Entangled Summer by Michele Barrow-Belisle Page B

how he died in my arms every night, for years? That all had to be confidential, didn’t it?
    Troy reached down and picked a yellow daisy. “They bring good dreams,” he said, then he tucked it behind my ear. His fingers trailed down my neck before he pulled his hand away.
    “Bet you say that to all the girls,” I said softly.
    He smiled, and for the tenth time in that ten minute walk, my pulse went wild.
    “Not all the girls,” he said. “Only the ones with bad dreams.”
     
     
    ***
     
     
    I laid in bed wide awake that night. Sleep was a million miles away with thoughts of Troy filling my very awake mind. All I could think of was our night last year. Our lips meshed together, bodies entwined. I sat up, ripped off the blankets, and let the cool breeze sooth my over-heated skin. Reaching for my phone, I called Troy.
    He answered on the first ring.
    “Hey.”
    “Nora? What are you doing awake? It’s early for bad dreams.”
    “I’ve got the daisy, remember. There’s something I need to know.”
    “Now?” He chuckled, and it sent my insides into hyper-drive.
    “Okay, what’s up?”
    “What’s your favorite color?” I felt stupid and incredibly brave all at once.
    “That’s what you need to know, at midnight? You are something else Nora Dultry.”
    “Seriously,” I said, “favorite color please? I won’t get any sleep til I know the answer.”
    “Not sure how I feel knowing my favorite color is what’s keeping you up at night.”
    There was a long pause as I listened to his deep and even breathing. I could picture him running his hand over his hair as he tried in vain to figure me out.
    “Well?”
    “Turquoise, Nora. My favorite color is turquoise.”

Chapter Eighteen

     
     
    Life at Camp Wanderlust was starting to fall into a weird little rhythm. My days were spent working with students, prepping sets or building marionettes. My nights in secret with Troy, usually at his cottage where we could be alone, and twice a week in Grace’s office undergoing our on-going sessions.
    Today we were delving deeper into her theories on the dream world. I still didn’t know what to make of all of this, but I knew one thing. The guy I’d believed to be a figment of my nightly imagination was apparently a whole lot more.
    Grace leaned back in her chair, crossing one long thin leg over the other, letting her high heeled shoe dangle off the end of her toes. Her hair was in a loose bun today and she had a Polo shirt tucked into her pencil skirt, instead of her typical chiffon blouse. This was as casual as things got for her.
    “The dream world is not an imaginary state,” she said, “It is a place as real as this one. And it’s a place where if you’re not careful you will one day not return from. You’ve already pledged so much of your time and your self there. They know your heart and your mind Nora. They know you wish you could stay and live your dream life.”
    “Let’s just say I buy even an ounce of this insanity. Why me? And how could Darcy possibly keep me there?”
    “It’s a world ruled by possibilities. Keeping you there is as easy as making you believe this world is your dream state and theirs is real. And then one day, you’ll wake from dreaming of this life and never dream it again. It will be on that day we hold your funeral, burying a placeholder instead of your body.”
    I shuddered. Not only because it sounded like a horror movie plot, but because I knew that was what had happened with her daughter Celeste when she disappeared.
    “You can control your life in this world, but there, you are at their mercy. Destined to an eternal life of whatever they decide to throw at you. It can be pleasurable. And it can be horribly painful. Often both at once.
    Yeah. I’d experienced that when Darcy died in my arms at the end of every dream. “So what are you suggesting exactly?”
    “I’m suggesting that you give this life a fair chance. See if what you can receive from this world isn’t