Chasing Midnight (28 page)

Four.

Five.

I dig in deeper to the warmth beside me, trying to get closer to so I can’t hear the clock tower. Trying to stop time.

Six.

My hands find the clasp at the back of my neck and start to click it open.
Seven.

There is no panic in me this time, not like the night of the
Ball. Just a calm acceptance of this choice I’m about to make.
Eight.
Because this time I know what I’m doing.

Nine.

I know what I’m choosing.

Ten.

I know what I’m giving up, and why.

Eleven.

The necklace falls to my lap, landing next to Cale’s hands tangled with mine. He looks up at me one last time. Clasps my fingers tighter.

Twelve.

part three

“And there she had taken off her beautiful clothes and laid them on the grave, and the bird had taken them away again.”

"C
INDERELLA
"

BY THE
G
RIMM
B
ROTHERS

one

“G
et up!”

My eyes open to darkness. I blink hard, trying to swim through the confusion, my mind slow to register all that’s going on as I throw off my covers and jump out of bed.

Running into the wall.

“Ow!” Where did that come from?

Rubbing my head, I fall back onto my bed. A sliver of light illuminates the gap between the door and the wall as my eyes slowly adjust, realizing the door is not where it’s supposed to be.

Like a plug being pulled from a tub full of water, the confusion melts. I stare at my old room, barely able to breathe. Everything feels so small and crammed. And
old.
I fall backward onto my old bed and stare up at the textured paint on the ceiling.

I’m back.

I’m back!

My hands fly to my neck, feeling around for the necklace that is no longer there. Tears of both relief and heartbreak cloud my eyes as I lay there, feeling more than ever the weight of the words I’d thrown in Spencer’s face only a day ago:
“Knowing what I lost is so much worse than never knowing at all.”

Cale.

If this was my choice, then why does a little corner of my heart still feel like stone?

I turn over at the sound of someone knocking on the door.

“Are you ready?” A ribbon of light in the doorway widens and Dad steps inside, flipping on the light. I squeeze my eyes shut and cover my face with my hands, afraid to look. Just in case my old dad didn’t make it back.

The light starts flickering on and off at a hundred miles per hour like we’re at a dance party. “Rise and cheer! We’ve won the day . . . ” Dad starts singing his old college fight song in his a cappella voice. Yes,
that
voice—the one that’s high-pitched and off-tune and beyond embarrassing.

But I can’t help it—the corners of my mouth begin to lift upward until I feel a genuine smile on my face. I look up to find him coming at me. He stops at the edge of the bed and leans over me, his face all wrinkled up in concern. “Are you flaking out on me? Why aren’t you ready to go yet, lady?”

Ugh
. . . today of all days. I so do
not
want to go running, and I almost tell him so. But even now I’m held captive by Dad’s relaxed, easy grin—the one I haven’t seen in a week—a face that makes it impossible to say no.

Especially now.

“Okay, okay. Give me a second.”

I throw off my covers, stopping at my mirror on the way there to mourn the familiar bump now back on my nose. It adds
character,
I keep telling myself, trying to believe it. Not sure that I do.

In only two more steps, I am standing in front of my tragically small closet. If you can even call it a closet. When I slide the door open, it gets stuck halfway on its way to the other side, and no matter how much I push or pull it has decided never to move again. Not only that, but there is not enough space inside this closet for all my clothes, either, which is saying a lot considering I don’t even have a lot of clothes. I wonder how I’ll ever find anything in here again.

Crouching on my knees, I dig through a pile of clothes on the floor, searching for a pair of running shoes. Pretty lousy
selection, too, considering there’s only one pair to choose from. But I have to admit it feels somewhat freeing not to have to think fashion this early in the morning.

Just grab and go.

I settle for what looks like black running shorts and a crumpled Nike T-shirt. When I reach down to scoop them off the floor, a bright blue knit heel peeks out at me from under a pair of jeans.

What the . . . ?

In case it’s not clear—I’m expert at identifying not only that signature color of blue, but also the way the back of that particular knit shoe curves at the ankle. In other words, I’m pro. So I know what I’m looking at before I even toss the jeans to the side for verification, and, yes, my breathing has already gone shallow.

Nike Flyknit—
what are you doing here?

I snatch it up, wondering how it made its way from my Struck life to this life, wondering where its other pair is while I scan my room for evidence of some kind of wish-making mishap. But other than this loner Flyknit, everything appears to be normal.

Just to be thorough, I still ransack the rest of my closet, and when I come up empty, I move on to the rest of my room. Nada.

How is it possible to come out of my fairy tale life with a souvenir?
Half
of a souvenir?

“Kenzie-bear. What’s taking you so long?” Dad says from the other side of my door.

I pull it open to find Dad standing in the hallway, a halfeaten banana in his hand, and I can’t help but laugh at his getup. It’s too much this early in the morning. For starters, his basketball shorts are about two sizes too big—practically capris—and his socks aren’t helping, either, the way they’re pulled halfway up his shins. To top that all off, he’s wearing a ratty AC-DC T-shirt, which only confirms the fact that he doesn’t take any of this too seriously. My favorite part of the whole look? The green
headband strapped around his forehead, spilling grayish-brown hair over the sides. It is so geeky, but so
him,
that I rush at him and throw my arms around his neck, reveling in the fact that
this
is my dad, not the one I left behind—loving every inch of this crazy, gopher-hunting, camo-wearing dad.

“I missed you, Dad.”

He chuckles at my insanity but doesn’t release me until I relax. By that time, his banana is gone and only a wilted peel remains in his hand. “You need a rain check this morning, Kenzie-bear?” He lifts my chin with his fingers, his tranquil eyes meeting mine.

“I’m fine. Better than ever, actually. Let’s go!”

Another depressing realization: Not all Nikes are made the same. I never fully appreciated that until now, while we pound the pavement on the creek path as needles shoot up my soles and through my ankles.

My pampered arches need to get back to boot camp.

Okay.

Breathe.

It is. Okay.

“You’re quiet this morning,” Dad says.

We seem to be the only ones out today, probably because the gray backdrop we are running through is on the verge of bursting with rain any minute.

“Just enjoying the run,” I say. “Glad to have you back.”

“Back?” He flips around and starts running backwards. “You’re talking crazy talk, lady.” He halts. “Drop and give me ten, amigo. Now!”

If I weren’t laughing so hard, I would have given him a hundred.

When we come in the back door after our run, the house is alive with sound and movement and smells of breakfast. I feel my throat catch at the sight of two small bodies, one with straight blond hair and the other curly brown, both sitting up at the bar. They are munching on cereal and toast and eggs,
their little voices charging the air with electricity. I can’t move, afraid they might vanish if I do.

Indy’s little arm is engulfed in bandages and pulled tight to his torso in a sling. He moves more slowly than his usual daredevil self, trying to maneuver a spoonful of Cheerios into his mouth without spilling it. He has to be exhausted; I’m surprised to see him up so early with a broken arm and all. Probably can’t stand the idea of life moving on without him.

Dad brushes past me on his way to the sink, chugging down a tall glass of water. Mom looks up from slapping organic peanut butter across a counter full of wheat bread slices. “Was it cold out there? Mackenzie, why aren’t you wearing a jacket? You’re going to catch a cough!”
Catch a cough—
as if coughs are flying around like birds, waiting to be caught. “Your smoothies are in the fridge, but not the green one. That’s for Spencer. Thanks again, honey, for filling in last night. And for helping Spencer too. You were our very own superhero. Like Wonder Woman!”

Last night.
For a second I’m confused because last night I was with Cale, not with . . .

Oh.

“Kenzie?”

And then everything clicks into place . . . last night . . . Indy’s broken arm . . . helping Mom out at the Pumpkin Ball. . . . Today is the morning after all of that. As in, November second. Not a whole week later. How did I not expect that? It makes sense to pick up right where I left off—but still . . .

Ezra spins around and hops off his stool.

“Ezra! Come back here and finish your toast. You know what I told you about not eating the crusts,” Mom says, chasing him down.

He slips out of her reach and pauses in front of me, pushing his blond bangs out of his face. I step toward him, feeling the edges of my stony heart soften. “Hey, bud,” I say, smiling, my heart bursting at this face in my life again.

“Watch out!” Indy has snuck up behind him, an airplane in his good hand, not about to let some lousy compound fracture get in his way of fun. He twirls the airplane around in the air, aiming for Ezra’s head and my torso. I hook my arms around each of them and pull them close to me, crouching down on my knees to indulge in their being.

“Hey!”

“Watch it! You’re smashing my face.”

“I can’t breathe, Kenzie. Knock it off!”

Indy twists out of my hold first, and then Ezra. “Come back here,” I say, standing up. “I’m not done hugging you guys.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Ezra whispers to Indy while stuffing his lunch into his backpack. Indy seems so hesitant, standing there in his pj’s, watching his twin brother barrel out the door without him.

“Hey, are you okay, buddy?” I ask Indy, pulling him into my lap. “That was a pretty bad fall you took. Kinda freaked me out.”

“It doesn’t hurt anymore. The doctor fixed it.”

“I know. Pretty cool sling you have there.”

“I get a cast in six days! And I even get to pick the color. Cool, huh?”

“That’s way cool. I bet you really want pink. Isn’t that right?”

“No I don’t! Pink is for girls.” He laughs and wiggles out of my lap and runs over to the couch, the remote already in his hands.

Dad eyes me over a glass of water and turns to Mom. “What time is Nate getting here? I’m going to try to get off early.”

Nate!
That’s right! I almost forgot. “He’s coming today, right?” I ask for reassurance, jumping up.