As I walked through my aunt’s beloved cottage with my morning coffee, I indulged in my cherished memories—mornings spent journaling at the kitchen table, our afternoon sing-alongs in the dining room, and high tea in the living room, which Aunt Gracie always called “the parlor.”
The wildly overgrown English-style garden, complete with croquet lawn and a bronze wall fountain in the shape of a lion’s head, held a particularly special place in my heart. After breakfast, my aunt would sketch while I picked armloads of fresh lavender for her special green vase. The one she kept in the library and claimed came from another world.
As Gracie arranged the fragrant, purple flowers, she would tell the most amazing stories. My favorite was about an enchanted kingdom hidden away from evil witches in the mists of Scotland. Now as I admired the chaotic garden from the library windows, I questioned the wisdom of sharing Gracie’s stories with my best friend. My aunt always indulged my imagination, going as far as setting a place at the table for my imaginary guests. But what Vee needed was less fiction in her life, not more.
I’d seen the haunted look in her eyes as she talked about Kilt Boy. Which made my decision as easy as an Andrew Lloyd Webber melody. My duty was to keep her from traveling farther down the yellow brick path of delusion … one that I knew from experience would inevitably end in misery and heartbreak. So I would not share any family tales of noble knights or fantastical kingdoms. I’d stick to practical traditions. Filling Gracie’s vase with lavender, minus the story of its origins, would still be a fitting tribute to the woman whose love had shaped the direction of my life and a perfect start to our epic summer.
“Jamie—”
Holy Hammerstein! I spun toward the noise, ready to scream as my vision focused on Vee fidgeting in her sleep in the oversized chair in the corner. She was surrounded by books—legends and histories of Scotland, and biographies on the local poet Robert Burns. Apparently Sleeping Beauty had a restless night. Whereas I’d slept like the dead.
“Brig—Jamie. Stay.”
Okay … that was random, and a little weird.
Vee made a tiny mewling sound, like an anxious kitten. Concerned, I crept closer. Other than the noises, she looked fine. More than fine—she was flawless, even asleep. Dark, sleek hair framed her heart-shaped face. Black, fluttery lashes—the kind you only see in mascara ads—daintily rested against the curve of her cheeks. Vee was petite, too, with porcelain skin. Stuff all that into a size-too-small cheer skirt and she was a teen dream. She practically screamed popularity, while I was an ex-Goth, theater-geek Amazon voted most likely to have ketchup on my boobs. But I guess that’s what made the friendship unbreakable—counterbalance, not ketchup.
As if she could sense me staring like some kind of deranged stalker, Vee’s eyelids fluttered open to reveal her confused, yet still brilliantly dazzling, turquoise eyes.
She bolted to her feet, brushing silken strands of dark hair away from her face. How did she get it to look so shiny? Even in the midst of night terrors, she still looked like she’d stepped off the cover of Teen Vogue. I, on the other hand, was in jeopardy of being mistaken for an iconic hamburger clown.
Vee turned in a disoriented half circle, blinking at the pile of books around her chair. “I must’ve fallen asleep.”
“Ya think?” She stilled and regarded me with a narrow gaze that dared me to continue cracking smart remarks. Geez, somebody woke up on the wrong side of the Atlantic. Taking a more serious approach, I said, “You must’ve been having some dream. You were talking in your sleep and everything.”
“I was?”
“Yep. So who’s Jamie?”
Her face paled as she sagged against the back of the chair for support. “Have you ever had a dream so real you weren’t sure if you were asleep or awake?”