Immortal Mine (11 page)

“Hi there, I’m Sauna, can I get you guys
something to drink?” our server interrupts our laughter. Sam raises
his brows at me as she gives her name, and I have to bite my lip.
We order our drinks, and as she walks away, Sam says, “Did she
really say her name is
Sauna
?” He gives me a huge,
over-dramatic wink. “That’s
hot
.”

I groan, “Bad joke, Sam Coleman. Besides, I
am the
last
person in the world to mock someone’s name.”

After she returns with our drinks and takes
our order, Sam says, “Okay, what do you make of that?”

I follow where he’s pointing to see a
teenage couple sitting in a cove. Nothing unusual in that—if you
discount that she’s completely Goth and he’s a complete nerd.

“Hmmm,” I try to imagine what would pull
such a couple together. “Someone dared him to ask her out, and
she’s too nice to say no?”

Sam grimaces at me. “Doubtful as far as her,
I’d say, though I can buy someone daring him to ask her out. She’s
out with him because someone either bribed her, or made a bet with
her that she wouldn’t do it.”

I watch as the couple leans toward one
another, almost subconsciously.

“She likes him,” Sam states, also watching
them. “See how she leans toward him? She likes him, and she hates
that.”

I can’t argue with that logic, since their
body language seems to support his theory. I turn to another table.
“See that group over there? They are on a double date, but the girl
on the left side of the table really likes the guy on the right
side, not the date she’s with.”

Sam’s attention is drawn back to the game,
away from the odd couple, and after we’ve made up stories about
everyone in the vicinity, and when our food has been served, I ask
Sam about himself.

“So, what’s your story, Sam? Where did you
and your uncle live before now?”

It may be my imagination, but Sam suddenly
looks uncomfortable.

“New York,” is his short, hesitant
answer.

“Why in the world would you move from New
York to
Goshen
? That seems like… a
colossal
change.”

Sam clears his throat, suddenly interested
in the dew collecting on the side of his glass. “Shane was…
tired
… of the city, I guess. Wanted to move somewhere
small.”

“Well, he certainly accomplished that,” I
laugh, wondering at his strange behavior. “How do you feel about
that? I mean, you must have friends in New York. Wasn’t it hard to
leave them?”

He glances up at me under his brow, and
gives me a one-sided, wry smile. “It’s different there. There are a
lot of people, Niahm. I wasn’t particularly close to anyone who I
didn’t want to leave.”

“That’s kind of sad,” I say. “What was your
school like there?”

The waitress walks up to the table with our
bill. Sam’s attention is diverted while he pays her, completely
ignoring my efforts to pay for my own meal.

“We should get going so we’re not late for
the movie,” he says, standing and moving to pull my chair out. When
I don’t stand, he raises one of his glorious auburn brows at me in
question.

“Sam, this isn’t a date, remember? If you
pay for me, and pull my chair out, then it becomes a date.”

He leans down, his face near mine, and I’m
struck again by his dark green eyes. For the first time, I wonder
if he wears colored contacts. “Would that be so bad, Niahm?” he
questions, and I forget to breathe for long seconds. He leans back
a little, and the spell is broken.

“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.

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.

“
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—”