The Map to You Read online

  We step through the exit, and I breathe easier.

  “What do you see when you look around this place?” I ask as we walk to the truck. Directly under the rays of the sun, it doesn’t take long for my hair and shirt to dry.

  Her eyes shine as she takes a shallow breath. “Magnificent beasts and talented men and women. Dreams. Wonder. History. Delicious foods. Things every kid should experience, at least once.”

  “You don’t see—” My words trail off when she looks at me, and I realize, no, she doesn’t see any of the imperfections I do. And I like that about her. Even liking one thing about her is too many, and I’m past that, but there you have it.

  “What?” Opal questions.

  “Nothing,” I tell her. I jiggle the keys in my hand, looking at her as we reach the truck. “I had fun.”

  She runs fingers through her chaotic hair. “I did too. We’ll have to do it again.” Her eyes dance mischievously.

  Unlocking her door, I shake my head. “No. We won’t.”

  Her laughter follows me around to my side of the truck.

  * * *

  Opal

  With a crack of thunder, rain—violent and vengeful—crashes down upon the earth. I’m not surprised; the skies have been darkening and clouding over for a while now. The outside air turned humid to the point where leaving the windows rolled down wasn’t an option. The raindrops are fast and hard, sheets of malleable glass against the windshield. They obscure the road and turn everything around us into murky shapes. Block out the radio. I can smell the scent of cold rain through unseen crevices of the truck, feel the force of the wind as it pushes at the old Ford. Lightning flickers across the black sky in uneven lines of white.

  “I’m going to pull over until it lets up some. There’s a place I know a few miles from here. We can hang out there until the storm passes,” Blake says, squinting at the road with his neck popped out and his shoulders raised. He looks like a sullen turtle.

  “A place you know?” I finish recounting my cash and shove it back in the bag. I have over four hundred dollars. This puts flagging optimism back in line.

  “Yeah.” His eyes flicker to me and back to the road. Blake’s fingers are tight on the steering wheel. “A place I know.”

  “How long until we’re to wherever you’re going in North Dakota?”

  Blake’s destination, and the starting point of my next adventure, with a slight detour in Montana first. Funny, but I’m not as excited about it as I was a day ago. It’s the dreary weather messing with my head, that’s all. No one can be too happy about anything in the middle of a thunderstorm, right? It has nothing to do with guilt leading me onward, or fear pushing at my back. It’s just the weather.

  “Depends on when the weather decides to be nice, and it’s Bismarck.”

  “What’s in Bismarck?”

  I don’t think he’s going to answer. It’s clear he doesn’t want to answer. Tension fills the cab, swirls around us with suffocating discord, and I think about telling him to get out so I don’t have to feel the pressure of his unease anymore—even if it is his truck.

  He takes a deep breath, and another. It looks like it’s hard for Blake to breathe, and even though I don’t know how it’s possible, I swear his skin turns paler.

  “Never m—”

  “My parents,” he bites off, eyes riveted to the road.

  A couple dozen minutes pass before Blake slows down the truck, taking the next right. I focus my attention elsewhere, giving him the silence, if not the space, he needs. I see a rectangular road sign but can’t read it under the shield of rain. Tires collide with gravel and the truck weaves once, straightening out as rocks ping against the underside of the vehicle.

  It appears Blake has a strained relationship with his parents. I guess I’m not really surprised. I am surprised, though, that I’m curious as to why. I scowl at the wet scene beyond the truck, writing my name on the fogged-up window. Patches of clarity among the storm show wire fence lining the gravel road, and rolling hills shadowed with gray. The road is narrow, and in the distance, a large white house stands at the end of it. We’re on a private driveway, I realize.

  “Who owns this place you know?” I ask suspiciously when Blake parks the truck near a white shed bigger than a lot of houses I’ve seen.

  Blake doesn’t answer, grabbing his duffel bag and the grocery bag from the store we made a quick stop at after the circus, from the seat. He looks at me with his hand posed on the door handle.

  It’s another minute before he says, “You coming?”

  He doesn’t wait for a response, or to see if I’m coming, slamming the door behind him. I watch his tall form make its way to the house, and after a brief pause, up the steps to the wraparound porch. I rub a circle onto the dewy window, pressing my forehead to the cool surface as I watch Blake unlock the door. He doesn’t look back to see if I’m following, the door shutting behind him with finality.

  I slump back against the seat and chew on a thumbnail. Chances are, no harm will come to me if I go inside that house with him. I mean, it isn’t like Blake produced the storm to get me here. And it isn’t like we haven’t already spent the night together. Of course, that was in a semi-public place, and this house is surrounded by countryside.

  He has keys. He knows who lives here. He must know the owners, and trust them well enough. But what if Blake isn’t the only one inside the house? Although unlikely, what if something about me leaked to the news, and whoever is inside recognizes my face? What if—

  A knock on the window propels my body upright and drags a loud and shrill scream from my lungs. I whip my head to the side and glare at a rain-drenched Blake. “Stop doing that!”

  Humor is evident in the tipped up corners of his mouth. “What are you doing?” Blake asks, his voice muffled by rain and window.

  “Meditating,” I mumble as I shrug my arms through the straps of the backpack.

  I meet his gaze through the window and gesture for him to back up. And then I vault from the truck, landing in muddied water that sprays up to coat my legs, and even some of it being brave enough to land on my face. I gasp and shove hair from my eyes. I’m instantly wet, and with panic in my chest, I race for the porch, removing my backpack and flinging it toward the door.

  I face Blake. Rivulets of rain trail down his face, and his black hair is plastered to his scalp. It makes his cheekbones sharper, makes the hardness of his face stand out more. Makes my stomach dip and sway. The shirt he has on might as well not be there, images of his bare chest and back from this morning teasing me. Was it only this morning? It seems like a lifetime ago.

  “Come on, let’s go inside. We’re both soaked,” he says, jerking his chin toward the house.

  With my racing pulse and my tumultuous heartbeat, I shake my head. The rain sounds like a symphony produced by nature, and it’s refreshingly cold. Clothes and body soaked, I enjoy it. When did I last stand in the rain? Just stand and take it in, and not worry about being wet? When was the last time I let freedom rule me instead of a person, or a designated role, or myself?

  “I’ll feed you,” he bribes, and I smile. “You’re going to get struck by lightning.” Blake’s voice is impatient.

  I tip my face back, close my eyes, and let the rain wash over me. “It isn’t lightning right now.”

  “Opal. What are you doing?” He doesn’t sound irritated, but like he’s trying to figure me out, like he genuinely wants to know what I’m thinking and feeling. It’s rare, and new.

  Who cared about me in my former life, really cared about me? A girl named Paisley. I spin around and stare at the scene painted in silver and charcoal. I blink my eyes, sure I see a pond beyond the house and to the right. A copse of trees near it sways with the wind, motioning for me to join them. I tried to do right by her, but in the end, I don’t know that I really helped Paisley. I blink some more, this t
ime fearing there are tears among the raindrops, and I run.

  I throw my arms up, laughing and whooping as I go. The ground is rutted, and it squishes down as my boots meet it. When I get to trees, out of breath and pulsing with exhilaration, I kick off my boots and roll my socks from my feet.

  “How deep is the pond?” I call behind me, knowing Blake is nearby. I feel his essence, a flame of life that burns.

  “Ten feet, manmade, no fish,” he answers quietly.

  I look over my shoulder, surprised by the hint of sadness in his tone. “Where are we, Blake?”

  He looks to the side. Thunder rolls along the sky. The whiteness of his flesh seems to glow in the overcast afternoon. When he meets my gaze, cynicism glows from his dark eyes. “Where do you want to be?”

  I shift my gaze to the darkened house, its exterior blindingly white against the backdrop of a mischievous Mother Nature. “Is anyone else here?”

  “No one but us. Does that worry you?” he says faintly, mockingly.

  “Do I look worried?”

  Before I can change my mind, I tug off my shirt and shimmy out of my pants, leaving them in a sodden pile near my boots. I hear Blake’s intake of air, and clad in only a bra and underwear, I look at the rippling water to keep from looking at him. “Where I want to be is in the pond, in the rain.”

  And that’s where I go, barreling through the icy water and dropping down into its dark depths. Eyes closed, I move my limbs just enough to keep myself submerged, and I let my mind go blank. It’s peaceful. Quiet. Shivers hold me in their embrace, chilling my skin and chattering my teeth. When I can no longer hold my breath, I shoot up, feeling like a mythical mermaid or some other sea creature. Ariel—I wouldn’t mind being Ariel for a day or two. I sputter and laugh as I tread water, the combination an odd sound.

  Wiping water from my eyes, I look toward where I last saw Blake, but he’s gone. A frown tugs at my mouth. Not that I expected him to watch me frolic in the water, but he could have waited to see whether or not I could swim. I spent one summer—my tenth—with Rachel Hathaway, and during it she gave me the option of helping her clean rooms at the motel she co-managed or to go to the pool one block over. Swimming became one of my favorite hobbies.

  A twig cracks, and I turn toward the sound. Blake kneels beside the edge of the pond, his eyes locked on me as he spins a chunk of wood between his fingers. The rain drops onto my skin, warmer than the water I’m surrounded by.

  “Are you…just g-going t-to stand there and—and watch…me?” I question around the shaking of my teeth and body. I push water around with my arms, my legs kicking to keep my neck and head above water.

  “Nah. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to drown.”

  “You do c-care,” I tease.

  “It’s more that I don’t want to have to explain the circumstances of your death to anyone. Telling people you decided to take a swim in the middle of a thunderstorm might sound…plausible. Enjoy your swim.” He straightens and heads toward the house, looking dry and unruffled, though he is almost as wet as me.

  Regardless of the fact that he is far out of reaching distance, I splash water at his retreating form. Thunder starts, low and ominous, gathering volume as it goes. I shiver and look around me, seeing an August afternoon overrun by the elements. It’s funny how we humans think we’re in control, but a look at our weather says otherwise.

  I cock my head at a faint sound, my eyes searching the nearby dark. It sounded like a baby, or a cat. I’m shooting for a cat. My eyes shift over the faint outline of a tree, immediately returning to it as I catch a glow of something. Eyes—yellow eyes. A frown crumples my forehead when my gaze locks with a feline’s, and a hiss fills the air.

  “Nice kitty,” I whisper, even though it doesn’t really sound like a nice kitty.

  With a low growl, an indistinct, dark shape sprints across the grass, disappearing into the black.

  I stare after it for a while, telling myself I wasn’t what spooked the cat, and that it’s most likely harmless. Most likely.

  The wind picks up, rustling limbs and leaves. Knowing I don’t have much time before the weather escalates once more, I swim the length of the pond and back before turning my attention to the house. It is now lit up from within, and lightning spirals overhead as I watch, as if warning me of its intent.

  “Time to go in, Opal,” I mutter to myself.

  I swim until I can touch the bottom, dropping down my legs as I find the ground with my toes. It’s slimy and thick, mud squeezing between my toes as I reach the end of the pond. I pull myself out, slipping in the wet grass as I stand on tired legs. The cool wind attacks my skin, creating paths of goose bumps. I search for my pants and shirt in the gloomy atmosphere, catching a flash of red in the dark.

  The wind turns gusting, pushing and pulling at me as I walk. The rain slants, needling my skin with its ferocity. I’m almost to my clothes when the world rips apart, tossing the garments away like they’re inconsequential. A sound of disbelief leaves me, a little squeak of surprise, and then I take off after them. The shirt and pants separate, one going to the left toward the pond, the other toward a fence. I curse as I take off after the shirt, hoping to catch it before it lands in the pond. The swear word is slammed back at me, unheard in the roaring wind.

  I dive for the shirt as it pauses in its maddening dance and trip over a fallen tree limb. My entire front side, including my face, lands on the soft earth. Mud and water close off my airways, smelling and tasting of worms, muck, and rainwater.

  Getting to my feet, I resignedly make a grab for the shirt, coming away with a black top devoured by filth. I find my pants splayed across the fence, mocking me. Muttering to myself, I rip them off the fence, hearing a tear that makes my face burn. With a limp and an armful of destroyed clothing and sodden boots, I slowly make my way to the house.

  This storm has literally kicked my ass, and I have to laugh. What else is there to do? Mother Nature unapologetically showed me who is boss.

  Blake steps out from the shadows of the porch as I approach, looking caught between amusement and worry. He moves to the edge of the single step that stands between the porch and the grass. The hand holding a towel goes limp, falls to his side. He stares at me for a while, blinks, and then asks in an annoyingly pleasant voice, “What the hell happened to you?”

  “The wind took my clothes.”

  “And did you get the wind back by face planting in the ground?”

  “No. I tripped and fell.” I reach for the towel and he moves it back toward him. My eyes turn hot with annoyance. I’m sure the dirt in them doesn’t help. “What are you doing?”

  A calculating mask falls over his features, adding a dangerous spark to his eyes. “I shouldn’t look down. Right? A nice guy wouldn’t look down.”

  “You’re right.” Thunder vibrates the skies, as if agreeing with me. I’m not entirely turned off by the idea of him perusing my body, and anyway, it isn’t like he can actually see any of my skin. It’s all frosted lumps and bumps of brown goo. “They wouldn’t.”

  With a slow burning smile, he meets my eyes, and then deliberately looks down. “I’m not a nice guy.”

  An evil smirk takes over my mouth, hiding my reaction to his interest—it is positive to him, negative to common sense. I let my clothes and boots drop from my hands. “I’m not a nice girl either.”

  His eyes lift to mine, a frown and a tilt of his head stating an unspoken question.

  And I throw my arms around his waist and pull. Blake stumbles down the step, his arms instinctively locking around me as we careen toward the ground doing a disjointed dance before straightening. I make a mud pie sandwich with our bodies, smearing my hands in his hair and over his face and head as Blake tries to duck away.

  “You look so beautiful, Blake, like a pretty, muddy flower,” I say, vigorously rubbing a hand on the top of his he
ad. My fingers tangle in the black silk made cold and brittle with mud.

  Blake breaks free, his chest rising and lifting as he glares at me. I grin back, my skin feeling like it’s splitting where the mud has dried and turned to dirt. His face is colored in black and brown, making the gray shade of his eyes stand out more. The rain has turned into sprinkles; the wind is calm in the storm of our interaction. Even the thunder is muted, the lightning gone. It is as if Earth is quiet to listen, curious to see how this unfolds.

  “Who are you?” he demands roughly.

  His hair is standing up, tufts of it wild about his head. It makes my heart pound faster. My mouth opens. Before I can say anything—before I can move or utter a word, he’s lunging for me. Blake’s hands are on my face and his silver eyes are glowing down at me with nothing short of animalistic seduction. I don’t think he even has to try to look sexy. It’s just there, naturally. He presses his body to mine, and all I can think is: Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Over and over and over. Any remnant of a chill is gone from my body, scalded from my being with his closeness.

  “What I mean is—who am I about to kiss?” His voice is velvet, soft and wicked, and I feel my nerve endings expand and shrink. Underneath the rain and mud is the scent of him, and it’s pure male intoxication. Like peppered cloves. Sweet and fiery.

  Wait—did he say kiss?

  Kiss.

  My lips try to form words; nothing happens.

  “Piper?” Blake’s mouth inches forward.

  The “Oh, my God” chant has turned into “Oh, shit.” My body is shaking, uncontrollably, wantonly.

  A nuzzle of his nose on the side of my neck. “Rachel?”

  I go to breathe and out comes a whimper of longing. That’s it. No air—just enough noise to announce my undeniable magnetism to him.

  “Jackie?” His eyes lock on mine, telling me all the things he wants to do to me.

  And they’re bad, sinful. Deviant. And I want him to do them all.

  My knees go weak, my fingers digging into his forearms to keep me on my feet.