pass with no word from Riley, I’m pretty sure something is up with him, or maybe with his phone. The text messages I sent all went through, though, and are even marked as read. His voicemail picked up the one time I tried calling. That leaves me with one conclusion: it’s him. Okay, it’s what he thinks about me. If I had to guess, I’d say my birthday dinner was a date and I blew it big time. That’s exactly what I’d want to happen under normal circumstances, but this is about as far from normal as anything gets. It’s his fault for not making it a pity dinner.
This leaves me with a huge problem. If Riley is avoiding me, then I can’t help him. If I can’t help him, then both of us are in big trouble. And it’s not like I can show up at his doorstep and insist we hang out. For one thing, that’s pretty much like stalking him. For another, I don’t even know where he lives.
Any brilliant advice, Noah? I think. The only sound I hear is clothes dropping onto the floor as I rummage through one of my still-unpacked suitcases, looking for my running shoes. Yeah, I should have known.
I toss a shirt out of the suitcase. There’s one shoe, anyway. I start to reach for it but stop when the doorbell rings.
That’s weird. No one in L.A. but Riley knows where I live, so it’s either him ringing my doorbell, or it’s some door-to-door solicitor. I’m pretty sure solicitors don’t canvass houses in the Hollywood Hills, though. With so many of the houses behind locked gates, I can’t see how it would be worth their time. I leave the running shoe where it is and get up to go see who’s at the front door.
The doorbell rings seven more times in the few seconds it takes me to get there. “All right, already,” I say out loud, rounding the corner into the foyer. Then I stop mid-step.
My aunt is standing on my doorstep, and I can see her scowling face through the pane of glass beside the door. It’s too late to run back to my bedroom and pretend nobody’s home, mainly because she’s peering through the window and staring straight at me. She looks far from happy. I’d rather walk barefoot on burning coals than deal with an unhappy Aunt Sarah, but I’ve already been spotted.
I curse under my breath and square my shoulders. Then I take another two steps and reach for the door handle, knowing full well I’m letting a human hurricane into my house.
“Took you long enough,” she snaps when I open the door. As usual, not a single auburn hair on her head is out of place. I can’t spot even the slightest wrinkle in the fabric of her tailored pantsuit. Her blue eyes are icy cold, which is no different from the last time I looked into them before I left Boston. It’s possible they’re icier than Selena’s were when I saw her at the yoga studio, and that’s hard to beat.
My aunt pushes past me, stepping inside the house. It’s then that I see her two large suitcases on the doorstep. That’s definitely not a good sign. The last thing I need is my aunt setting up camp in my house.
“Wh—what are you doing here?” I ask, looking at her and then back to the suitcases. I think I saw a horror movie start this way once.
“I flew out this morning,” she says, waving her hand to dismiss my question as though flying across the country and showing up unannounced at my house in L.A. is the most normal thing in the world. “Could you make yourself useful and get my suitcases before you shut that door?”
I hear her. I don’t make a move for her suitcases, though, or shut the door.
“Why are you here? Aren’t you missing your ladies’ lunch or something?” She never misses that lunch. It’s how she catches up on the neighborhood gossip.
“I’m here to take you home,” she says, sounding surprised. “What did you think was going to happen after you pulled that stunt with Harvard?” She gives a little huff when she realizes I’m not moving, and walks past me again to retrieve her suitcases from outside.
Of course. This is my punishment. Reminding her that I’m now eighteen years old and legally out from under her thumb is likely to have the same effect as yelling in a wind tunnel.
“I am home,” I remind her, although I’m sure these are all wasted words. “This is my house, if you’ve forgotten. It officially became mine on my birthday.”
She rolls one of her suitcases into the foyer. “No, dear. You’re going home to Boston, where you’re starting college in a few weeks. You’re not staying out here.”
“The hell I’m not.”
“Watch your language, young lady.” The second suitcase rolls past me and she stops, letting go of the handle and putting her hands on her hips. “No niece of mine is going to waste her life as a college dropout, boozing and partying it up in Hollywood. I’m not letting you rot your brain until you’re just some junkie, squandering the money your parents left you.”
I stare at her. “What movie did you get that from? I don’t drink, I don’t party, and I’m sure not a junkie. And by the way, you can’t drop out of college if you haven’t even started yet.” Yeah, that last point probably won’t fly. It’s true, though.
“Oh, you’re starting. I’m not about to let you wreck your future just because you feel like it.”
The woman is hopeless. I count backwards from ten before answering her.
“I’m not going with you, so you can turn around now and go right back to Boston. I’ll call Uncle Mike and tell him when your flight gets in.”
A tight smile appears on my aunt’s face. “It’s a nice thought, but you have to come with me. I’ve already spoken to the dean of admissions and assured him it was all a misunderstanding. That took a lot of work, but I got you back in for the fall semester. I suggest you wipe that look off your face and go pack your bags.”
Same Aunt Sarah. It always has to be her way. Not this time, though. I can’t go anywhere until my job is done, and the only place I’m going then is The Life-After.
“I’m not going back to Boston,” I repeat. “And I’m not talking about this any more.”
“Fine,” she says, walking past me and down the hall into the living room. I follow her. Sudden acceptance without a full-blown tantrum definitely doesn’t sound like my aunt when she isn’t getting her way.
“Fine?” I echo.
“Mmm-hmm.” She sits down on the sofa.
“So you’re going home, then?” I ask.
“No,” she answers, a smile still fixed on her face. “This just shows me you can’t be trusted to make decisions for yourself. Eighteen or not, you clearly still need adult supervision, so I think I’ll stay for a while. It’s for your own good.”
No, this isn’t a horror movie. This is the very definition of hell.
“I need a nap,” I mumble, turning away from my aunt and heading back to the hallway.
“Don’t worry, I’ll still be here when you get up,” she calls after me. “Maybe we can work on your hosting manners then.”
Wonderful. It’s hard enough trying to help Riley when he’s stopped answering his phone and I have no idea how to find him and no clue what it is I’m supposed to do if I somehow manage to see him again. Now I have to deal with an overbearing chaperone who makes Noah look like a pushover with the personality of pure sunshine.
I fling myself face-first onto my bed once I get to my bedroom, burying my head in the pillows. I stay there, not moving, until I doze off.
When I wake up an hour later, the strains of classical music coming from the living room remind me that my aunt’s arrival wasn’t just a bad dream. Spotting the running shoe I left in my suitcase earlier, I carefully get up from my bed, trying not to make a sound. After digging through the rest of the clothes in the suitcase, I locate the matching shoe. With a shoe in each hand, I tiptoe down the hall in the opposite direction from the living room. I put on my shoes once I’m safely out on the veranda, looking up every few seconds to make sure my aunt isn’t watching me from one of the windows. I need to get out of here for a while.
It’s already half past seven when I jog through the gates of Runyon Canyon Park. Weaving in and out of the families and couples walking down to the base of the canyon, I concentrate on the crunch of the dirt trail beneath my feet. It doesn’t matter that it’s warm enough outside for sweat to drip from my hairline in seconds, or that almost everyone else here is smart enough to be walking instead of running on the trail. If I can focus on putting one foot in front of the other and just breathing, then I can put the last few days out of my mind. Forget about how I’m going to help Riley, and forget about my aunt. Just jog, and just breathe.
I round a curve in the trail, and a pile of flowers and unlit candles sitting at the bottom of a nearby slope catches my eye. A middle-aged woman kneels in front of it, and I watch her place a card beside a candle in a glass jar. I can see tears on her cheeks when she stands up. The energy around her and around the candles, flowers, and her card tells me this is a memorial site for somebody.
I know that people mourn and grieve what they see as loss of life not only because of someone’s physical absence, but also because they have no way of knowing what comes next, or if there’s anything at all. They don’t know that grief happens mostly because they can no longer feel the energy of someone who’s passed away. When two people are very close, whether they’re family, friends, or two people in love, their energy connects. When someone can’t feel the energy of their loved one anymore they feel loss, but think it’s because they’ll never see that person again. They don’t know how much the energy connection has to do with it, and don’t understand it until they get to The Life-After and are aware of the other person’s energy again.
I wish I could tell the grieving woman what I know and make her believe that none of this life here is what she thinks it is. I can’t, though. That’s the hardest part of being a second-timer. So I do what little I can, jogging past her and connecting my energy to hers in the hopes it will boost her a bit and help her feel a moment or two of peace. I bring my energy back closer to me when she disappears from view.
I stop for a drink of water when I reach the canyon’s first plateau. The view of the city from here is spectacular. I remember a long ago summer afternoon when I sat at the end of the plateau with David, the rush of my legs dangling off the edge mixing with the high of watching the sunset with the person I loved. There’s a tree here somewhere that David carved our initials in, D.B. + A.M. If it’s still here, it’s the only marker left of our time together. There are a lot of trees here, though, and it’s been a long time.
“Nice view,” a voice says. I turn my head to see some guy who looks like he’s in his forties leering at me. Yeah, this is almost what I need tonight.
All I can do is ignore him, so I shrug and take a step in the other direction. I keep walking until I reach a steep incline with built-in stairs made of railway ties leading up to the next plateau. As I do, I bump into someone else. This someone is much younger than the guy behind me, and he looks uncomfortable. That’s probably because he’s been ignoring my text messages since he left me standing in my driveway on my birthday.
“Hi.” The one word is all I can think to say to Riley. If this was anyone else, I’d probably just keep going. There’s no rule about ignoring the person you’re supposed to be helping, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a great idea.
“Hey.” Riley wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, shifting his eyes away from me. He shuffles from one foot to the other, and I wonder if he knows he’s doing it. Probably not.
“Out for a run?” I ask. Like that’s not obvious or anything.
“Just clearing my head. I come here to do that.” He kicks at a pebble on the ground. I watch it fall down the side of the canyon.
“It’s a good place for it.” The leering guy walks past us, shooting Riley a disgusted look. I ignore him. “So, I, uh—” I stop for a moment, wondering when I got so bad at this. When I was Anna, I would have known exactly what to say or I would have improvised something on the spot. That’s just how I was, then. I take a deep breath, trying to channel anything of her that might still be left in me, and try again. “I sent you a couple of texts after my birthday. Did you get them?”
I watch his energy carefully. There’s definitely some guilt there, and I can see him draw his energy closer around him like full-body armor. Not so fast.
I expand my energy out to meet his, but his energy is being stubborn tonight. It takes some effort to force my energy through, but I keep going until I feel the tingle and pull of our energy connecting.
I watch Riley relax as our energy meets. The set of his jaw softens.
“Yeah, I did,” he says, blinking a few times. “I meant to answer those, and I’m glad I ran into you. We should do something again soon.”
Energy is a funny thing, sometimes. A minute ago, I know he would have bolted if given the chance. Now that we’re connected, though, and he isn’t able to put up a shield, I think he means what he says and the words seem to be coming from a different place. Fear is what makes someone put up an energy shield, I know. I just can’t put my finger on what he could possibly be afraid of.
“We should,” I agree. I take a step toward the stairs, knowing he’ll follow from the pull of my energy on his.
“Have you ever been here before?” he asks, walking beside me.
“No, but I’ve been meaning to come here since I got to L.A. I’ve just been busy getting settled in, and it’s been so warm.” It’s not really a lie, since I haven’t been here in this particular body.
“It’s amazing, right?” He takes a step up and steadies himself, then reaches his arm out to me. I grab hold of his hand and let him help me up to where he is. His fingers send electrical currents through mine.
“Amazing,” I say. We’re high enough now to see pools in the backyards of mansions below us. “Do you come here a lot?”
“Every week. On a clear day like today, you can see even see way out to where I live.”
“Where’s that?”
“Santa Monica.” He points out toward the coastline. I can just barely make out where the ocean meets the shore. “Have you been out there yet?”
“No, but I’d like to see it soon.” In truth, I spent a lot of time in Santa Monica when I was Anna. I just haven’t seen it since.
“It’s great. You should come and see it sometime.”
“I’d like to do that,” I tell him. The tingling is stronger now, and I know that’s a good sign.
We keep climbing up the path until we reach the next plateau. Riley takes a drink of water from his water bottle while I stand for a moment, trying to catch a breeze from any direction. The air is still, though. Looking out over the city, I watch the last glimmer of sunlight twinkling above the ocean.
I raise my sunglasses off of my eyes and let them perch on top of my head. Riley comes to stand beside me and we say nothing, watching the painted streaks of daylight fade to twilight.
When we turn around to head to the road that leads back to the bottom of the canyon, I spot the tree David carved our initials in. Even from far away I can see the letters on the trunk, but that’s not what makes me stop walking. There’s a white feather below the tree, so large and bright it almost lights itself up against the growing darkness.
“Is something wrong?” Riley asks, trying to follow my line of sight to see what I’m looking at. His eyes pass right over the feather.
I shake my head. “No, I’m just a little more out of breath than I thought. I guess I should hike more.”
We walk past the tree and I leave the feather where it is. I let Riley do most of the talking as we make our way down the winding road to the bottom of the canyon.
Chapter Eight
Countdown to The Life-After: five weeks.
“Where are you going?” my aunt yells from the kitchen. So much for trying to sneak out.
“To see a friend. Please feel free to go back to Boston while I’m out.” I don’t know if she can hear me, and I don’t care either way.
The house has been a war zone for the last few days, and these are the first words we’ve spoken to one another in over twenty-four hours. The silence started after an airport limo showed up in the driveway yesterday morning, the driver claiming to have instructions to take me to LAX. Even the pleading phone call I made to my uncle to talk some sense into Aunt Sarah fell on deaf ears, but I guess I shouldn’t have expected anything different. We’re a Harvard family, after all — that’s where my uncle and aunt met. No one in our family tree dares to put college off for a year, and the only one to defy the Harvard tradition was my mother. She went to Stanford, which made her the black sheep of the family. Ivory towers can be a little strange.
My aunt appears in the foyer just as I’m turning the handle of the front door.
“Who is this friend?” she demands. “Not some boy you haven’t introduced me to, I hope.” Here we go.
“A vagrant who lives out on Skid Row,” I answer.
“It is a boy, isn’t it?” she narrows her eyes. “That’s what’s behind this dropping-out-of-Harvard nonsense.”
I ignore her, pulling open the door. She presses her hand against it, trying to push it shut. I yank harder, forcing her to move her hand away. I win.
“Have a good day,” I mumble, stepping out onto the front porch.
“A little respect would be nice, you know,” she calls after me. Yeah, ditto.
I pretend I don’t hear her and keep walking to my car. She’s still standing there when I back down the driveway, and I can tell she’s furious. I give her a wave before zooming away down the street.
It takes about half an hour to drive to Santa Monica. I follow the instructions of my GPS turn-for-turn, but I’m sure it must be wrong when I pull up outside of the address Riley gave me for his apartment. Either that, or he gave me the address for his parents’ recording studio by mistake. It sure looks like a studio, complete with two skinny guys with black spiky hair standing outside. Both of them are wearing black T-shirts and jeans. They could definitely be musicians working on a record. This can’t be Riley’s place.
