Fate's Return (Twisted Fate, Book 2)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Shivering beneath my covers, I pulled them up around my shoulders and sat straight in my bed. My eyes checked every corner of my room, searching, hoping. It felt so real, I couldn't understand why he was gone. How? The maroon of my walls paled compared to the fading memory of where I'd just been. I closed my eyes but couldn't recall any details of my dream. Feeling startled, I jerked, overwhelmed by a sudden panic to capture it before it disappeared completely from my mind once again.

I reached through the dark and clicked on my bedside lamp. Shadows burst to life in response to its dull illumination. I leaned over, the blanket falling from my shoulders, and yanked on the drawer of my night table so hard, its contents crashed to the floor. Not seeing anything to help, I stepped over the pile and grabbed the first piece of paper and pen available on my desk to scribble the only memories that remained: light and dark, blue-eyed boy (Gabe, Mike, or Raffy—maybe Brenan?), and prepare.

The rest of the dream faded before I could make note of it, and I knew that if I looked away from the list and back again, the words I'd written would become meaningless. Before I could let that happen, I took out a fresh notebook and wrote 'dreams' at the top of the page, dividing the rest into three categories, one for each notation I had made. From now on, I would keep a pen and paper on my nightstand and hope for another to visit.

"Aly?" My mother called through the door. "Everything okay?"

I pushed my notebook under my pillow and patted its top to ensure it was secure from sight. Pulling the corners of my comforter to my chin, I darted my eyes to the door. "Uh..." I looked down and swallowed. Crap. I pushed off the bed to land on my knees on the floor. "I'm fine, Mom!"

By the time she entered, still bleary-eyed from sleep, the drawer was right-side-up, and I was almost finished replacing its contents. Glancing at my clock, I realized it was only four and I'd slept for an hour and a half. No wonder my eyes felt like sandpaper.

"Sorry, Mom," I said, and pushed the drawer back into its grooves. "Never try opening drawers until you're fully awake."

"Why are you awake?" Rubbing her eyes, she dropped her hand to her mouth to cover a yawn and blinked.

"I had a weird dream." Averting her gaze, I fixed my blankets and then slipped beneath, patting the top at my sides. I sighed and looked up to meet her gaze. "Don't worry, I'm going back to sleep."

"Can you?"

"Yeah, don't worry about me, Mom." I smiled, though she didn't look anywhere near convinced. Once I woke up, I couldn't sleep until it was time to go to bed again—even if that wasn't until the next night. Unless, like last week, I was sick.

She looked to her side and out my window, through the branches of the tree, and to the street in front of our house. "Honey, where's your car?" She looked back and narrowed her eyes.

"Tucker's." I shrugged and began slumping down, resting my head on my pillow, and pulled my blanket to my chin again. Scruffy, following the sounds of our voices, darted into my bedroom and used the stairs at the bottom of my bed to climb up.

We watched together as Scruffy burrowed a spot between my legs and plopped down.

After a moment of silence, I met my mother's gaze as she looked up and took a deep breath. "You know we don't like it when you go running at night."

"It's Hidden Springs, Mom!"

"Just because we live in a small town doesn't mean nothing bad ever happens."

Silence hung between us, her words like livewire in the air. We knew bad things could happen here—they already had—and I almost didn't escape. While I remembered my loss, I knew she was feeling how close she'd come to losing me. In a way, that made it worse. While I was there, and that was hard, at least I hadn't been left feeling like I'd been left in the dark. She hadn't known it was happening while it occurred, but... Not knowing the details was probably driving her crazy with what she could imagine in order to fill in the blanks.

"I know, Mom," I said, and sighed. "I'm sorry. But I didn't go running in the dark."

"Then how—"

"Mike drove me home."

"Why?"

"Because I went for a run while he followed to make sure I was okay." I was getting good at twisting the truth without lying. Really good. My conscious didn't feel the least bit guilty.

"I still don't like it," she said, shifting her weight, "but at least you were careful."

Not really. "See? Go to bed, Mom. I'm fine, I promise."

She gave me one last look-over to make sure I was alright, and then left to go back to the warmth of her own bed, closing my door behind her. I got up and brought the notebook to my bed.

Blue-eyed boy, light and dark, prepare....

Prepare, light and dark, blue-eyed boy.

It was better than counting sheep, and for the first time, I fell back to sleep without having to be sick.

*****

I woke again just before nine and groaned. When I reached for my phone, I found an empty spot where it always sat on my nightstand. Perfect. I closed my eyes and waited for the nausea I'd taught myself to break through to pass, inwardly curious as to why middle of the night wake-ups were exempt. It was getting easier, going from five minutes to three before it was gone.

Sooner or later, there'd come a time when I wouldn't have to fight through it at all.

I jumped out of bed and dressed in my running clothes: gray yoga pants, black tank top with my favourite white sports bra, and white sneakers. I zipped a neon green windbreaker up to my chin and bounced out the door, stretching as I moved.

My body reminded me of how inactive I'd become within two blocks. I pushed harder, knowing that my muscles would be so sore, I'd be crawling on all fours in the morning. But I missed the burn in my legs, the workout of fighting for air as each breath was sucked in like swallowing microscopic needles that were cool to the touch. Running, for me, was living. It had become almost as important as breathing was for survival.

I slammed against the back door of Tucker's twenty minutes later and the only thing that held me upright was my palms splayed flat against the cold steel. It wasn't near my best time from home to work, but it was not bad after having been so sick. No way was I able to run home and back again as I planned, though. Not unless I wanted to make myself sick.

I rang the delivery bell and began stretching, hoping to stave off the soreness tomorrow. Without my keys, I couldn't get inside; without getting inside, I couldn't get my keys. Or water. Or my phone—how many messages had I missed? I hadn't checked it since the start of my shift yesterday afternoon, and I didn't want to think about what Suzie would have had to say when I didn't respond.