She’s quick to text back.
Right.
She sees right through me. Did I expect anything less from my best friend of eleven years? I send her the picture of me and Finn, cheek to cheek with the tree in the background, as proof, but also as an apology. I send her another of me and the tree to emphasize the work I’ve been doing.
But all she types back is:
That’s Finn?
Her three fire emojis next to his name make me laugh.
Did you not see the tree?
I ask.
Her reply is quick.
Did you see the guy?
I smother a laugh with my fist. I’m halfway through my response when I hear Summer on the other side of the house. She must have come through the gate. She has to be talking to Rodrick, but they can’t see me yet.
“It’s like taking one step forward and two back. I don’t know how to get through to her, Rod.”
I’m guessing they aren’t talking about Harmony. And sure, maybe I wasn’t overly friendly at the shop, but I wasn’t thrilled they just showed up. It was two days ago, why isn’t she over it?
“Just give her some time.”
“I am—we are,” she corrects herself and I gag a little. They don’t need to give me any time. They don’t need to bother.
They round the corner, but I don’t budge—even though the back door is easily accessible. Marley would say its my Taurus stubbornness that keeps me rooted to my spot, knowing they’ll see me—knowing they’ll know that I’ve heard them.
“Or you could just send her home.” I shrug one shoulder and try not to look as frustrated as I feel. I stretch out my legs and cross my bare ankles.
“Esther,” Rodrick says, his face flushing pink. “When is your next day off?” he asks, ignoring the conversation I just overheard, as well as my suggestion.
I sit up and shield my eyes from the sun to see him better. Why would he want to know that? “Sunday.”
“Great. You’re coming to work with me that day—just to look around.”
I bite my cheek. I want to protest, but I don’t. I jump up and head into the house. Shutting myself in my room, I dial Cytha. Her face pops onto my screen, her dark eyes and thick brows are narrowed to ream me out. But when she sees me, laying on my bed, sorrowful face, she doesn’t.
“What’s wrong, Es?”
“I just wish I could come home.”
“Do you?” Her left brow pitches upward. “You looked pretty happy in that picture.”
I propel myself up and slump into the corner of the wall, still atop my bed and pillows. “That was a good day.” I had loved that day. I hadn’t thought of home once that day. I had enjoyed being with Finn and making the tree. When we were done I felt so alive and accomplished. I hadn’t wanted to go home that day.
“And you still don’t like Finn?”
“We’re friends—sort of.”
“No, I mean like him. You look—”
“Stop,” I say, “We were just excited, and we were trying to fit the tree into the picture.”
She doesn’t look convinced. She doesn’t look anywhere near dropping the subject.
So, I say the only thing I can think of to change her mindset. “I had another dream.”
“What? When?” Her face is so close to the screen, I can see the black specks in her pretty brown eyes.
I pinch my lips together and cringe.
“Essie?”
“Four days ago.”
“Four days?”
“Yes, Cytha. Four days. It’s been four stupid dream filled nights.”
She licks her lips and shuffles her phone. Suddenly, I can see her entire body—she’s propped the phone against something and grabbed a notebook. “Go ahead.”
“Are you writing this down?” I ask, peering at my screen.
“One of us has to keep track of your supernatural incidents.”
“It’s not supernatural. And it’s not an incident. It’s just a dream.”
“A dream that comes true.”
“I’m not exactly Cinderella,” I say, which sends Cytha into a laughing fit. I wait while she brushes away her tittering tears and quiets down. Then, I tell her—about the sky, the cool air, the feeling of rebellion and giddiness, how I’m outdoors, but sit in a ring of walls that somehow don’t connect.
“Huh, well, that’s different.” She pulls her legs in and wraps her arms around them, her notepad fallen to the side. “Do you know where that—uh,” her hand circles at the screen, “place is?”
“Free standing walls that don’t connect? No, Cyth, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t exist.”
“And you always wake up before you see who is with you?”
“Every time.” I roll my neck. Just talking about it—knowing it’ll wake me up tonight—makes me tired.
Three more nights of the walls and the grass and the night sky. Each night it becomes more real to me—just like The Reading Mother did. I knew her details after a month of dreaming about her. This dream is no different—I notice the vertical direction of the 2X4’s crafted together and the cement circle that each wall is set in. The grass beneath me is soft and cool and pokes at the back of my legs. And the person beside me breathes in rhythm with my own breaths.
“Esther,” Finn stands in front of me, but it takes a second before I see him. I’m lost in thought. “The guy from the newspaper is here.”
My jaw sets. “Crap.” I smooth out my button up top and wish for a split second I’d let Summer take me shopping.
His lips tip in a crooked grin. “You look good.” He steps toward me and reaches out one hand. His finger is a whisper of a touch on my skin. “Eyelash,” he says, holding his pointer finger up.
He isn’t helping my nerves.
But the interview is short. I was able to fumble through a brief explanation of my love for art and how Finn and I went about building the tree. Then, they speak with Marley and Danny.
I grapple with the collar of my shirt, pulling it up and down until the material wafts and I’m fanning myself.
“So,” Finn says, “are you still in trouble?”
“Trouble?” I drop my hand to my side.
He tilts his head. “I’ve invited you to Dominic’s every night, but you never show up. Should I get James to invite you?” That almost sounded—jealous.
“No, I just,” I shrug, “I’m not into smelling like campfire every night.”
He smirks, but doesn’t press it. “So, how’s Cytha?”
I mindlessly touch my hand to my back pocket. I can hear her voice in my head, telling me to ask Finn about the walls. “Hey, Finn, have you ever seen,” I stretch out my hands, “uh—something like a circle—of walls—on um, grass.”
“Ah—no.” His brows furrow and I can’t blame him—he asked about my friend and I started talking nonsense. “What does that even mean?”
“Forget it.” Please, please forget it.