A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3) by Charles Sheehan-Miles
But if he knows where she is, I want to talk to him.
I go back to Alex’s page. Then I freeze.
Her status is two words: I do.
That’s followed by a barrage of comments from friends, the first one from a Carrie Thompson. That must be one of her sisters. Carrie wrote, You do? To who? When? Why wasn’t I invited?
I click on to Carrie’s page. Her profile picture is a shock. Beautiful woman, kneeling as a mountain lion licks her face. That’s one ballsy chick. Who does that? She’s beautiful, but not like Alex. Alex is like the sun, Carrie a pale (very pale) shadow beside her.
I sigh. It’s 3:30, and I’m still not sleepy. Figures. I’ll crash right about when it’s time to get up. I look up a couple more people who might know Spot. I don’t want to reestablish contact with any of these people. They represent a life that isn’t mine anymore, a life I don’t need or want to have any part of.
I sigh and close my eyes. Funny, I never even thought to look online for her. Until Alex suggested it, I’d never been on Facebook, I didn’t see the point. Same with MySpace. Bunch of people taking selfies and making weird faces at themselves in mirrors. But once I’d gotten on here, and people I knew from school started popping up—now I was obsessed. Because somebody must know what happened to her.
Enough. It’s time for bed. I log out of Facebook, step away from the computer, and quietly slip back to the bed.
Sleepy? (Alex)
It’s six forty-five in the morning in Ramat Gan as I stumble behind Elle along the sidewalk toward the tour bus. At six forty-five here, it’s … what… eight-forty five at night in California? I think so. I’ve lost track. I’ve lost track of where I am and what day it is, partly because on top of the jet-lag, which is finally hitting me, I was up late.
Really late.
No sooner had we gotten to the street last night when Elle jumped up and down and squealed. Understand—Elle is from New York and normally talks in a sort of sultry, Sophia Loren voice. To be honest, I think she practices it when she’s alone, because it certainly doesn’t sound natural. But the squeal? That is natural. And grating.
“He asked me out!” she shouted.
“He?” I knew that Dylan had given John a pep-talk about asking out Elle, so I knew the answer to my own question. I asked because Elle annoyed me. She was so self-centered, I could probably have made out with Dylan right in front of everybody and she wouldn’t have noticed. So we walked back to Hadar’s house (Hadar trailing behind us, as if she were the guest and not the other way around), with Elle talking a thousand words a minute about John Modesta. He’s so cute and so smart and so masculine. She didn’t say that he was gruff, opinionated, and sometimes uncivil—also characteristics of his. Though to be fair, John and Dylan seemed to be getting to be pretty good friends.
Whatever. What did happen was that Elle talked about John to the exclusion of anything (or anybody) else until nearly two in the morning. By the end of it, Hadar and I both had glassy eyes and I was almost regretting leaving Ariel AKA hormone-boy’s house. His carnal advances were actually easier to fend off than Elle’s voice.
Eventually, though, Hadar noted, “I saw you and Dylan talking a long talk.”
“A long time,” Elle said. Like I said. Annoying.
“Yeah. ”I found myself biting my lip as I looked at Hadar. “He um… asked me out.”
At that, Hadar squealed, probably the loudest sound I’d ever heard from her.
My point is, it was three in the morning before I finally got to sleep. Then up again not quite three hours later. I’m bleary-eyed as I stumble toward the tour bus, a long, monster-sized bus with a large cargo area underneath. I join the line of students loading their stuff, and throw my bag in.
The bus driver, a youngish Israeli man in an olive-green t-shirt, his face looking as if he shaved it no more than once a week, poked at the cargo area, repositioning bags. Once mine was in place, I turn away and come face to face with Dylan.
He gives me a crooked smile. “Morning,” he says. He’s tired—I can tell, because his southern accent, often barely detectable, is now pretty thick.
“Good morning to you,” I say. I feel heat on my cheeks. He leans in and tosses his bag into the cargo area under the bus, then slips his hand around my forearm.
“Sit with me?” he asks.
I open my mouth to say something, but I literally can’t. No one is this confident. He must be faking it. Or he’s drunk. Or—I don’t know. But the touch of his fingertips along the inside of my arm sends a flare of lightning right up my nerve pathways. So I just follow him. He stops next to one of the pairs of seats. Typical tour bus fare, much like we’ve seen already on this trip—comfortable, multicolored seats of fabric with thick padding and comfortable arms. This bus has electric plugs at each row, which isn’t all that common.
“After you,” he says.
I feel a shiver run straight up my back. I slip into the window seat, and he slides in beside me.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” he says, his voice still sounded more slurred than usual. “I didn’t sleep well last night, I’m pretty out of it.”
“I didn’t either,” I say. “Elle had me up talking half the night.”
“Oh yeah?” he says, raising one eyebrow. “What about?”
“Like I’d tell you,” I say. My words are a little harsh, but my tone isn’t. I elaborate: “Girl talk.”
His eyes move to the sidewalk outside the bus. John and Elle are standing together. He has an arm casually wrapped around her, one hand almost touching her butt. Dylan says, “I’m guessing it had something to do with John boy there.”
I sigh and roll my eyes. He just chuckles. A few minutes later, Mrs. Simpson stands at the front of the bus and counts off the group, just in case we left someone behind. Everyone’s aboard. None of the Israeli host students are along for this trip, which I’ll admit is a bit of a relief. I like Hadar, but the group as a whole can be very overwhelming. As Mrs. Simpson finishes checking everyone, the bus driver says something to her—I don’t quite catch the words—and then he puts the bus in gear and we pull out into traffic. The bus heads toward Bar Illon University—only a few blocks from the high school—then south on Highway 4. It’s slow going getting out of the city—commuter traffic in and out of Tel Aviv is extremely heavy.
“Tell me something,” Dylan says. Something comes out almost like sum-thin.
I lean against the window and look at him. His eyes are a little red—he’s genuinely exhausted. In this state, his lips naturally curl up just a little, a sort of crooked smile that is far sexier than is healthy.
Shiver. I feel a wave of lightweight emotion. I just want to reach out and touch him.
Tentatively… very tentatively… I do. I let my hand slide toward his, just barely. I don’t actually take his hand. I just let mine rest next to his, our skin just touching.
He takes my hand in his. I close my eyes and breathe deeply.
“Tell you what?” I ask. The words feel unnatural, because it feels like 95 percent of my attention is fixated on our hands, fingers casually intertwined. As if we did this every day. As if it wasn’t earth shattering on some level.
He shrugs. “Something. What is your life like?”
I feel lightheaded as I speak. “It’s pretty normal, I guess. I go to school. Piano lessons. Study. I’ve got friends.”
“Do you have a best friend?”
I nod. “Renee. My dad retired and we moved back to San Francisco when I was starting middle school. Everybody knew everyone else—except me. I was the strange kid who had lived in China and Russia but hardly ever in America. Renee was the other new girl. The first day of school no one talked to me or her, so we ended up next to each other by default.”
“Where is she from?”
“Renee’s from Alaska.”
Surprise registers on his face. “Really? How did she end up in San Francisco?”
I’m still trying to keep my attention on hi
He tilts his head. “Like, from home?”
I nod. “I love my sisters… and my parents and all… but they’re not like other people.”
“How so?”
I shrug. “I don’t know how to explain it. Dad’s—remote. He stays wrapped up in his work. He’s always worried, always thinking about important things. People’s lives depend on him, you know?”
“What about your mom?”
I don’t want to answer that question. I give Dylan a somewhat bitter smile and just shake my head. He looks puzzled, so I say in a very quiet voice, “My mom’s kind of unstable.”
He nods and squeezes my hand—not hard, just reassuring. “I get it. My mom—she’s pretty squared away now, but back in the day she was one sandwich short of a picnic. Always liquored up. Dad too. Maybe not the same kind of crazy as yours, but crazy.”
I take a deep breath and squeeze his hand back. Then I find myself, in horror, yawning.
“Sleepy?” he asks, his smile quirking up.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Me too. Why don’t you lay on my shoulder?”
Oh. My. God.
Yes, he just said that. I think he even meant it. I do, pulling my legs up close so I can turn in my seat and rest my head on his shoulder. He slumps down a little and leans his head against mine.
Will I even be able to sleep like this? I’m so aware of his skin against mine. He has a little stubble on his chin, and I can just make out the slight tobacco smell in his hair—not stinky, because it’s very faint.
His breathing slows, and mine does . I can’t shut off my stupid brain. It circles and circles. We’re only together for a few weeks. Then it’s back to our normal lives. And the thought of going home, of saying goodbye, already scares me.
I slowly drift off to sleep. And find myself dreaming.
Dylan is in San Francisco, the two of us walking along Golden Gate Park. It’s a fanciful day, the sky blue, flowers blooming in a riot of colors. A confusing crowd of people surrounds us—crowds in China, a paper dragon, a group of frowning, dour diplomats lined up in a row. But Dylan is smiling and laughing.
In the way of dreams, however, we don’t stay there. Instead, we’re standing in front of my parents, who stare at me and Dylan in disapproval. Dad is talking, and his words are harsh, but I don’t understand him. But it’s clear enough what he means. Because Dylan lets go of my hand and turns away. Dad folds his arms across his chest, a self-satisfied look on his face. Mom turns her back on him.
I jerk awake, my heart pounding.
Oh, God, that was awful.
I’m still leaning on Dylan’s shoulder, his head against mine. Our hands aren’t touching. He’s breathing deeply—far gone in slumber. I shift positions a little and close my eyes again.
I reach out and put my hand on his.
Chapter Eight
That was awkward (Dylan)
Drama.
It started in the late afternoon, not long before we arrived at the Ein Gedi Guest House after a long journey. Through the course of the day, we’d visited an air base in Be’ersheva, including the museum there which depicted Israel's many wars with its neighbors. From there, we’d gone to an art gallery after lunch, then gotten on the bus again for the ride here.
Ein Gedi is an oasis not far from the Dead Sea (where we will be going tomorrow) and the Qumran caves, where the Dead Sea scrolls were found. The hostel is almost luxurious, but right now things are tense as John and I get ready to head to dinner.
That’s because, after all of 12 hours of dating, Elle and John broke up.
I don’t know what it was about. All I know is that as Alex and I were huddled together in our seats on the tour bus about an hour into the drive, Elle suddenly appeared at my shoulder.
“Excuse me. Alex, can I talk with you?” Elle’s eyes were filled with tears.
Christ on a crutch, what now?
Of course, Alex went with Elle, leaving me sitting alone. After the long day sitting together, walking together in the museums and at the air base, I felt bereft.
Unfortunately, moment’s later John filled that spot.
“Kids, stay in your seats,” Mrs. Simpson said. “No more moving around.”
Great.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Elle dumped me.”
“You guys haven’t been together long enough for her to dump you.”
“No, really.” He looked distraught.
“Why?” I asked.
“I don’t know!”
And that was about as much as I learned during the final thirty minutes of the drive. I was thanking God when we arrived at the hostel. At least I could get something to eat soon, and grab a cigarette.
It hasn’t gotten any better in the half hour since. John seems despondent, and he has no clue what is going on. I’m no closer to getting a smoke than I was an hour ago. Finally I say, “Hey, I’m going outside before dinner, all right? You can join me if you still want to talk.”
Of course he does. He follows me down the hall, to the stairs, then out front. I want nothing more than to be left alone right now. Well, that’s not true. I want to see Alex right now. But if I can’t do that, then let me have some blessed solitude. That’s been the one downside of this trip—I just don’t get enough time alone.
That doesn’t look like it’s going to change anytime soon. I find my way out of the hostel to a balcony overlooking the valley and the Dead Sea below. It’s a remarkable sight. Just on the other side of the promenade, and stretching all the way to the Dead Sea and the mountains beyond, is a barren brown landscape. In the distance, the mountains of Jordan tower over the Dead Sea, fading into deep reds and purples. The sun will be setting soon.
The oasis, surrounding the guest house, is green. Lush trees and bushes, palm and olive trees, thick grass.
I cup a flame in my hand, lighting my cigarette, then take a deep drag. The smoke going down my throat is calming, and I close my eyes and just soak in the environment. The air is warm, and the smells from the lush plantlife of the oasis are sweet, almost floral.
This would be a good place to meditate.
Well, it would be if I didn’t have John standing beside me.
“I just don’t understand why,” he says.
“Maybe you should ask her.”
“Ask her? What am I supposed to say?”
I sigh. And open my mouth. Then close it, because nothing I would say right now would be constructive. What goes through my head is that Elle is a giant bitch, and she’s probably just playing with him. Normally I’m not this judgmental of people—no, seriously. But in this case, I’m pretty sure I’m right. Yesterday she was all over him like a cheap suit, and now she’s dumped him? She’s playing some kind of game with him, and it isn’t very nice.
“I don’t know, man,” I finally say. “I don’t know Elle that well, but it seems to me, if you guys can’t stay together for more than twelve hours….”
“Don’t say it,” he replies.
I shrug and take a last drag of my smoke. The cigarette, a Palestinian brand called Farid, has a noticeably sweet, pungent smell, nothing like American cigarettes—but also much cheaper. I stamp it out under my foot, then toss the filter in a trash can and head back inside, trusting that John will follow.
He does. A few minutes later we walk into the large dining hall in the hostel. The students from our group take up four large round tables. Each table has plain brightly colored plates in front of each place, and several large dishes in the center. Hummus, meats of various kinds, breads, desserts.
Alex and Elle are sitting at the same table, with two empty spaces beside them, which may prove to be awkward. I don’t consult with John about this—inst
“Hey,” I say.
She immediately brightens, her teeth showing white, and that makes me want to touch her lips. We haven’t kissed.
I don’t know when or if we will.
But I want to.
Then John sits down in the seat next to Elle, who looks decidedly ornery. Neither of them speaks. In fact, none of the others at the table say a word. Instead, they all watch the unfolding drama that is John and Elle.
I’m not getting into that. Instead, I reach forward and pull a half sandwich to my plate along with some pita bread, then take a large helping of hummus. There are several pitchers on the table, including a carafe of what looks like coffee. Score. I pour myself a cup of coffee, mix in too much sugar and milk, and get started eating.
“Baby,” John whispers, as if the rest of the kids at the table weren’t straining their ears trying to listen in.
“Shut up,” Elle responds.
“So,” Megan says. “What did you guys think of the art museum?”
Well, that’s awkward.
Mike adds to the awkwardness by saying, “That place was … something.” It was that. Something. The museum, housed in an Ottoman style former governor’s mansion, was in fact pretty interesting. But right now, no one could remember any of the exhibits.
“Baby,” John pleads.
I swear Elle’s face turns red and her eyes turn up in the corners. “You should tell all of them what you did.”
Mike says, in a conversational tone, “I don’t know that’s really necessary—”
“All right!” John says. He turns toward the rest of us, and says in a whining, too loud tone, “I tried to grab her boob! All right? Is that so bad?”
The entire room goes silent. Including our chaperones, led by Mrs. Simpson, who sits in the corner, her eyes now fixed on John.