Seconds Before Sunrise (The Timely Death Trilogy) (10 page)

“I hope Jonathon is the one who told you,” he said, but I barely heard him. My heart was pounding in my ears.

“Kids were talking at school,” I said, hoping he hadn’t noticed how hot my hands were. “
Everyone knows.”

He glanced at the wall. “Fantastic.”

“It’s Hayworth. What did you expect?”

“Some etiquette would be
a little nice.” He lifted his chin to stare at the ceiling. His neck was red from the seatbelt scraping him. “I suppose I couldn’t hide it forever.”

“Why would you
want to hide it?” I asked.

H
e didn’t respond the way I expected him to. “Does Zac mind that you’re visiting me?” he asked.

I tensed.
Eric barely knew me, but he wasn’t holding back, and I wondered how much medication they had him on. Without knowing, I took a deep breath. “Zac isn’t my boyfriend.”

“So I’ve heard.”

My face burned. “From who?”

He
glanced down from his fixation on the ceiling. “Robb McLain is kind of hard to ignore when he talks to you at our table.”

I cringed. I ha
d always known Eric didn’t like it when Robb and Crystal moved over to our table because he turned his music up. It was one of the reasons I thought he never heard a thing.

“Robb doesn’t know what he’s tal
king about half of the time.” Even though I didn’t have to defend myself, I wanted to.

Eric smirked. “Robb likes you.”

“What?” My breath escaped me. “There’s no way. He’s my friend.”

“A close friend.”

“Girls and guys can be close friends,” I said.

“But Robb doesn’t want to be.”

“That’s gross.”

“It’s the truth,” he said, winking his good eye at me as he snuggled into his bed like a child. His cheeks turned a light pink, and his eyelashes batted.
His medication was affecting him more than I thought.

“Thanks for checkin
g on me, Jessica,” he said.

M
y irritation dissipated. “You’re welcome,” I whispered, and the white curtain yanked open.

Mr. Welborn
walked in, and his eyes fell on his son. “I think Eric needs rest now,” he said.

I stood up.

“I’m fine, Dad,” Eric argued, but he yawned and shut his eyes. “I—I’m wide awake.”

He fell asleep
as the words left his mouth. I stared, unable to tear my eyes away. Eric Welborn looked peaceful, even with a black eye and broken ribs. I wanted to stay, but I knew I couldn’t. He was exhausted.

I tiptoed out of the room, and his father followed me. I spoke when we were safely in the hallway. “Thanks for letting me see him, Mr. Welborn.”

“Thanks for coming.”

Teresa stepped away from the wall she was leaning on.
“I’ll drive you home, Jess.”

“Thanks.”

Mr. Welborn stopped me, and I waited. He ran a hand over his chest, and his watch flashed beneath the lights. “Eric should be out of here soon, but he probably won’t be back at school immediately,” he said. “You could come over if you’d like.”

“Sir?” Teresa spoke up, but Mr. Welborn raised his hand as if he could control her speech.

He was still looking at me. “Eric could use someone to talk to.”

“I’d like someone to talk to myself.” I accepted the invitation, feeling my chest lighten.
Whatever burden I’d been holding was suddenly gone. “I’ll visit soon.”

Eric

I didn’t open my eyes when I heard him speak, and I kept them closed when I recognized my father’s voice.

“She’s gone, Jonathon.” Footsteps
echoed off of the linoleum floor.

I
almost thought Jessica was a dream, a hallucination brought on by drugs, but she wasn’t. She had come to see me. I couldn’t believe I had fallen asleep while she was with me.

“When?” Jonathon asked.

“Teresa took her an hour ago,” my dad said. “Eric fell asleep.”

“Eric
, sleeping?” Jonathon’s voice lightened. “What a shocker.”

My father chuckled beneath his breath. “The drugs will keep him like this until
tomorrow.”

“I bet,” Jonathon agreed. “Eric can’t relax unless you force him to.”

“Can you blame him?” My father’s question lingered as he whistled a low tune. “Do you think this happened because he tried to leave?”

“Want my honest answer?”

“Yes.”

“I do,” he said.

My father’s sigh bordered on a groan. “Me, too.”

“But it doesn’t mean anything,” Jonathon rambled. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“It means he can’t run,” my father said, and someone began pacing.

“He doesn’t need to run,” Jonathon said, but his voice was quiet. “Does he?”

My father hesitated. “No.”

“Eric’s right,” Jonathon said. “You’re a horrible liar.”

My father laughed again. “I’m not lying. I’m just worried.”

“You’re allowed to be.” Apparently, my best friend was my father’s counselor. “
This isn’t working as we thought it would.”

“I don
’t know what to do about Jess,” my father confessed. “She loves him, even if she doesn’t know it.” My father paused and so did the pacing. “It’s still strange to see them together,” he muttered. “It’s the only time I see Eric act like my son. I’m afraid he won’t be able to hold back, that he’ll remind her—”

“I won’t tell her,” I said,
finally opening my eyes. My father seemed much taller standing when I was lying down.

“Eric,” he scorned. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“I’m almost asleep,” I said. “Does that count?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “You shouldn’t be listening to our conversations.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have them in my room,” I suggested.

M
y father rubbed his chin, trying to conceal his grin. “You and your eavesdropping.”

“Me and my eavesdropping,” I repeated. “When will I ever stop?”

My father masked his laughter as he sat down next to Jonathon. “I don’t know where you got that attitude, but if you got it from your mother, I’ll be sure to say something when I see her again.”

It was the first time he had
mentioned my mother since she died, and I turned away from him. I didn’t like to think about how she died, how she committed suicide and left us here to deal with the prophecy. I barely remembered her. It was almost like she hadn’t existed, but I thought about her more and more the closer the Marking of Change got.

Rustling
interrupted the tension. “Mindy dropped these off earlier,” Jonathon said, lifting a plate covered in tinfoil. “Lemon cakes.”

My mouth watered.
“I love those things,” I said, reaching for them.

M
y father placed them on the counter. “You’ll only get sick on this sugar right now,” he said. “You need to rest.”

“C
an I have one after?”

“You
can eat them when you get home.”

“That’s in tw
o days,” I whined.

“Two days it is then.”

My only hope was crushed by protective wrap. “This is cruel,” I mumbled.

Jonathon
snatched one and stuffed it into his mouth. “Sorry,” he spoke, showing off the dessert I was supposed to eat.

I groaned.
“I cannot wait to get out of here.”

“That makes two
of us,” my father agreed.

Jonathon pumped his fist into the air. “Three.”

We laughed, and my ribs stung.

Before I knew it, I woul
d be home, but it wouldn’t be the home I was used to. I would no longer be able to participate in the Dark. I would have to heal my human body until the doctors cleared me before I could transform. If I didn’t, my identity would be risked. I needed to heal fast enough to train before the battle. If not, I would be stuck with what I already knew, and I was sure Darthon would know more than me. I wouldn’t win.

Jessica

When I walked into art class the next day, the painting was finished. Purple streaks dripped from the sky, and swirls of blue melted through the twists like liquid sapphires. Every aspect of my painting was how I’d left it except for one thing − the sky reflected off of a river, and not just any river. It was the river from the forest.

The piece represented every emotion of my flying dream. Every inch of the painting meant
something, and the canvas was practically a photograph from my vision. The river created the perfection I’d been striving for, but there was one problem. I hadn’t painted it, and there was only one person I knew who could’ve done it.

Jonathon Stone.

He was sitting in his usual corner, his back facing the class, and I had to tap him on the shoulder to get his attention. I recognized the artist stare plastered on his face when he turned around. His painting engrossed him. It was of a woman I’d never seen before.

“Who’s that?” I ask
ed.

H
e took off his glasses to rub his eye. “No one important,” he said, replacing his glasses.

“She must be if yo
u’re painting her.”

H
e gestured to the empty spot next to him. I retrieved a chair and sat down, but he didn’t talk. The painting was vivid enough that I looked for a photograph in his lap, but there wasn’t. He was painting from memory.

He laid his paintbrush down. “It’s my mom.”
His spine straightened up, but his shoulders, somehow, remained slumped. “She walked out.”

“Oh.”
I didn’t want to intrude any more than I already had. “Thanks for finishing my painting.”

“I’m sorry I did that
.” His fingertips shook. “But I couldn’t stop myself.”

“I’m glad you did,” I clarified, but his guilt was apparent.

“It wasn’t mine to finish.”

“I co
uldn’t finish it myself,” I pointed out.

“I know.”

I wondered how he recognized what was missing. His eye for color and the shape of a piece was beyond masterful. I had only started painting in our class, but I already felt a connection to it, and I envied how much passion he had for something I was unable to complete.

“You’ll get there one day,” he said. “You’re very good.”

“Maybe you can teach me one of these days,” I said, hoping he would tutor me, but he didn’t respond to the invite. My cheeks burned. “How’d you know what to do?”

“I followed your style,” he began, pausing as if he were contemplating an explanation. “Sometimes an outside perspective is the clearer perspective.”

“That’s unbelievable,” I breathed, staring at the teenage boy as if I were staring at one of the greats. “You’re really something, you know that?”

“Thanks,” he squeaked
. He was uncomfortable, and I hated to be the one who caused that.

“How’s Eric?” I
changed the subject.

“He’ll be home tomorrow
.”

Tomorrow was earlier than I was expecting.

“That’s great,” I said, wondering how soon I should visit him. I wanted to, but I didn’t want to seem pushy. “Is he excited?”

Jonathon chuckled. “More than he was when he got his car.”

The reminder silenced us. Eric’s car was gone, but at least he was alive. I looked around the classroom and studied the students who treated Eric like simple gossip. It was bad enough that Eric’s car wreck happened, but kids constantly compared it with his last car wreck − when Abby died − like it was nothing. I wanted the gossip to stop.

“Well, I’m glad I could help you with your painting,” Jonathon said, splitting throu
gh my thoughts.

I stood up.
“I’ll let you get back to yours.”

H
e gestured to his. “Any thoughts?”

It was his mother. I couldn’t possibly help him with it.

“Be honest,” he said.

I breathed, looking over the curve of her cheekbones, the lightness of her eyes, the watery skin of her face.

“Her complexion could use some color,” I suggested.

H
e turned back. “I’ll consider that,” he said. “Thank you, Jess.”

“You’re welcome.”

I felt strange helping someone who helped me, but that’s what friends did, and Jonathon felt more like a friend than he had when he first talked to me. He practically saw my dreams, and I thought about what he said.

Maybe all I needed was an outsid
e perspective to understand my dreams, and I already knew the perfect person to talk to. I only had to figure out when I would see him next.