to take them.
Then it was over.
14
I shook my head, disorientated. The empty ache inside me seemed so much worse at that moment.
I thought I had overdone it with training, and had a migraine aura; silvery, shimmery stars floated across my vision in the darkening night, as bright as the stars shining above me.
I took a deep breath, and the cold night air rushed into my lungs, making me cough.
“Ellie?”
When I turned I saw Jonathon walking toward me, the candles flickering behind him. The emptiness filled a little, warming me slightly. But I feared it would never truly leave me.
Jonathon was wary, his body tense, his hands jammed into the pockets of his black leather jacket.
I was shivering, and on the verge of tears. An odd sense of melancholy had risen in me and was growing stronger.
I couldn’t seem to pull my thoughts together into anything coherent.
Jonathon pulled off his jacket, and swung it around my shoulders. The smell of him mingled with the leather, enveloping me.
His hands stayed on my shoulders as his jacket settled over my back, the heat from his hands doing more to warm me than the jacket.
A shudder racked my body.
“You’re freezing.” Jonathon pulled me against him, and I rested my face against his chest.
Then the nausea hit me.
“I – I need to go home,” I said as the stars shimmered across my vision again.
My head started to throb, the stars pulsing in time. I hadn’t had a migraine so severe, so sudden, since the day I turned sixteen.
My knees buckled.
I felt Jonathon scoop me up as it began; dark ink spilling into my vision, from the outside in. So that I was seeing through a tunnel that was growing narrower and narrower, until …
I opened my eyes.
My dad and Jonathon were staring down at me, their brows creased with identical looks of concern.
I was on the couch in the living room. My throat was dry and sore. My lips were tender.
“Can I have some water?” I asked, pulling myself up.
“I’ll get it.” Jonathon couldn’t get out of the room fast enough.
“What did you do to him?” I asked my father.
He ignored my question. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. How long was I out?”
“Twenty minutes.” He felt my forehead, his eyes dark with worry.
“I’m fine. Honest. Just tired.”
“I – I thought–” he broke off. “I was about to take you to the hospital.”
This got my attention. “Wow. You were worried.”
Then Jonathon returned, and I greedily gulped down the glass of water he handed me, watching him as he stepped back, and glanced warily at my father.
A laugh bubbled out of me – they were acting like a couple of characters from a cheesy sitcom, when the boy first meets the dad. But as they both looked at me, I turned the laugh into a cough.
“Sorry,” I choked out, holding up the glass. “Went down the wrong way.”
Jonathon cleared his throat, backing toward the door, his head down. Like he didn’t want my father to see his face. “I better go.” He opened the door.
“Thank you. For bringing her back,” my father said, his voice hoarse.
Jonathon nodded, closing the door firmly behind him.
My father stared at the door, the frown returning. “What do you know about that boy?”
I shrugged, suddenly wary. “Not much. Why?”
The anger I expected never came. I would have preferred anger – anger I understood.
What I didn’t understand was the way my father’s shoulders had turned slightly inward. Or the lines of worry and frustration that creased his forehead and seeped down his face, eating into his eyes.
He rubbed his jaw, the movement fast and irritated, the scratchy sound of his beard grating at my sensitive nerves.
“Never mind,” he grunted as he turned away.
His shoulders straightened as he drew in a deep breath, and when he turned around again, the mask of calm strength had come back over his face.
I often felt like I wore a mask, but it had never crossed my mind that my father wore one, too. That he
Then it was over.
14
I shook my head, disorientated. The empty ache inside me seemed so much worse at that moment.
I thought I had overdone it with training, and had a migraine aura; silvery, shimmery stars floated across my vision in the darkening night, as bright as the stars shining above me.
I took a deep breath, and the cold night air rushed into my lungs, making me cough.
“Ellie?”
When I turned I saw Jonathon walking toward me, the candles flickering behind him. The emptiness filled a little, warming me slightly. But I feared it would never truly leave me.
Jonathon was wary, his body tense, his hands jammed into the pockets of his black leather jacket.
I was shivering, and on the verge of tears. An odd sense of melancholy had risen in me and was growing stronger.
I couldn’t seem to pull my thoughts together into anything coherent.
Jonathon pulled off his jacket, and swung it around my shoulders. The smell of him mingled with the leather, enveloping me.
His hands stayed on my shoulders as his jacket settled over my back, the heat from his hands doing more to warm me than the jacket.
A shudder racked my body.
“You’re freezing.” Jonathon pulled me against him, and I rested my face against his chest.
Then the nausea hit me.
“I – I need to go home,” I said as the stars shimmered across my vision again.
My head started to throb, the stars pulsing in time. I hadn’t had a migraine so severe, so sudden, since the day I turned sixteen.
My knees buckled.
I felt Jonathon scoop me up as it began; dark ink spilling into my vision, from the outside in. So that I was seeing through a tunnel that was growing narrower and narrower, until …
I opened my eyes.
My dad and Jonathon were staring down at me, their brows creased with identical looks of concern.
I was on the couch in the living room. My throat was dry and sore. My lips were tender.
“Can I have some water?” I asked, pulling myself up.
“I’ll get it.” Jonathon couldn’t get out of the room fast enough.
“What did you do to him?” I asked my father.
He ignored my question. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. How long was I out?”
“Twenty minutes.” He felt my forehead, his eyes dark with worry.
“I’m fine. Honest. Just tired.”
“I – I thought–” he broke off. “I was about to take you to the hospital.”
This got my attention. “Wow. You were worried.”
Then Jonathon returned, and I greedily gulped down the glass of water he handed me, watching him as he stepped back, and glanced warily at my father.
A laugh bubbled out of me – they were acting like a couple of characters from a cheesy sitcom, when the boy first meets the dad. But as they both looked at me, I turned the laugh into a cough.
“Sorry,” I choked out, holding up the glass. “Went down the wrong way.”
Jonathon cleared his throat, backing toward the door, his head down. Like he didn’t want my father to see his face. “I better go.” He opened the door.
“Thank you. For bringing her back,” my father said, his voice hoarse.
Jonathon nodded, closing the door firmly behind him.
My father stared at the door, the frown returning. “What do you know about that boy?”
I shrugged, suddenly wary. “Not much. Why?”
The anger I expected never came. I would have preferred anger – anger I understood.
What I didn’t understand was the way my father’s shoulders had turned slightly inward. Or the lines of worry and frustration that creased his forehead and seeped down his face, eating into his eyes.
He rubbed his jaw, the movement fast and irritated, the scratchy sound of his beard grating at my sensitive nerves.
“Never mind,” he grunted as he turned away.
His shoulders straightened as he drew in a deep breath, and when he turned around again, the mask of calm strength had come back over his face.
I often felt like I wore a mask, but it had never crossed my mind that my father wore one, too. That he
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