Immortal Mine

“I’m paying for the movie,” I inform him as I stand. He chuckles and shakes his head.

  “Of course you are,” he mutters. I choose to ignore the sarcasm as we leave the restaurant.

  Chapter 15

  Sam

  Niahm insists on paying for our movie tickets, as I knew she would. I make sure I’m prepared when we get our popcorn and sodas so that she doesn’t have a chance to pay. She glares at me for a second, but I smile as charmingly as possible. I really need her to be somewhat pliable tonight.

  From the first moment I met Niahm Parker, I’ve been trying to figure out a way to get her hand into mine, palm to palm. It’s unfair, I know, and I usually try really hard to avoid reading someone I plan to know for any length of time. It’s a matter of privacy. But with Niahm, I have a vested interest, a need to know.

  We make our way into the theater—reserved seating: brilliant!—and find our seats. We talk while waiting for the movie to start, Niahm entertaining me with their visit to the Arab Sheik when she was ten, from her point of view, of course. I can’t help but laugh at her story—somehow I doubt the guy pulled the sheet directly off his bed to wear on his head, and the elephants and monkeys dining with them in his home are surely a stretch.

  When the lights go down, I give her thirty minutes into the movie to finish the popcorn and relax as she gets involved in the flickering story on the screen. Then I make my move, casually taking her hand into mine, not looking at her, acting like it isn’t a big deal. From my peripheral vision I see her glance at me, but she doesn’t pull away. Once her attention is back on the screen, I close my eyes and let the arcing electricity flow into me, as my mind fills with images.

  Every moment of Niahm’s life flashes through my mind, even moments she has no conscious recollection of—those memories are dimmer, less clear. Light and laughter fill her childhood, deep love for her parents. I’d like to take the time to watch it all, but there is something specific I am looking for, so I bypass anything that doesn’t pertain. I see her traveling with her parents, feel her frustration at always having to go when she really just wants to be home with her animals. I can feel the deep devotion she has to the creatures, her intense guilt over leaving them alone. When the pain comes, I’m completely unprepared. It isn’t that I thought Niahm has lived such a carefree, charming life that she wouldn’t have suffered pain, but this pain is the deep, cutting pain of betrayal by the two people she loves most—her mother and father.

  Niahm may say that she doesn’t mind her parents going on their working trips, but she’s lying. She feels deep pain at their decision to continue to go, to leave her behind. I can feel her insecurity: that they don’t love her enough to stay home with her, that she isn’t good enough for them, that she isn’t as appealing as the travelling. I feel her anger at a stolen childhood, first by being taken all over the world, then by being left to play the role of an adult at home, her jealousy over watching her friend be afforded that which she wanted most. Her stubborn pride in refusing to admit that she needs them extends to her refusing to accept help of any kind. To admit she needs help would be to admit she needs them home. Her fear stems from taking them away from what they love, even more from the fear that they might not choose her.

  I look at her then, and as she feels the weight of my look, and glances at me, I see the astonishment on her face at whatever she sees on mine. I try to school my face into a smile, though it’s probably more like a grimace. I turn back toward the screen, and after a few seconds, she follows suit.

  I close my eyes again, still searching. I can’t help but notice that the only person she feels a deep connection to besides her parents is her friend, Stacy. She feels a deep and abiding loyalty toward her. No boys. I wasn’t looking for that specifically, but the fact that I find that makes gives me an unfair sense of relief.

  I get a glimpse of her confused feelings about me, but quickly shy away from that.

  I pull myself out of the images completely, knowing that Niahm can’t feel the intense heat between our palms, as if they were on fire. Only I can feel it. I continue to hold her hand until the end of the movie, letting go when I have to as we stand and put our jackets on. As we’re walking out of the theater, I take her hand again, just to see if she’ll allow it. She does. What I really want to do is take her in my arms, shelter her from her pain, anger and disappointment. I can just imagine the outcome of that move.

  As I open the door to the truck, closing it behind her then walking around to the opposite side, all I can think is, she doesn’t know. She has no idea, not even in the deepest recesses of her imagination, of what she just might be.

  Chapter 16

  Niahm

  “Sooo?” Stacy drags the word out, heavy with emphasis. We’re in my kitchen, and I’m preparing the meal for later tonight for my parents, Shane and Sam, and, you guessed it, Stacy. She immediately invited herself as soon as I told her that at the end of mine and Sam’s… well, I guess I have to call it date considering the hand holding and all, that I’d extended the invitation requested over a week ago by my mom.

  I still can’t believe I did invite them. I can’t believe I let him hold my hand. Even worse that I’d enjoyed it! And mostly, I can’t believe that I am anticipating tonight—maybe as much as Stacy.

  “So…what?” I ask, cleaning the chicken over the sink. No, not one of my chickens. I’m not a sadist. It’s not that I think the chicken purchased at the store was produced at the store and didn’t come from an actual chicken; it’s that I didn’t love this chicken. I know it doesn’t make sense, but I refuse to eat any of my own chickens.

  She pelts the back of my head with a small wad of the roll dough that she is supposed to be kneading.

  “Dude!” I complain.

  “That’s dudette to you,” she says. “Stop avoiding the question. I was patient enough to wait until now.” She doesn’t mention that that’s only because my parents were in the house when she came, and she thinks I have some juicy details that I wouldn’t share in front of them.

  “It was… fun,” I say.

  “Argh,” she groans.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I say, spinning and seeing that she has another small piece cocked and aimed.

  “Then spill,” she threatens. “Details, not generalities.”

  “Fine,” I sigh, smiling as I turn away from her. Of course I’m going to give her the details, who else would I share with? I just like messing with her.

  “Let’s see,” I say, turning on the water and running the meat beneath. “First, we went to this Italian restaurant.”

  “What did you order?” she interrupts.

  “Really?” I ask, glancing back at her. “You want that much detail?”

  “Hey, I’ve never been on a date outside this fabulous little berg, my friend. I’m living vicariously through you right now. And let me just tell you, that is a phrase I never thought I’d be saying concerning you.”

  “Vicariously, huh? Big word,” I grin at her.

  She shrugs. “Gotta start using them if I want to get into college.”

  “Alright, I ordered the linguini with clam sauce, and—”

  “That’s my girl,” she cheers. I look back at her questioningly. “What? I hate it when girls go out on their first date, and order a dinner salad because they don’t want to seem like a pig, or greedy by costing too much. Clam sauce…” she muses.

  I roll my eyes at her, then drop the first piece of chicken into the seasoned flour mixture. “I was planning to pay for it myself.”

  “What? Why?” she demands, sounding offended by the idea. “Wait, never mind, you can explain that little piece of stupidity later. Just finish the story.”

  I shake my head at her. “He ordered lasagna. Enough food detail for you?” I ask, glancing back at her again. She just narrows her eyes sardonically at me. “And we played the people game. It was fun. Then we—”

  “Okay, whoa there. What in the world is the people game?”

 
“You know, where you make up stories about the people sitting at the other tables.”

  “You have a misguided sense of fun, my friend.”

  I choose to ignore her comment.

  “We went to the movie—which I paid for. And he held my hand.” I stop speaking, waiting. It takes several heartbeats, and then she’s next to me, spinning me away from the counter, chicken juice and flour flying from my hands, spattering the floor—giving me another thing I’ll have to clean before tonight.

  “He held your hand?” I can’t help the grin that splits my face as I nod. “Wait till the double-H and all those silly juniors hear this!” she exclaims.

  “No, Stace,” I say. “I don’t want anyone to know. I mean, it may not have even meant anything.” I think about the strangely intense heat of our hands pressed together, the butterflies it sent shimmering through me. “He might have just been being nice.”

  “Oh, come on,” Stacy gives me a shake. “Boys don’t hold hands to be nice. At least, not boys like Sam.”

  “Maybe they do,” I argue weakly. “He’s not from here. Maybe that’s how they do it in New York.”

  Stacy opens her mouth to argue, but really, she doesn’t know any better than me. She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think he would. I’ve seen the way he watches you.”

  I can feel the heat climbing my cheeks. “Yeah, well, that’s probably because he’s watching for flying cookies,” I mutter. Stacy laughs.

  “So, your first date and first hand-holding, all in one night, with the hottest guy in town, immediately making an enemy of every chick between the ages of fifteen and thirty,” she finishes ominously, tone in contrast with her grin.

  “Stace, come on. It was probably nothing. So it’s not going to matter anyway.”

  She looks at me for a long minute, reading me as only she can. “You liked it?” she asks with a knowing smile. I give a tiny nod. “You like him?” she asks more seriously. I think about her question for a minute, and realize that I do, probably more than I should. I have no experience with boys, so this is way outside of my comfort zone. I give the same tiny nod, and her grin widens.

  “Then hurry up and finish playing with that chicken so we can pretty you up,” she laughs.

  

  Stacy on a mission is an unstoppable force. That’s how it is that I end up with curled hair, perfect make-up, and high heels when Sam and Shane arrive. I feel silly; it seems clearly contrived for him. However, by the time Stacy finished with me and I finished dinner, I didn’t have time to at least wash some of the make-up off, maybe pull my hair up into a ponytail.

  “Welcome to our town, and our home,” my mother is gushing at Shane. It seems she’s under the same spell as Stacy—who’s standing uncomfortably close to Shane’s other side—regarding Sam’s uncle. Sam grins at me and winks, as if in on the joke, and I feel the blush stealing up my cheeks again. Sheesh, I never blush, now it seems that’s all I do.

  “Let me get you a drink,” my father offers, steering Shane away from his fan club—who follow closely behind. I shrug at Sam, and he takes my elbow, giving it a light caress with his thumb, leading me after them. And there goes the stupid blush again.

  The heat in my face deepens when he leans close as we’re walking and murmurs, “You look amazing.”

  “Well, there’s no stopping Stacy when she gets an idea in her head,” I mutter. He lifts one copper brow at my words, a smile on his face, but he doesn’t comment.

  An hour-and-a-half later, after Shane finally manages to eat his dinner between answering the questions pelted at him by his adoring fans, we move outside. The evenings are getting very cool now as autumn takes a firm hold, but my father has already remedied this by getting a fire going earlier for us to gather around. That’s one of the perks of living on a farm—a campfire anytime you want.

  Shane finds himself firmly wedged between Stacy and my mom on the stone bench. He’s such a kind man, or at least a good sport, as he tolerates their fawning. I sit with Sam on the log, lower to the ground. My father, always restless, remains standing, regaling them with stories of their travels, which is all fine and well until he brings me into it.

  “So there we are,” he laughs, “sitting in this fabulously wealthy sheiks home, with all of his wives, and Niahm says—”

  “‘Daddy, why does that man have so many daughters?’” he and my mother finish together, laughing. I groan, which causes an already chuckling Sam to laugh even harder.

  “All right, that’s my cue to go get our dessert,” I say, standing up. “Help me, Stacy?”

  She shoots me a pained look, and Sam comes to her rescue. “I’ll help you,” he offers. He follows me into the kitchen, scrubbing Bob’s head as he pushes up against Sam’s leg, making it difficult for him to walk.

  “Guess you have your own little fan club there, huh?” I nod my head toward Bob as I open the fridge, bending to retrieve the pies. I lift one hand in the general direction of the backyard. “You’ll have to tell Shane sorry about my mom and Stacy.” I turn toward the counter, a pie balanced in each hand.

  “I don’t think he’s too stressed about the attention,” Sam grins. He moves over next to me, picking up the knife I laid on the counter and cutting one of the pies now sitting on the countertop, slicing it into evenly sized pieces. I’m impressed.

  “I guess he gets that everywhere he goes, huh?” I look up at Sam, realize he’s standing closer than I thought, and immediately start stuttering. “You know, women… um, falling over him… I mean, falling all over him.” He gives me a funny look, and I realize the senselessness of my question. Sam gets that as much as his uncle. I feel like smacking my head in consternation. Instead, I walk around him to get the small plates out of the cabinet. As he cuts the second pie, I start placing pieces on the plates.

  “What kind do you want?” I ask distractedly, “Apple or peach?” When he doesn’t say anything, I glance up at him and see his sardonic look.

  “Guess,” he says, and I grin at him, still embarrassed at my complete overreaction before in regards to my pie.

  “I’m surprised you want to have anything to do with me,” I mumble as I turn back to the cabinet, getting out a tray.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” he questions.

  “I haven’t exactly been nice to you. I don’t know if I’d be as patient as you’ve been.” I turn to him, curiously. “Why did you stick around, keep trying to be my friend? Especially when you had every other girl in town hot to be the center of your attention.”

  A peculiar look crosses his face, and he glances away from me. After a moment, he looks back and grins. “I’m a sucker for punishment?” he offers.

  “I don’t think so,” I laugh.

  “I’ve been angling for another pie?” He ducks as I lob an apple at him, swiped from the basket on the counter, neatly catching it above his head.

  “Try again,” I say.

  He shrugs, and looks at me more seriously. “I thought you were cute. Which—” he holds up a finger to silence me when I open my mouth to protest, “—would not have kept me coming back, just so you know. I’m not that shallow. But I saw how much your friends cared for you, the way they listen to you, and I decided there was more to you than you were letting on.”

  “Oh,” is my brilliant response.

  He steps closer to me, and I instinctively step backward, my progress stopped by the sharp hardness of the counter. I reach back, resting my hands against the edge. He places both hands on the counter, trapping me between them. My heart immediately starts to race.

  “Have you ever been kissed?” he asks quietly.

  I swallow the lump in my throat noisily, which Sam hears if his grin is any indication, unable to answer. One of his hands slips underneath mine. I wonder if he’s going to kiss me, my mind frantically racing as I try to decide how to handle it. I don’t want him to kiss me… do I?

  No, definitely not. I don’t think. I’m pretty sure… I don’t know. No, absolutely
not. No, not now that we’re getting along. I don’t want to ruin—

  My rambling thoughts are abruptly cut off as he chuckles, as if he read my mind. I narrow my eyes at him, but he’s already moving away, placing the plates of pie onto the tray.

  “C’mon, friend,” he says over his shoulder as he pushes out the door. Bob, who apparently thinks that Sam was talking to him, bounds happily behind him. I don’t move, except to take deep breaths, trying to calm myself.

  “Silly girl,” I chide myself. I push away from the counter, only slightly shaky, and return to the fire. Sam has already passed the pie out, and is sitting on our log. I think about sitting somewhere else, but he holds a plate of pie out to me, and I can’t refuse to take it from him. Once I’m next to him, it seems ridiculous to not sit where I’d been before, so I sink down.

  “Amazing,” Sam says, savoring a bite of his pie. Stacy shoots a look my way, probably wondering if I’m going to shove mine in his face.

  “Thanks,” I tell him, giving Stacy a look to say: See, I can behave.

  Sam scoots closer to bump his shoulder against mine, then stays in place, his arm pressed against mine. I hope the dark sky hides my red cheeks.

  Chapter 17

  Sam

  Over the many years I’ve lived on the earth, I’ve learned to appreciate certain things. One of those things is the amazing amount of talent that people have. Some of them recognize and share their talents with the world; too many keep them hidden, or even undiscovered.

  Goshen is a very small town, but it’s packed full of talent. I’m impressed by the magnitude of the production these few seniors are putting on. Some of the younger kids audition for minor parts in the play, sworn to secrecy about details of the production—which doesn’t seem strange at all to any of them. It shouldn’t seem strange to me, but I admit, I’ve never seen anything like it. And that’s saying something.