“Storms! Come to me!”
Foster paused, her head swiveling to take in the empty living room and hallway. “Tate?” She listened. Nothing. “Nope, not a ghost whisperer. Just a crazy person who hears people who aren’t actually here.” She shrugged and continued into the kitchen. “Guess I’ll add it to the list of crap I don’t know how to deal with.” She opened the frosted-glass pantry door and immediately found what she was looking for. Three red and black boxes of Kind bars sat on the shelf at eye level, and Foster had to fight back another wave of sadness. Cora had thought of everything.
Foster unwrapped a granola bar and nibbled at a chunk of chocolate the same way she did every time she ate one. She paused, her mouth going dry as she waited to hear Cora’s ghost (if that’s what it was) say something about being glad Foster was actually eating something vaguely healthy for a change—the same way Cora always had. To which Foster would reply, “I only eat them for the chocolate.” She almost choked on a bubble of laughter. How ridiculous was it that she was standing in the kitchen talking to a person that wasn’t even there?
“I call upon the powers of the rain and the lightning and … other stormy things.”
Foster stopped chewing, spinning around to look out through the kitchen window at the pasture. “Tate?”
He had changed into real clothes, but it was definitely him, his cowboy-boot clad feet planted firmly in the grass as he stretched his arms overhead. “The power of Christ compels you!”
No, she definitely wasn’t the crazy one.
Foster shuffled out of her slippers and stuffed her feet into the tennis shoes waiting for her by the back door, refusing to acknowledge that their placement was yet another thing her Cora had done to make sure she felt like Strawberry Fields was her forever home. No matter how badly she wanted one, she couldn’t have a home without a family.
“Aren’t you supposed to be with Finn?” Foster called as she clomped over to Tate, the dewy grass moistening the toes of her shoes.
Tate’s arms snapped down to his sides where his hands fidgeted with the cuffs of his plaid shirt. “I was, but then he offered to let me have some of his stuff so I decided to come back.” He stopped fidgeting and crossed his arms over his chest. “And now I’m back.”
“I see that.” Foster took a bite of her granola bar. “So, what were you doing?” she asked, unable to keep the laughter from her voice.
“Oh,” Tate’s cheeks blazed pink. “You saw that, huh?”
“Yeah, I saw that.” Foster passed the back of her hand over her mouth to hide her grin.
Tate chewed his bottom lip before lifting his chin proudly. “Practicing.”
“Practicing?” Foster’s brow wrinkled with the question.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “I know it sounds crazy.” He shifted uncomfortably and blew out a short burst of air. “Look, everything that’s happened, is happening … it fucking sucks. And even though I have to force myself every second not to jump in that truck and speed back home, I don’t know what I’d do if I had to live in a house full of stuff that reminded me of my parents and the fact that they’re never coming back.” His swallow was audible. “But, uh, whenever my mom was upset, my dad and I would find little ways to cheer her up. And I thought that if I showed you that I figured out how to channel my powers, that maybe it would cheer you up.”
“Oh,” Foster fought the urge to back away from the very sweet, and, now that he was dressed in real clothes, possibly very cute boy. (Well, minus the cowboy boots.) In Foster’s experience, strangers weren’t nice for no reason, and Tate was still a stranger.
Wasn’t he?
“So you’re practicing your powers?”
He nodded again. “I’ve decided that we’re not freaks.”
“Oh, yeah?” Foster took another bite.
“Yeah. We’re superheroes.”
If she wasn’t mid-chew, Foster’s mouth would’ve flopped open.
“Think about it,” Tate continued. “Cora’s letter said that there’s a huge possibility that we were genetically engineered, like Captain America. Well, except that he was given a shot and we were, well, you know, changed when we were like embryos or something.” Tate scratched the top of his head, making Foster wonder whether or not he knew anything at all about how babies were made.
Public school for the win, Foster thought before tuning back into Tate’s explanation.
“And this,” he proudly motioned toward the house. “Is our Fortress of Sauvietude.”
Foster had no words. No words at all.
“Superman has his Fortress of Solitude, and we have our Fortress of Sauvietude.”
Foster coughed around a mouthful of granola, trying hard not to gag.
“Can you stop making fun of me for a few minutes? Just long enough to try it?”
“What? No. You look stupid.”
“So what? Who’s going to see us?” Tate’s gesture took in the huge hedgerow of evergreens that framed the entire rectangular-shaped farm. “I’m surprised. I thought you didn’t get embarrassed.”
Foster swallowed the last bit of chocolaty granola and stuffed the wrapper into her pocket. “I don’t.”
“Then give it your best shot. Plus, you’re the one with the superhero alliteration name now, not me. That gives you an edge.”
Heavy, earth-trembling clomps echoed behind her and Foster froze.
“Oh, hey there, Calliope. No, I don’t have any more carrots for you. There was just that one I got from Finn.”
A husky snort swirled against the top of Foster’s head, and she whirled around with a sharp squeal, reminding herself of the terribly annoying, screaming blond girl from the original Jurassic Park. And Foster wasn’t far off. The enormous Percheron dinosaur bristled, snorted, and lunged backward as she shrieked again.
“Get away!” Foster flapped her arms at the giant beast, barely recognizing the terrified scream that tore out of her throat.