Hourglass (Hourglass #1)

Hourglass (Hourglass #1) Page 10

“Um … what was that?” I asked, my voice wispy air again as I watched the water from the vase soak into the white tablecloth.

“It’s kind of complicated.”

So it really happened. “Did we cause it?”

He nodded, his face poker straight.

“Have you ever experienced that before?”

“Not exactly.”

The waitress arrived to take our orders. The interruption did nothing to resolve the tension. I just wanted her to go away so I could touch him again. Instead, I held my menu up in front of my flaming face, willing my body back to normalcy. Michael ordered the special, and without even looking to see what it was, I did the same.

“I’ll have that right out,” the waitress said, taking our menus. She eyed the sconces above the table, her hot pink lips pursed. “And I’ll bring y’all a candle … it’s dark over here, isn’t it?”

Neither of us answered, and she walked away. I felt exposed without my menu to hide behind.

“Are we going to talk about what just happened?” I asked.

“Would you believe me if I told you it’s better to leave it alone for now?”

“Is there another option?”

“Probably not.” He lifted the corners of his mouth in a smile, but his eyes didn’t get the memo. “Maybe you could go ahead and ask me your other questions.”

“How about ‘what the hell was that?’”

His expression practically hung out a shingle announcing the topic was off-limits.

“Fine.” I tried to catch one of the thoughts racing through my mind so I’d have something to say. I couldn’t, so I retrieved my list and laid it on the table in front of me. “How do you tell the difference between real people and time ripples?”

“You mean besides punching them in the stomach?”

I blushed, not because I’d hit him, but because I was thinking about his abs. “Besides that.”

“There’s the way they disappear into solid objects.” He tapped his lips. “Also, I … um … I’ve been seeing rips for so long now I have a way of sensing them.”

I could see how that would be helpful.

“How do you make them go away?” I asked, referring to my list again. “I mean, not forever, but when you see them—if they’re in your path?”

“I try to ignore them. Since I recognize what they are now, they’re easier to avoid, but if I need them gone for some reason, I touch them. Not that there’s really anything to touch. How about you?”

I nodded, unable to stop myself from staring at his fingers. Unable to stop thinking about how badly I wanted him to touch me again.

Dinner arrived, saving me from my own mind. I tucked my list back into my purse. Once I smelled the food I regained my appetite; it was some kind of glazed salmon and grilled asparagus. Michael took a few bites before pushing his plate to the side. Propping his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together church and steeple style, he said, “Dealing with the ripples will get easier. Hasn’t it already? Since you first started seeing them?”

Easier? “I guess.”

“How did it start for you?”

I hedged a little, chasing a wayward asparagus stalk with my fork. “How much do you know about me?”

“Thomas told me part of your story—you started seeing things just before your parents died. His renovation sites seem to trigger it.”

“Anything else?”

Michael took a deep drink of iced tea before speaking, appearing to choose his words carefully. “He mentioned that you had a pretty rough road.”

I stared at my plate, too self-conscious to look at him. “Did he tell you I was hospitalized for a while?”

“He did. But he didn’t tell me why. I asked him to leave it up to you.” His voice was quiet, comforting.

“It was for depression. Mostly.” Keeping my eyes down, I picked up what was left of my dinner roll and began to tear it into small pieces. “I started seeing rips. Not too long after that, my mom and dad … died. I kind of went over the edge. It wasn’t pretty. I was committed and medicated. Heavily medicated. Everything went away. Not just what I could see—the rips—but my personality, my desires, all of it. I was like a shell.”

Less than a shell.

“It was good for a while, being empty. I didn’t hurt anymore. But as time went on, it was like I could hear myself from far away, begging for permission to come back.” I tore the small pieces of dinner roll into smaller pieces. “Once I was released from the hospital and away at school, I found a counselor, Alicia. It helped to be able to talk to someone, tell her everything.”

Almost everything, anyway.

“I stopped taking the meds last Christmas.” I couldn’t believe I was telling him so much, but the words kept spilling out. Something about his eyes and the way he seemed to look right into me without judgment made me talk. “Thomas and Dru don’t know. I don’t want them to worry about me, and they will if they know I’ve gone ‘all natural.’”

“Unless you’re trying to make a pile of bread crumbs to find your way home, you should probably give that roll a break.” Michael’s voice barely hid his concern. My heart stumbled a little, but the tenderness in his voice kept me from falling.

I dropped the remains of the bread, crossed my arms over my chest, and continued. “As the chemicals left my system, I started seeing things again. It only happened a couple of times last semester. I saw a rip at my friend Lily’s place earlier this summer. Then yesterday I saw a Southern belle in a hoopskirt and a guy in my living room, and then last night, there was the …”

“Jazz trio, yeah.” He twisted the silver ring on his thumb. “Are you glad you aren’t taking the medication anymore?”

“I hated it. I never felt like I was in control, although crazy people don’t generally get to claim self-control as a personality trait.”

“Stop.” Michael’s voice wasn’t loud, but the word was a command. “You are not crazy. What you see is real, Emerson. It’s valid; you’re valid. What you went through was horrible—losing your parents.”

Losing my mind.

“All I’m saying is … please don’t be so hard on yourself.” He reached as if he were going to touch my hand but pulled back. “Cut yourself some slack.”

His words sent a wave of relief through me. Not just what he said, but the way he said it, as if he wouldn’t accept any other alternative. Some of the anxiety broke loose and flowed away, and the release was sweet. Tears filled my eyes.

“Oh, damn. I’m not a crier, I swear. I never cry. I hate to cry.” I wiped my eyes on my napkin before any of the tears fell. He flagged down the waitress and asked for the bill, giving me some time to regain my composure.

“It’s on the house,” she said brightly, her eyes flicking briefly to me before giving Michael a tentative smile.

“Thanks.” He smiled back. When she walked away, he dropped a twenty on the table.

Nice tipper. Always a good character trait.

After a few seconds I looked up at him. “Thank you.” He nodded. I knew he understood I wasn’t thanking him for dinner.