A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3) (18 page)

I spot Dylan and his host student just a moment later. Dylan has a stern expression on his face, his eyebrows drawn closely together. He’s following along behind his host student—Amir, I think his name is—and neither of them look happy. A peculiar tension ripples between them.

Dylan’s shoulders drop a full inch when he sees me and he lets out a long breath. I’ve never seen him look so relieved. He moves toward me quickly, abandoning Amir. I lift my face toward his and we’re in each other’s arms, his lips are on mine and everything is exactly the way it should be. His hands slip up almost to my shoulders and I rest my face against his chest.

I open my mouth, say “I—” and close it suddenly. I almost said
I love you.
My heart is racing, my pulse loud in my ears. I haven’t said those words—neither has he
. We’ve only got a few days left. What happens if we
never
say it? What happens if we go home and I never tell him how I feel?

Does he even feel that way about me? We haven’t talked about it. We both said this was temporary, that we’re just having fun, that we’re just going to see what happens while we’re on this trip. But it’s not temporary, is it? Not the way I feel. Not if he goes home and we never say it. Not if we go back to the United States and
never see each other again.
Maybe our relationship on this trip is temporary. But there’s no way this cavern of pain in my chest at the thought of losing him could be temporary.

“Maybe you two should get a room.” The sarcastic words jerk me back to the present. It’s Elle, wearing a skirt which is shorter than is probably legal in Jerusalem. She’s standing next to an obviously uncomfortable girl with long chestnut hair. I slowly become aware that my host student, and Dylan’s, look equally uncomfortable.

Dylan just smiles at Elle and murmurs in his smooth southern accent, “Maybe we should.”

Heat flashes up my face. But I keep a grip on his hand.

We all set off as a group, going further down the street. A few moments later we run into John and Mike with their hosts, and Megan not long after. Dylan is curiously quiet as we walk, his eyes darting everywhere and taking in our surroundings. The rest of our group is loud, chatty, and excited, so Dylan and I find ourselves trailing a little bit behind, just walking and holding hands.

“I love it here,” he says. His voice is very quiet as he says the words. “There’s something just magical about this place.”

He must be tired. Whenever he’s sleepy his Southern accent is thicker, and the way he said “
jes magical
” was dripping with mint juleps and kudzu. I squeeze his hand.

Our host students lead the way through the crowds, which grow thicker as we move further down the street. We pass a street band, acoustic guitar and drums and a ragged-looking girl with stringy red hair, singing in a wailing, tinny voice. We finally stop at a cafe, where everyone gathers around two tables they push together on the sidewalk.

An officious waiter,
obviously displeased to be serving a group of teenagers, distributes menus and glasses of water. Dylan leans close to me and we look over the menu together. “That looks really good,” I say, pointing to a delicious-looking lemon raspberry dacquoise.

“What is it?” he asks.

“It’s um… meringue… whipped cream… trust me, it’s delicious.”

“I’m not all that hungry,” he says, his eyes dropping to the table.“But you go ahead.”

A couple minutes later the waiter reappears and we begin to order. I get the dessert—I’ll get Dylan to share with me, hopefully—and coffee. Dylan just asks for water.

After the waiter is gone, I lean close to Dylan and whisper, “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he replies, “Why?” His voice sounds unnatural as he says the words.

“You just seem weird.”

“I’m fine.”

“All right.” I don’t really mean it. When Dylan says, “I’m fine,” that usually means something’s wrong but he doesn’t want to talk about it. We’ve only known each other a few weeks, but that’s been long enough to learn that about him. But I also know pushing probably won’t help. So I shift my attention to the conversation across the table, between Dylan’s host student—I think his name his Amir—and John.

Oh…

I feel immediately uncomfortable when I realize the topic.
Morbid Obesity’s
new album, which went platinum the day it came out. The title song
Nickel Mines
has been crazy controversial—it’s about the murder of several girls at an Amish school in Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania last year.

Amir is waving his hands, a passionate expression on his face as he talks about it. “It’s brilliant. The song completely subverts everything you’d expect.”

I swallow. I don’t want to talk about this, I want to change the subject. It happens sometimes at home of course—but everyone knows Crank is my brother-in-law. No one here knows, because I haven’t talked about it.

Dylan shakes his head. “I don’t buy it. They’re looking for attention. Making money off someone else’s tragedy.”

That’s like a punch in the gut. I shake my head. “No. It’s not.”

“Come on, Alex. The girls in that school were all murdered. Crank Wilson was looking for controversy to drum up sales, and he got it. He’s using them.”

I shake my head again. “That’s not true.” I feel like my tongue is lead. I remember when Julia talked about the song last Christmas. Crank and Julia had just finished writing it two days before. She had tears in her eyes as she talked about it.
Julia can’t have children, and more and more lately I think she’s coming to feel that as an intense loss.

Somehow I didn’t want to say all that. Sometimes people at school want to be my friend just because of Julia and Crank. They’re big stars, and the other kids think they can use me to get tickets or backstage passes or invitations to dinner. It’s infuriating, and it’s disheartening too. I want to be liked for
me
. I didn’t want anyone on this trip to know about them, because that would start off all the same old questions.
What’s it like having a rock star in the family? Isn’t Crank hot? Is it true Crank and Serena are having an affair?

Instead of saying any of that, I just stumble over my words. “They wouldn’t do that.”

Dylan looks angry, his eyebrows drawn together. “Of course they would! That’s what I hate about people sometimes. Rich people using poor people. Do you have
any
idea what it’s like to be living on the street? I guarantee you Crank Wilson never saw what the streets looked like.” The others at the table quiet down. I think they just realized this discussion is getting serious.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” The words come out in a sharper tone than I’d intended.

His nostrils flare. He’s really angry. “I know
exactly
what I’m talking about Alex. I’m not the one going home to a millionaire family where everything gets handed to me.”

His words make me want to cry. In a strangled sort of voice I say, “Why are you being such a dick?”

Somewhere in the background I hear someone groan.

“Because I don’t like it when people who have everything use people who have nothing!”

“Well I don’t like it when people are being self-righteous
assholes
!” I stand up and look at Rebekah. She moves almost immediately to her feet. “Can we go?” I ask, fighting back angry tears.

I don’t wait for an answer, turning to walk away. Only then does Dylan change his awful tone of voice. He calls out my name, panicky. “Alex—”

“Leave me alone,” I say. Then I finally make it away, out into the crowd, where he can’t see me cry.

Why are you being such a dick?

Leave me alone.

Her words have been echoing in my stupid empty head all night, bouncing off the perfectly smooth inner lining of my skull and all the empty space in between.

I don’t know why she was so upset about it. People have opinions all the time. She and I have differing opinions about a lot of things, including plenty of pop culture things. But clearly
this
is somehow personal to her. And that was perfectly clear well before I’d gone off the rails.

Stupid
.

I ache insid
e in a way I’d never experienced before. I’d been lonely. I’ve had girlfriends, and I’ve had breakups before. But this… it’s different. I feel… empty. Like someone punched a hole through my chest. I barely spoke last night as Amir and I returned to his apartment, me shambling along like a
stupid
zombie, and I … it makes me realize that this has gotten far more serious than I realized.

I love her. There’s no question.

And I’m scared. Because I have to go home, and I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again.

At 3 o’clock in the morning I stumble out of the room and down the hall and I turn on the computer in the living room. I haven’t been online since that asshole told me Spot was dead. I find myself gritting my teeth, my face twisting up in knots as I try to hold back any possibility of tears.

When the computer boots up, I log into Facebook. No messages, but Alex had posted a series of pictures of us both. Arm in arm, holding each other with the backdrop of the Sea of Galilee behind us. Laughing together at the market in Nazareth. Embracing, our foreheads touching, a faint smile on her face, just a couple of days ago.

Her status message a couple of days ago:
Dylan Paris wrote a song for me.

I have to make it up to her somehow. But I don’t even know why she’s so upset. I Google
Morbid Obesity
Nickel Mines
—maybe it’s something about the song?

The answer shouts out to me almost immediately. Crank Wilson did an interview with
FHM
when the movie came out. There’s a photograph of him in the online version holding a beautiful woman with curly brown hair and green eyes that match Alex’s. She looks a lot like Alex.

The article identifies her as Crank’s wife Julia—the daughter of former US Ambassador Richard Thompson.

Holy. Shit.

Crank is Alex’s brother-in-law?

I read through the article and it all begins to make sense.

In explaining the genesis of
Nickel Mines
, Wilson was quick to explain that the significance of the song was deeply personal. “This summer Julia and I found out she can’t have children. And the idea that someone would murder children—both of us broke down a little when we heard about it. And the really just incredible part—what inspired me to write the song—was how the Amish community—the families of those girls—were so quick to forgive. They reached out to the family of the killer. It was shocking and somehow humbling, because most people would have been screaming for revenge.”

I’m stunned. I continue reading through and unfortunately learn a little about Crank’s background. He wasn’t what I thought he was. His Dad was a cop, and he left home when he was sixteen. Brother with autism. Mother had left home after some kind of hospitalization.

In short, I’d been a judgmental asshole.

The really frustrating thing is that I’m not going to see her today—for the second day in a row, the group is splitting up and going to different schools to speak. Alex and I got assigned to different groups for this one. I don’t know if we’ll get a chance to talk, but I can at least leave her a note. I search online and find an image of a cat—Alex loves cats, God only knows why—with a caption which reads “I’m sorry.” I copy the image and post it to her Facebook wall, then go to bed. This time I quickly fall asleep.

My first reaction this morning, when I see the picture of the kitten in a paper bag with the caption “I’m sorry!!!” is mild annoyance.
Oh, that’s original.
But then I think it through. Dylan doesn’t own a computer. Until we met he didn’t have a Facebook account. So this actually is original in a way.

And the kitten is cute.

He was still being an asshole. It’s one thing to have an opinion—even if it is misinformed, ignorant. But it’s another thing entirely to turn on me.

I know
exactly
what I’m talking about Alex. I’m not the one going home to a millionaire family where everything gets handed to me.

That, of course, zeroed in on one of the biggest differences between us. I casually spend money—my parents sent me with a thousand dollars in cash, plus a credit card in the event of an emergency. I’m pretty sure Dylan came on this trip with less than two hundred dollars in his pocket. So all along, he’s been super careful what he bought (except for cigarettes) while I’ve spent freely. It’s meant he had to turn down opportunities to go out with everyone, or he orders the barest minimum, saying
I’m not hungry
when it’s obvious that’s not true. But he won’t let me buy anything for him.

So I get it. He’s really uncomfortable about money. He threw that barb at me. He lashed out at
Crank
of all people. Crank and Julia might be doing pretty well now, but he’s from as working class a background as it gets. More than that, they’d worked incredibly hard to be where they are. And even more than that…

I’m going in circles. I flop back on the bed and open my email.

A message from Julia.

Dear Alexandra,

I got a call from the investigator we hired in Atlanta. He normally handles divorces and corporate stuff, but said he found this interesting.

The short version: we don’t have any results. He’s searched the records for deaths in Atlanta in the last two years, then focused in on homeless teenage girls. If she died, it wasn’t in Atlanta. He gave all kinds of limitations—like if she was in a distant suburb. Right now we don’t know much of anything.

The next step will be going beyond records searches—he can go question people, talk to people who are homeless, ask around. That might turn up more information. And it might not. No guarantees. It’s hard to find someone when you don’t know their name.

Let me know what you want to do. Money isn’t an issue here.

I hope your trip is going well and that Dylan is turning out to be everything you wanted.

I love you,

Julia