Part 17 (1/2)

He waves when he sees me. The moon casts its light over him-over the sharp angles of his face and his dark gray eyes.

Without saying a word, I stuff the photos into a bag along with the note and the shredded fabric, pull up the screen, and climb outside.

35.

Ben suggests that we sit on my front steps, but after everything that's happened tonight, I really just want to get away.

”Are you sure?” he asks.

I nod, and he studies me for just a second, as though trying to decide. But then he hands me his helmet and tells me to hold on tight.

I wrap my arms around his waist, and we take off down the road. The buzz of his motor awakens my senses, makes me feel more in the moment than ever. I must have driven down this street a million times, but I never noticed the explosion of color-how the neon lights from store signs and buildings illuminate the pavement in bright strips of red, gold, and blue.

We reach a stoplight and Ben glances back at me. Later, he turns and gives me a slight smile. Meanwhile, I have no idea where he's taking me. I just know that the cool, salty breeze tangling the ends of my hair is beyond intoxicating.

I rest my head against his back and breathe in his sugary scent, trying to calm my nerves-to tell myself that this is okay, that we're outside, where people can see us, and that my cell phone is charged and in my bag if I need it.

Still, I've never done anything like this before. I've never just taken off out my window, not telling my parents where I was going, or acted on pure instinct, without a set plan in place.

About fifteen minutes later, Ben pulls up in front of Jet Lag, a twenty-four-hour diner famous for serving breakfast at night and dinner in the morning. He extends his hand to help me off his bike, but then pulls away, as if the mere touch of my skin were too intense.

”Sorry,” he says.

I nod, full of questions, but before I can ask even one, he takes a step back and then turns to open the restaurant door for me.

The place is beyond dead-only one solitary couple in a far corner. We take the opposite corner and slide the menus out from between the salt and pepper shakers.

A waitress comes shortly after and plunks a couple of mugs down on the laminated table. ”Coffee?” she asks, the pot held high.

We nod, and she fills up the mugs, muttering how we look like we could use it.

I end up ordering a plate full of cinnamon French toast even though I'm anything but hungry.

”And for you?” the waitress asks Ben.

”The same,” he says, forgoing the menu completely, since it's obvious we both want to be left alone.

”You felt something just now, didn't you?” I ask, as soon as she steps away.

Ben pours sugar into his mug and stirs. ”I always feel something with you.”

”So, what was it? Why did you pull away?”

”First, you answer my question,” he says, looking right at me. There's a trace of sweat on his brow. ”What happened tonight?”

My mouth drops open in surprise. ”What makes you think something happened?”

”Tell me,” he insists.

I wonder how he knows, whether my eagerness to bolt gave me away, or maybe it was something else.

”Can you tell me me?” I ask. ”I mean, if you can really sense stuff the way you say you can.”

”Are you testing me?”

”Maybe.”

Ben reaches across the table and glides his hand over mine. He encircles my fingers and takes a full breath, sending tingles straight down my back. ”Did somebody give you something?” he asks finally.

”Something . . . like what?”

”I can see broken gla.s.s,” he whispers, squeezing my hand harder, ”and a scribble of red-like writing. Did you get a letter or a message?”

I feel my lips tremble; I'm wondering if I should tell him, but I'm suspicious just the same. I mean, if he were the one doing all this, he'd know exactly what happened tonight, and what the message said.

”You have to trust me,” he says, as though reading my mind.

A second later, he closes his eyes and grips my hand even harder-so hard I have to pull away.

”Are you okay?” he asks, his eyes wide, like he has surprised even himself.

Before I can answer, the waitress comes to deliver our plates-thick wedges of French toast with pitchers full of syrup on the side.

”I'm sorry,” he continues, referring to my hand. ”Sometimes it's hard to control myself.”

I nod, thinking about Julie-and how he supposedly couldn't control himself with her, either.

”What can I say to make you trust me?” he asks.

I cut a piece of my French toast, considering the question and what it would take to trust anyone right now. ”Touch me again,” I say, meeting his eyes, ”and tell me something other than what's going on right now- something from my past, maybe. Are you able to do that?”

He nods and searches the restaurant, maybe to see if anyone is listening in. Meanwhile, I reach across the table, my palm open and waiting.

Ben takes it and closes his eyes, breathing in and out as if this takes his full concentration-as if he's trying his hardest not to hurt me again. His palm is warm against my skin. I close my eyes, too, wondering what he feels.

And if his heart is beating as fast as mine.

His fingers graze my hand, as though memorizing the lines of my palm and the skin over my bones. It's all I can do just to sit here-not to hurtle over the table and kiss him again. I open my eyes to gaze at his mouth. It quivers slightly, like he's someplace else entirely.

I'm tempted to ask what he sees, but I really don't want to break this moment.

Or have him let go.

His eyes move beneath the lids, as if he can really sense something, making me feel suddenly self-conscious. Maybe it's me who has something to hide.

”I can see you as a little girl,” he whispers finally. ”At least, I think it's you-same wavy blond hair, same dark green eyes. You're wearing a long yellow dress with big purple flowers, and there's tall gra.s.s all around you.”