Capturing Today (TimeShifters Book 2) (2 page)

My knuckles turn white as I grip the steering wheel. I used to try to protect him. I used to swallow my words for the sake of peace. That’s changed.

“How can you even say that? It’s not like I have a choice. She didn’t have a choice either. You’re the only one who could have chosen not to live like this, and you still chose Mom. So don’t ever throw that at me again.”

Someone behind me beeps their horn. How long have we been at the stop sign?

“A choice?” His laugh holds no humor. “I didn’t have a choice. I got screwed for my entire life. You know that.” The sunlight cuts harsh shadows over the planes of his face. How much weight has he lost in the past year? It’s not like he was a big man to begin with. Now, all his clothes hang on his frame. “Love isn’t a choice, Gabby. It’s a sickness. It makes you do things … promise things … It’s weakness.”

I have no rebuttal. None. What do I know of love?

In the short time it takes to get home, Dad falls asleep against the passenger’s door, snoring like a bear, mid-winter. The second I bump over the curb of our driveway, Porter jogs over from the porch.

He’s at my door when I pull out the key. And his hands find my waistline as I slide out of the vehicle. “I’m sorry I took your Jeep without asking. Your mom gave me the keys and—”

“Don’t. I wish she would’ve woken me so I could have gone for you.” Porter’s green eyes rake over my face. “Are you okay?”

Deflect. “Should we just leave him in the car?” I point my thumb over my shoulder, indicating my dad.

Porter shakes his head. “It’s too hot out. I’ll help him inside. Get the doors for me?”

Right. July. In Chicago. It’s morning still, and there’s already a trickle of sweat going down my back. People die in cars in this kind of weather.

Not wasting any time, Porter rounds the Jeep, opens the door, and eases my groggy father out of the seat and onto his feet. Supporting his weight, he leads him to our front door and helps him navigate the stairs. Dad mutters something, but I can’t make it out.

I trail them up the stairs, but Porter stops me at my dad’s bedroom door. “He needs to change his clothes. Let me get him settled. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

I should fight Porter. Tell him Dad’s my responsibility to deal with. But frankly, I’m sick of being the one to handle him all the time. Porter is only home on break from college for a month before soccer related activities start to eat up all his time, so I let him take over and head down to wait in our living room.

 Minutes later the stairs creak, letting me know Porter’s on his way down.

I pace over to the door, ready to thank him and then usher him out, but Porter pauses on the steps, and the left side of his mouth tugs a little bit. “Come here.” He takes the last step and then pulls me against his chest. “I’m sorry about that.”

He’s wearing a blue t-shirt that’s been washed so many times it’s softer than a favorite blanket. I burrow my ear into the fabric, like a small animal in search of heat. I want to hear his heartbeat. Don’t ask me why.

And yet, I’m supposed to
feel
something when Porter holds me like this. Right?

Don’t get me wrong, I do feel
something
. But I don’t think it’s what I’m supposed to feel. If that makes sense.

With Porter, I feel safe. He helps me breathe slow and even. If I’m a boat being tossed in a hurricane, he’s an anchor holding me in place so I don’t drift quite too far into the sea.

Is that love?

I wish I knew.

Porter pushes me back so he can make eye contact. “Let’s go for a ride.”

I bite my lip, stalling for a second. I should stay home and dig into the pioneer book I checked out from the library last night.
I should
… Enough of should. 

“Why not?” I shrug away from his touch and grab the small backpack I’ve carried with me everywhere for the last eight months. Sling it over my shoulder. “Lead the way.”

Porter holds the front door for me and does the same with the passenger door before climbing in himself. He’s oddly quiet as he pulls out of our subdivision. Then again, it’s been a strange morning.

Near the busiest street that cuts through our town, he turns toward the expressway.

“Where are we going?” Not that I care. I don’t have anything important going on at home. But still, going for a short ride to blow off steam and hopping on the expressway like we used to do in high school when we were searching for adventures are two different things.

Porter rams his Jeep into a higher gear as he merges onto the highway. “Did you have to bring
that
along?” He keeps his eyes trained on the road.

“Of course. It has my shifting clothes in it. You know I have to be ready at any time. I have to—”

“It hasn’t happened again. Has it? Not since the first time?”

Breathe. Take a breath. Another.
I want to yell at him, but it’s not Porter’s fault I’m not wanted. But seriously, does he have to poke a bruise?

Porter glances over at me. “You owe me answers, Gabs. I should know everything you know. Last summer you disappeared, and then I couldn’t speak about it. I physically couldn’t tell anyone. I tried.” The speedometer is inching past eighty five. He’s so worked up. “I tried a hundred times to tell someone, but my mouth would lock up. I walked into a police department to report that you were missing, and I could only stammer. They took me in an ambulance to the ER because they thought there was something wrong with me.” He cuts off a sedan. Porter’s told me all of this many times before, but I don’t dare interrupt him. “Do you know how messed up that is?” The speedometer climbs past ninety.

“Please, slow down.” I press my foot into the ground like I’m hitting imaginary brakes.

“I could only talk to your dad. I had to get all my answers from him. Had to hear from him that you and I are somehow meant to be together. I should have heard that from you. Do you know how that felt?”

“I didn’t know anything. You know that. I would have told you if I had.”

“Would you have?”

I can’t answer his question, so I let it hang in the air.

He takes the next exit, and we rocket down a country road. That’s the thing about where we live. We might be in a suburb thirty minutes outside of Chicago, but when it comes to the expressway, we’re only minutes from the invisible line in Illinois where everything turns into farmland. I’ve tagged along to enough of Porter’s family parties to know he has cousins on the Jensen side of his family that live in this town. They raise soybeans and hogs on a large plot of land that’s near a bunch of wind turbines.

Sadly, all it means to me is that, besides the sparse few found next to the spaced out homes, we’re far from trees. Which means no Portals. Why did I even bother bringing my bag?

Porter banks around a corner at full speed, causing him to lose control of the Jeep momentarily. We fishtail before he regains the road.

I brace a hand on the dashboard. “Slow down.”

“Come on, that was fun.” Porter’s eyes dance with mischief, and he weaves his vehicle across the road.

“I’m serious.” I grab the handlebar on the ceiling. “Stop doing stuff like that.”

“Stuff like what?” His Jeep revs, and he overtakes a semi on a blind curve. “Like
this
?”

“Yes. Stop.” My heart is pounding against my ribs like a caged jackrabbit.

He slows but not enough. The tires grab for traction as he drifts onto the dirt shoulder. Thankfully, his cousins’ land comes into view, and he turns down their pebbled driveway. None of the usual trucks are parked out front, and no dogs run out to greet us.

“They’re on vacation. I have to feed the horses and check the house.” Porter jams the Jeep into Park and then turns to face me. “You used to be fun. Used to actually enjoy doing things. What happened to you?”

“You think almost getting killed is fun?”

“Relax, will you? We didn’t almost anything.” He rolls his eyes. “The old Gabby would have laughed it off. She would be begging me to take the Jeep out into the field and do donuts.”

He’s probably right.

My mouth goes dry.

How can I explain it to him? Once you’ve seen people die … once you’ve had guns pointed at you and unloaded as you ran for your life … once a Shade has looked you in the eye—suddenly danger for the sake of an adrenaline rush doesn’t hold much appeal. 

I lick my lips, getting ready to offer some sort of an answer. After all, he’s my Pairing. I owe him the truth. Don’t I?

Porter unbuckles his seatbelt. “It’s him. Isn’t it? That Michael.”

Why did I ever tell Porter about Michael? Each time we talk, Porter finds a way to bring him up and ask for more information. But thankfully, most of the time I’ve been back, Porter’s been away at school. I mean, it’s annoying when him and Emma call and are both speaking into the phone telling me everything I’m missing out on by not going to the same college. But truth be known, I haven’t missed Porter much.

Which makes the whole Pairing thing even more confusing.

I ease the backpack on and hunch with it on my back in the passenger seat like a turtle. “Michael has nothing to do with this.”

“Wrong. He has everything to do with what’s happened.” Porter shoves open his door and heads toward the giant red barn.

I trail after him. “I don’t even know what you mean.”

My phone beeps in my pocket. I tug it out. Another missed call from Emma. “Do you know why Emma’s so desperate to talk to me?”

Porter freezes in his tracks. “Emma’s trying to get in touch with you?”

“She says we need to talk. I have two missed calls from her.”

He rakes his hand through his shaggy, blond hair and blows out a long stream of air as he narrows his eyes against the bright daylight. “It’s hot in the sun. Let’s get inside.”

I follow him, but the second we’re inside the barn I snag his arm and make him face me. Porter and I have been friends our entire lives, which makes me an expert at reading him. He’s hiding something. “Clearly, you know what’s up with Emma. Fill me in.”

Porter throws his hands in the air. “We kissed. Okay? We kissed. That’s all.”

“You … kissed her?” I take a few steps back until my bag is flush with the barn’s wall. I brace my hands against the nobs in the wood. The air in the barn is stifling, making it feel like I have to work harder than normal to take a simple breath. Horse stalls carrying the smell of damp, dirty straw that should have been mucked out a day or two ago probably aren’t helping either.

Porter drops his gaze to the ground. “It was more along the lines of making out.”

My stomach jolts. “But you’re my Pairing.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s not like I’m getting any action from you.”

“Porter.”

 In three strides he eats up the distance between us until we share the same breath. His eyes search mine for a few seconds, almost like he’s going to kiss me. Now would not be his best chosen moment.

But I should want him to kiss me. Shouldn’t I?

“I have been in love with you for as long as I can remember.” His words land hot against my cheek. “For my whole life, Gabs. But you’ve always pushed me away. You’ve always made me wait.”

I swallow hard. “Don’t be dramatic.” I sidestep him, so I can get away. “It hasn’t been your whole life. For starters, you’re a year older than me. Remember? I skipped a grade. So there’s a whole year for you that I didn’t even exist.” My smile falters when I see his jaw muscle pop. Evidently he doesn’t appreciate my stab at humor. “You make it sound like I’ve kept you dangling for forty years, when we were kids for most of our friendship.”

He rounds me, blocking my path. Stupid, fast moving, soccer player. “If we’re a Pairing, like you’ve said we are, why wait? Why aren’t we together? Honestly, if it’s like you say it is with shifting people, then why not strip down now and take a roll in the hay right here?” He points toward the hay bales that are stacked against the far wall of the stables. “Maybe that’s what you need to get over this head block of yours when it comes to me. I’m serious.”

Tears clog my throat. What’s my problem? I feel so trapped.

Leaning toward me, he clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides. His eyes spark with an intensity I’ve never seen before. “What are we waiting for?”

“I don’t know.” My voice sounds so hollow.

“I wish you did. I really do. But I can’t wait for you anymore.” He rocks back on his feet, away from me. “If you would talk to me … if you showed the least bit of affection, I could walk through all this with you. But I’m not waiting for you to get your head together. I can’t hang everything on hope when it comes to you any longer. It’s such a waste of time.”  Like a conductor at the end of a musical number, he holds up his hand and makes a cutting off motion. “I’m done.”

“You can’t be done. It doesn’t work like that.” I stalk after him as he heads toward a large bin full of grain feed. Each step we take causes dust from the floor to puff into the air. Shafts of sunlight filter in from a gap near the wall and the roof, as if we’re on a stage acting out a play with spotlights on us. 

Porter spins around into my personal space. “Then tell me, how—exactly—does it work?” The word
exactly
is more growled than spoken.