Earthbound
Page 66
And Benson is here. Benson, who took a beating for me. Who kept me warm last night.
I force my eyes back to the hint of ruins and imagine what the house looked like from the brief glance I got of the painting at Quinn’s secret hideaway. Yellow, with smooth wooden slates. Two windows on either side of the door.
And curtains. The thought comes unbidden. Red gingham curtains.
The picture that flashes in my head is so vivid that I step back and look up.
At a house.
A real house.
Not exactly real, I remind myself, even as I gasp at the vision that has appeared in front of me. It’s like Quinn—it looks real, but it can’t be.
I’m standing on what would have been the front porch. It spans the entire length of the house and thin white pillars support the roof. Glistening wind chimes sway in a gentle breeze.
Wind chimes.
Just like the ones on the porch at Reese and Jay’s.
I hung them across the front veranda myself. Found them a couple months ago at a flea market downtown. Reese laughed and told me I could hang a dozen if I wanted to.
So I did.
Quinn’s house has wind chimes too.
Now I’m seeing connections where there really aren’t any, I berate myself. Tons of people collect wind chimes.
Of course, I’m seeing a lot of things lately, so perhaps that’s not the best argument.
But when I look to the front door, I can’t hold back a gasp.
A triangle glows gold above the door so brightly it’s hard to look at. Boldly proclaimed for anyone to see, it might as well be spelled out: this is an Earthbound home.
The door beckons me, tempts me, and though a rational part of my mind knows it’s not real, I can’t resist. I walk forward and reach out my hand.
It melts right through the doorknob. Of course I can’t touch it. But …
I set my jaw and walk forward. A tingling sensation crackles over my skin as I walk through the opaque door and find myself inside the house. With my mouth agape, I look around the room, catching sight of the cheery, wood-burning stove in the corner and the soft gray stone mantelpiece over the fireplace.
I allow my eyes to drift to the other corner and startle when I see a woman standing there. Her back is to me and I sense she’s humming, though I don’t hear anything. It seems like all my senses have been muffled except sight.
She’s pulling a quilt over a delicately carved four-poster bed. Once it’s in place, she tosses a pillow into the air, fluffing it in her hands before plopping it down at the head of the bed.
I can’t see her face, but I recognize the thick brown braid from the painting. Rebecca. They must have lived here together.
Again that misplaced, irrational envy washes over me and I gasp. As if hearing me, Rebecca turns.
I stagger backward when I see her face.
She’s me.
Or someone who looks just like me.
That doesn’t make any sense. Not unless my crazy brain is projecting myself into the scene … ?
Her eyes stare into space—her thoughts clearly wandering—and her hands reach up to touch something at her throat.
I see a necklace, and a jolt of possessiveness burns through me. I want to reach out and snatch the shining silver from her fingers. I push my knuckles against my teeth and force myself to remain where I am.
Still silent, Rebecca turns toward the door and her soft brown eyes light up.
I tremble, forcing myself not to turn to the front of the house to see who has walked in.
I know who it is.
Quinn.
A hat flies by me, landing on the bed, and my arm explodes into tingles as I feel him pass, brushing through me. Then he’s in my sight line and my legs shake, then crumple beneath me as every feeling I’ve tried to deny for the last few days floods through, fills me, overflows—too much for my skin to hold inside.
His coat comes next and my fists clench against the floorboards as it slips down his long, lanky arms and joins the discarded hat on the bed.
Quinn reaches for Rebecca and she steps forward, their bodies melding together with a rightness I can’t deny. A cry of dismay builds up in my throat and I grit my teeth shut against it.
I hear Benson behind me, but only vaguely, like an echo from another world. Someone I used to know.
I should turn—I should listen, but my eyes are fixed on the excruciating, sweet pain of seeing Quinn hold someone else. His hand cups her cheek, his thumb traces her jawline. I reach my hand up to my own face, as though I can will those hands to be on me instead of her.
My heart races, then immediately slows, and every breath is an effort as I wonder if agony or ecstasy will kill me first—I’m certain one of them is going to. I can’t bear this much longer.
Just as I realize agony is going to win, I feel as though my soul is ripping from my body and then I’m looking down on myself.
But only for a moment.
I’m settling.
Settling into a familiar place.
I’m home.
Where I belong.
A cool metal is heavy against my throat and my eyelashes rise to meet a white-shirted chest in front of my eyes. Insistent fingers are tilting my chin up to meet warm lips, while an arm pulls me close.
Of course. My mind sees it before I do and my heart rushes to catch up.
He’s holding this woman.
He’s caressing Rebecca.
He’s kissing me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Quinn’s lips are indescribably soft on mine, and I’m half afraid I’ll die from the burst of ecstasy that surges through me. Inside I’m quaking, but Rebecca’s hands, my hands, are steady as they find the ends of his cravat and pull gently. A raw wanting floods through me as the length of cloth loosens and the knot comes apart under capable fingers.
I force my eyes back to the hint of ruins and imagine what the house looked like from the brief glance I got of the painting at Quinn’s secret hideaway. Yellow, with smooth wooden slates. Two windows on either side of the door.
And curtains. The thought comes unbidden. Red gingham curtains.
The picture that flashes in my head is so vivid that I step back and look up.
At a house.
A real house.
Not exactly real, I remind myself, even as I gasp at the vision that has appeared in front of me. It’s like Quinn—it looks real, but it can’t be.
I’m standing on what would have been the front porch. It spans the entire length of the house and thin white pillars support the roof. Glistening wind chimes sway in a gentle breeze.
Wind chimes.
Just like the ones on the porch at Reese and Jay’s.
I hung them across the front veranda myself. Found them a couple months ago at a flea market downtown. Reese laughed and told me I could hang a dozen if I wanted to.
So I did.
Quinn’s house has wind chimes too.
Now I’m seeing connections where there really aren’t any, I berate myself. Tons of people collect wind chimes.
Of course, I’m seeing a lot of things lately, so perhaps that’s not the best argument.
But when I look to the front door, I can’t hold back a gasp.
A triangle glows gold above the door so brightly it’s hard to look at. Boldly proclaimed for anyone to see, it might as well be spelled out: this is an Earthbound home.
The door beckons me, tempts me, and though a rational part of my mind knows it’s not real, I can’t resist. I walk forward and reach out my hand.
It melts right through the doorknob. Of course I can’t touch it. But …
I set my jaw and walk forward. A tingling sensation crackles over my skin as I walk through the opaque door and find myself inside the house. With my mouth agape, I look around the room, catching sight of the cheery, wood-burning stove in the corner and the soft gray stone mantelpiece over the fireplace.
I allow my eyes to drift to the other corner and startle when I see a woman standing there. Her back is to me and I sense she’s humming, though I don’t hear anything. It seems like all my senses have been muffled except sight.
She’s pulling a quilt over a delicately carved four-poster bed. Once it’s in place, she tosses a pillow into the air, fluffing it in her hands before plopping it down at the head of the bed.
I can’t see her face, but I recognize the thick brown braid from the painting. Rebecca. They must have lived here together.
Again that misplaced, irrational envy washes over me and I gasp. As if hearing me, Rebecca turns.
I stagger backward when I see her face.
She’s me.
Or someone who looks just like me.
That doesn’t make any sense. Not unless my crazy brain is projecting myself into the scene … ?
Her eyes stare into space—her thoughts clearly wandering—and her hands reach up to touch something at her throat.
I see a necklace, and a jolt of possessiveness burns through me. I want to reach out and snatch the shining silver from her fingers. I push my knuckles against my teeth and force myself to remain where I am.
Still silent, Rebecca turns toward the door and her soft brown eyes light up.
I tremble, forcing myself not to turn to the front of the house to see who has walked in.
I know who it is.
Quinn.
A hat flies by me, landing on the bed, and my arm explodes into tingles as I feel him pass, brushing through me. Then he’s in my sight line and my legs shake, then crumple beneath me as every feeling I’ve tried to deny for the last few days floods through, fills me, overflows—too much for my skin to hold inside.
His coat comes next and my fists clench against the floorboards as it slips down his long, lanky arms and joins the discarded hat on the bed.
Quinn reaches for Rebecca and she steps forward, their bodies melding together with a rightness I can’t deny. A cry of dismay builds up in my throat and I grit my teeth shut against it.
I hear Benson behind me, but only vaguely, like an echo from another world. Someone I used to know.
I should turn—I should listen, but my eyes are fixed on the excruciating, sweet pain of seeing Quinn hold someone else. His hand cups her cheek, his thumb traces her jawline. I reach my hand up to my own face, as though I can will those hands to be on me instead of her.
My heart races, then immediately slows, and every breath is an effort as I wonder if agony or ecstasy will kill me first—I’m certain one of them is going to. I can’t bear this much longer.
Just as I realize agony is going to win, I feel as though my soul is ripping from my body and then I’m looking down on myself.
But only for a moment.
I’m settling.
Settling into a familiar place.
I’m home.
Where I belong.
A cool metal is heavy against my throat and my eyelashes rise to meet a white-shirted chest in front of my eyes. Insistent fingers are tilting my chin up to meet warm lips, while an arm pulls me close.
Of course. My mind sees it before I do and my heart rushes to catch up.
He’s holding this woman.
He’s caressing Rebecca.
He’s kissing me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Quinn’s lips are indescribably soft on mine, and I’m half afraid I’ll die from the burst of ecstasy that surges through me. Inside I’m quaking, but Rebecca’s hands, my hands, are steady as they find the ends of his cravat and pull gently. A raw wanting floods through me as the length of cloth loosens and the knot comes apart under capable fingers.
