Time Between Us by Tamara Ireland Stone Page A

opened them, I was back home.”
    He reaches for his coffee and takes a deep sip, and I just sit there hanging on every word, watching his mouth pucker against the rim of the mug and his tongue lick the residue from his lips.
    He rests his coffee cup back on the counter, and I force myself to look at his eyes instead of his mouth. “Wait. You actually went to your school? In the middle of the night?”
    He nods. “I did it a few more times again that week, staying close to home—the park, the movie theater, the grocery store. I never stayed more than a minute or so. Eventually, I started interacting with people to be sure they could see and hear me, and they could. I was really there.”
    “What about the migraines?” I ask.
    “I didn’t have them in the beginning—it wasn’t painful at all. The big problem back then was that I had no idea how to tell my parents. I was terrified they’d take me to doctors or just straight to a mental ward.”
    I can’t imagine keeping that kind of secret from my parents. Not at sixteen, let alone ten.
    “When I was twelve, I decided to find out what happened to me when I left. I set our video camera on a tripod, pressed record, and focused my mind on a seat in the back of the theater just down the street. I sat there and timed myself with my stopwatch, waited exactly ten minutes, and returned. The video shows me sitting in my room with my eyes closed; then I disappear, and the film continues, taping an empty chair. Ten minutes later, I reappear.”
    He stops and looks at me, then continues. “A few weeks after that, my parents found out. My mom woke up in the middle of the night and found my bed empty. She combed the house, and when she couldn’t find me, she decided to call the police. She’d already pushed nine and one when I reappeared before her eyes. Scared the crap out of her.” He smiles at the memory. “I told them everything that night. Showed them the video.”
    He stops again. “How are you doing with this?”
    “It’s sinking in.” At least, I think it’s sinking in. I can feel my head nodding, so I must comprehend it at some level. “So, what did your parents do when they found out?”
    He rolls his shoulders backward and gives his arms a little shake. “Mom freaked out. She still hasn’t gotten over it. She wants me to see doctors and psychiatrists—anyone who can ‘fix’ me—even though I’m not allowed to tell them what’s ‘wrong’ with me. But my dad…Now, Dad loves it. He thinks I could be, like, some comic-book hero or something. And he sees that I have total control over it, so he doesn’t worry, but he’s gotten a little pushy.” He looks down at the counter. “Anyway, they see it differently, so when my parents aren’t fighting with me about my ‘gift,’ they’re fighting with each other about it.”
    I feel sad for him. “You saved my life last night. Tell your parents about that.”
    “Last night was fun.” His eyes light up with excitement. “I’ve always worried about doing so many sequential hops, but last night I did a bunch in a row without getting the headache until the very end. I’m thinking it has something to do with the adrenaline—” He stops short. “But it was so stupid. If the migraine had hit me when I moved from the bookcase to your side, that guy could have killed you.”
    “But it didn’t happen that way.”
    He closes his eyes tight, then opens them and looks at me. His voice is sincere, regretful. “I didn’t think first, Anna. I just saw you in trouble and I reacted. I can’t do that. I have to plan and calculate so I don’t…screw anything up.”
    I just grin at him. “Well, if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to be grateful anyway.”
    He smiles and watches me, but I’m not sure what he’s looking for.
    “What?” I ask.
    “What would you think about taking this conversation somewhere else?”
    “You want to go out in that?” I point toward the kitchen window at the snow and