I stood there, spellbound, staring with wide eyes at the girl staring back at me, and I was mesmerized by my own reflection.
They found me there nearly ten minutes later, and my mother scolded me even though Danny was the one who ran away first. She only remembers today that I was lost and scared her half to death.
But I remember these two things:
First, that Danny, as always, had all their attention.
Second, I remember the way my hair rippled and swirled in my reflection on the other side of the glass.
The years passed and things changed and yet they didn’t. They say when you’re left alone a lot as a child, you either act out to get attention or you turn inward, relying on your own creativity to keep yourself company.
This is why I write. If it’s true, all of this has always been a part of me, and to find out there’s a reason is a relief just as much as it makes me feel like a fraud. If it’s true, I don’t have a great imagination. I’m not creative or gifted or any of that. I’ve only been transcribing events that occurred to me someplace else.
Which makes me not as much of a writer, I think.
I slam the journal shut and do my best to ignore the rock in my stomach. It’s not working. This is some serious freak-out-level crazy. And I have to decide whether I believe it or not.
I hear the door slam downstairs as my mother and Danny leave for work. I glance over at the clock, and I realize I have to leave for work soon myself. Then I have to meet Finn for lunch at Mugsy’s.
If, of course, I actually believe a stranger is talking to me through my dreams and I should meet this stranger for lunch. Because that’s a totally smart and sane thing to do.
I manage to make it through my shift at Wickley’s market handing out samples of organic granola and gluten-free brownie bites that are surprisingly good. At the end of my shift, I have a couple of brownie samples left over that I shove into the pocket of my hoodie for Ben. That’s against the rules, technically, since I’m supposed to throw them away, but that just seems wasteful to me. Ben will be happy to devour them.
I look down at my phone. It’s five after twelve.
My eyes shift down Main Street toward Mugsy’s, which is only a seven-block walk from here. But I’m not going there.
No, I’m not.
It’s a pretty nice day, though. Founder’s Park is only four blocks away in that same direction, and I could sit on a bench in the crisp air and look at all the trees turning colors while I write. It’ll give me real-world inspiration.
With that half-formed thought in my head, I start walking. I find a good spot on a bench and yank my journal out of my bag, opening it to where I left off on my latest story, but of course, I have to thumb through a few pages to get there and doesn’t my stupid thumb land right on the page I shouldn’t be looking at.
Dark hair, green eyes.
I click the ballpoint on my pen a couple of times as I push past that page and find where I left off, and I put my pen to the paper almost hard enough to poke a hole in it. And I write.
I keep writing, glancing nervously at my phone—which is sitting on the bench next to me—at two-minute intervals. Finally, I slam the journal shut with a disgusted sound.
You are an idiot, Jessa. Just get it over with. Go to Mugsy’s. Just be done with it.
I shove everything back in my bag.
This is crazy, and I know it’s crazy.
I’m going anyway.
9
Through
I slide into the seat at Mugsy’s across from Finn at seventeen minutes after twelve, setting my bag down next to me, and then I stare at him, uncertain of what to say.
“Still freaked out?” he asks.
“What do you think?” I ask in a fierce whisper. “People don’t normally communicate between dreams and real life.”
“I told you … we have a different definition of ‘normal.’”
I gesture to the tall cup of coffee in front of me. “Is that supposed to be for me?”
Finn nods. “Caramel mocha with a dash of cinnamon.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I know you, and most of the time, you order that—or something like it.”
“Most of the time?”
He takes a long drink. “I’ll get to that later. But first, you have to let me prove this to you.”
My eyes go wide, and I can feel my tightly clenched hands start to sweat.
“You mean … we’re going to do it? Travel?”
“It’s not painful,” he reassures me. “Or even very hard. And we’ll only stay as long as you want to.”
He stands up and holds his hand out to me.
I have no idea why I take it.
I let him pull me along to the back of the shop, where the lone restroom stands unoccupied. Thank God. He opens the door, and with a quick glance around, we both step inside and he pulls the door shut behind him.
“We do this in the bathroom?”
He rolls his eyes. “We need a mirror. I’m going to show you the basics,” he says, pulling me in front of him to face the mirror. “You’re going to start by looking for the differences.”