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Chapter 9

  “So have you seen him again? Your mysterious, um, guy?” No pretense, no greeting, no small talk. Elizabeth just jumps right in. “Briefly,” I reply, and the words are out of my mouth before I remember it was in my aunt and uncle’s yard again. Will she tell Reese and Jay? Will she force me to call the police? She should. At least I think she should. My mind is still a frazzle of delight and confusion about Benson. About Quinn. Little details like when and where don’t seem to register.   “In public?”   I nod instantly, hoping she doesn’t sense the lie, the betrayal. “So, then,” Elizabeth begins, and she’s speaking slowly, like she’s trying to decide what to say next—giving herself those extra few seconds to make up her mind, “what is it exactly that’s attracting you to him? I mean, I’m assuming I can conclude that you’re attracted,” she says with a shade of a laugh, tapping her pen absently against her notepad.   I force myself to leave Benson behind—to focus on Quinn. Just for a few minutes. “I—I don’t know exactly. He . . . ” I pause, but then the feelings tumble from my lips before I even know what I’m saying. “He makes me feel like a whole new person. I know that doesn’t really make sense, but that’s how it is. He makes me happy that I . . . exist. At all. ” I sound so lame. But even though I recognize that, the emotions pile up further—the ache inside me that I don’t realize is even there until he makes it go away, the way he seems to detach me from the ground, freeing me so I can fly.   I gulp. Where is this all coming from? I’ve only exchanged a handful of words with him and literally just made out with Benson yesterday.   It’s almost like I’m two people—one who can’t stop thinking of Benson . . . one who can’t stop thinking of Quinn. I’m quiet for a long time—minutes, I think—as Elizabeth looks at me intently, twirling her pen. Am I in love with them both? Or am I just exhibiting symptoms of that “socially inappropriate behavior” my neurologists are always going on about?   “Tavia,” Elizabeth says after a while, setting her legal pad and ballpoint pen on the brown coffee table in front of me, “I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me. From the facts you’ve shared, I feel like I should be concerned for your safety. But you don’t seem to share that concern. Is there something you’d like to tell me about this guy?”   “He’s kind of different,” I say, stalling for time.   “Is he good-looking?” Elizabeth asks with one eyebrow raised and a girlish lilt to her voice. I can’t help but smile, and maybe blush a little, as I think of his silky blond hair, his pale green eyes.   That perfect physique.   Now I’m getting warm.   I describe him to Elizabeth in general terms: tall, blond, kinda tan. But those parts don’t add up to him. He’s more. Infinitely more. My fingers trace the edges of the table, pulling the pen and legal pad closer. “He has this look to his eyes,” I say, and I barely watch my own fingers as they shape the planes of his face—those dramatic angles that are so unique to Quinn.   I’m halfway done with the rough sketch before I realize I’m drawing.   I’m drawing.   My hands begin to tremble so hard I can’t put the pen back on the paper without making wavy lines. I came here thinking about Benson and now I’m drawing Quinn. Drawing, for the first time since the accident, and—   I slam the pen down on the table.   “Tavia. ” Elizabeth’s voice is so quiet my ears barely hear her, but my mind latches onto her words like a lifeline, holding tight to stave off the panic that’s threatening to crush me. “It’s okay. It’s just a sketch. A tool to let me know what you saw. ”   I look up at her, awareness dawning in my eyes. She put down her legal pad. Close enough that I could instinctively reach for it. To make me draw without thinking. “You did that on purpose. ”   Her lips hold a ghost of a smile. Her tone is casual—as if we were discussing the decor. “Maybe. Tavia, it’s just a tool. Would you like to finish?”   Her quiet question calms me. I look back at the rough sketch and do as she asks, though my lines aren’t as true as before. I don’t draw much more, but enough that Elizabeth could probably pick him out of a crowd—or a lineup.   Enough that I know I can do it.   “This is amazing, really,” Elizabeth says when I put the pen down. “You have a real gift. ”   I shrug.   “He must be someone very special, to break through your artist’s block like that,” she adds in a soft voice. “What’s his name?”   “Quinn. Quinn Avery. ” It’s the first time I’ve said his full name aloud and it echoes in my head, setting off a mass of tingles in my brain, like static electricity trying to escape.   Elizabeth nods. “So you’ve spoken to him. That’s reassuring. ”   “There’s . . . there’s actually something else,” I say, suddenly desperate to not talk about Quinn anymore. Part of me wants to change the subject to Benson—to get Elizabeth’s advice about him. But how would that look? Not going there.   “I think . . . I think I’m seeing things,” I force myself to say before the terror can seal my throat.   Elizabeth leans forward. “What kind of things?”   I meet her eyes. “Triangles. ”   Her head tilts ever so slightly to the side, but she doesn’t break eye contact. “Triangles?”   “On his house,” I add, trying not to sound completely insane. I don’t want her to tell me that triangles are everywhere. These triangles are different. “There was a triangle over the door of the house where I first saw Quinn. ”   “Have you seen that triangle again?”   “On another house. Down on Fifth Street—in the old section of town. I like to take walks there. I didn’t notice it at the time, but I found it later in a picture I took. ”   “Can you show me?”   I nod and pull out my phone. When I reach the right photo, I zoom in on the white wood above the door and point. “There,” I whisper.   Elizabeth looks, squints, looks again. She doesn’t say anything, but I can tell she doesn’t see it. My hearts slides into my stomach and I want to crumple into the couch.   After zooming in and out a couple times, Elizabeth hands the phone back. “Why didn’t you want to tell me before?”   “I was afraid,” I admit in a whisper.   “Afraid of what?”   “That you would say I was crazy. Or worse, that I needed to go back to the neurologist. ” There’s a long hush, then I rush on. “After everything that’s happened, you would think that would be the least of my worries. But when it feels like nothing else in my body works, at least I’m still sane and if—if you take that away . . . ” I can’t finish. There are no words for the darkness that losing my mind represents.   The darkness that feels like it’s looming, waiting to devour me.   “I don’t think you’re crazy,” Elizabeth says gently, but with a firmness that tell me she’s telling the truth. Or, at the very least, that she thinksshe’s telling the truth. “You’ve made so much progress lately that I’ve actually been expecting you to start experiencing some . . . some changes. ”   “What do you mean, changes?” Like my pockets of infinite ChapStick? Should I tell her about that too?   But even as I think it, I know I can’t. Seeing things? Well, that can be explained. Hallucinations are an ordinary side effect of traumatic brain injury. Magic pockets are not.   “I want to continue to explore some of these things. Quinn, the triangles,” she says, not really answering my question. “And Tavia, you might have more strange things happen. Unexplainable things. And that’s okay. Just know that you can trust me and that I’ll do my best to get your life back on track. That’s what I’m here for. ”   I nod, but I don’t mean it. It’s not that I don’t trust her; it’s just that this is too big, too impossible. Maybe after I figure it out—when I can explain myself before she has me committed.   Or arrested.   What do you do with people who can magically pull lip balm from their pockets?   “Do you think maybe you’ll draw anything else before our next appointment?” Elizabeth asks, sounding light and casual; but we both know we’re walking on thin ice with my artist’s block and if she pushes too hard, it’ll break. I’ll break.   “Maybe,” I mumble, not willing to commit to more than that.   “Well, do you mind if I keep this picture until our next session?” Elizabeth asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.   She holds up the drawing and a zing of jealous possession rushes through me. I suppress the urge to snatch the drawing back, take a breath, and remind myself that if I managed to draw one, I can draw another.
Or ten. Or a hundred.   Besides, it’s only a couple of days.   So then why does my heart ache like it’s gone forever? Like he’s gone forever?