Girl Lost (3 page)

“Slow down, girl,” he laughs, his accent thickening. “How is it really?" he asks, the bullshit aside.
This
is why Grayson is still my doctor. He wasn't, at first. He wasn't even on the staff when I was first admitted to Pembrooke. None of the staff could get through to me. They were all too focused on the payday—treating the heir of Barrie Enterprises was a guaranteed meal ticket. None of them saw me or even cared about why I was so off balance.

Until Grayson burst into the Pembrooke commons room and sat down while I read. He got through in a way that no one else did. Not because he believed my delusions were real, but because he didn't dismiss them completely.

"Overwhelming," I say. "My roommate isn't what I expected, and there are just so many people, and I'm so afraid I'll fuck this up."

"How do you think you will?"

I hesitate. I'm not quite ready to tell him about the boy at orientation—not ready to admit that I might have seen him again.

Two years is a long time to deny something. But Grayson is supposed to be my safe place, free of judgments. He doesn’t give a fuck what the board thinks or that I’m supposed to take control of Barrie Enterprise soon—he cares only for my sanity.

"What if I start to see him again?" I ask softly. "What if I'm not as better as we think?"

He pauses and then asks, "Have you seen him?"

"No."

"Then we wait, darling. We don't need to jump at shadows. You’re doing wonderfully. There will be an adjustment period, and that’s fine. But I think you'll thrive at Northern."

I know he does. His faith and Micah's steady presence are the two things that keep me grounded. I would break my own heart before breaking his faith. I take a deep breath and nod. "Ok."

"How are things with Jane?"

I flinch. I don't want to think about her. Or the company everyone expects me to run. "Is there a very good reason for making me the heir?" I ask again.

"Aside from your age? And the fact that the eldest Barrie has controlled the company for almost a hundred years?" Grayson asks.

"Ah, but the previous Barries weren't insane." I take a deep breath. "She'll never trust me with it, you know."

"You have nothing to prove to your aunt, Gwen. She wants to give you control. You just have to show the board that you can be trusted."

I laugh and on the other end of the line, Grayson sighs. I feel bad—I'm worrying him, and I know it. It's not my intention.

"Are you still planning to visit on parents’ weekend?"

I can hear the smile in his voice as he says, "Not that I'm your parent. But yes. We'll both be there."

I nod, and we talk for a few more minutes. I don't want to admit how much better I feel, how just a brief conversation with him settles me. I feel almost in control when I say my goodbyes and promise to call again on Thursday.

I don't see Orchid when I enter the cafeteria, but Micah is in the corner of the large room. The sound presses against me, and I falter, my eyes squeezing shut.

I can do this. Taking a deep breath, I force my feet into motion and approach my brother.

He pushes a bowl of soup and half a ham sandwich with tomato and onion toward me. I lean over and hug him before I turn my attention to lunch. He watches me sidelong for a few seconds, gauging my mood.

"I like Comm," I say through a bite of sandwich. His eyebrows go up. "Well. I probably will
hate
the actual speaking part."

"What about French?" he asks, a smile teasing the corners of his lips.

I smirk. "I tested out."

He laughs, and the tension in his shoulders eases. I give him an affectionate smile, and we talk about classes for a few minutes. Then he taps my wrist with a fork. "You'll be late, Gwen."

I glance at it. He's right. "Can you take this for me?" I ask, giving him a pleading stare. He nods and waves me away.

I take the half second to drop a kiss on his cheek before I bolt.

I get to class with four minutes to spare and ease into a seat with no one near it, toward the back of the room. Lit 101 should be a cake walk, but Grayson thought a few easy classes would keep my stress level down while letting me get to know other students.

Which means I probably shouldn't lurk by myself in the back, but I need a little bit of solitude. After years of it in Pembrooke, being constantly around people quickly grew tiresome. Even people I like.

I pull my text book out of my bag and flip through it idly as the students around me chatter and twitch, waiting for the professor.

The door swings open, admitting another wave of stifled air—and a student. There's a stir of interest. I don't bother to look away from my text.

When someone drops into the seat next to me, I twitch in irritation. The classroom is half empty—so why is he sitting next to me? I glare at my book, and there is a soft chuckle. The bastard, whoever he is, is laughing at me. I grit my teeth and determine to ignore him.

One faceless frat reject doesn't get to throw me off. Not today.

The professor walks in. I straighten, perking up over my notebook.

"Welcome to Lit 101!" The man, a balding man in his mid-fifties, gives us a warm smile. Everything about him is warm, from the frumpy sweater he wears to the way he talks. I relax in my seat, pleased. I will enjoy this class.

There's a cough at my side. I frown. Maybe. A light hand touches my elbow, and I jerk away, knocking my notebook and pen to the floor. Flushing, I reach for it.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Something about his voice is familiar, so I look at him, involuntarily.

A mischievous smirk. Bright green eyes, slightly slanted. A shock of red hair, covered by a dirty ball cap.

No. nononononono
NO
! He’s not real. I swallow the surge of fear and turn to the professor, clenching my pen to hide the way my hand is shaking suddenly.

I can feel him watching me as the professor explains the class and course material. I barely hear it. All I can hear is the boy next to me, his breathing a constant presence, the rasp of his clothes as he shifts anxiously.

Is he real? Is this another delusion? Tears well in my eyes. I want to scream. For the first time, I let myself wonder if I wouldn’t be better at Pembrooke, locked away with all the other insane people.

It’s a mental institute, and it’s my home—and I desperately want it.

And that infuriates me, that this nameless asshole can put me that off balance.

I get through class by sheer force of will, ignoring him. He’s not real. So why waste any time worrying about him?

When Dr. Vossler dismisses class, I slowly slide my books into my bag. I hear the boy moving, and I grit my teeth, waiting.

“Are you going to ignore me forever?” he asks.

I don’t respond. Hallucinations don’t get responses.

“Peter, let’s go, dude!” a blonde frat boy shouts from the front of class. There is a pack of them, and they’re staring at the guy.

Wait.

I can’t breathe. Can’t move. I hear him respond, hear him send the pack of brothers on their way. Hear him shift to stand and gather his stuff.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you earlier,” he says softly.

“They can see you,” I whisper.

The boy—Peter—frowns. “Why wouldn’t they?”

I force myself to look at him. It’s still shocking, the boy from my past staring at me from his face, but there are subtle differences. The eyes aren’t as exotic. The nose has been broken, at least once. A tattoo crawls along the curve of his shoulder and up his neck. His jaw is sharper, the pronounced definition of a man.

He
isn’t
my Boy.

“You o k?”

I blink, realizing I’ve been staring for longer than is probably appropriate.

“Fine,” I blurt.

“You look a little freaked out.”

“You remind me of someone,” I say, not sure what prompts it. I don’t talk about the Boy. Not to anyone but Grayson—and Micah when he pins me down.

Peter’s eyes brighten, narrow on me. “Who?” There is a startling intensity to his tone. I shiver.

“A memory,” I say.

He opens his mouth to say something—and the door to the lecture hall bangs sharply. I jump, and Peter frowns, turning to give the door—and intruder—a dirty look.

I’m surprised to see Micah. He’s watching us, with a little frown creasing his forehead. I grab my bags. Peter starts to speak, but I bolt toward my brother. I catch Micah’s arm and almost drag him from the lecture hall.

I can feel Peter’s eyes, following me as I run away.

“Gwendolyn!”

I keep walking, too fast. We’ve left the lecture hall behind, and I can’t feel Peter’s sharp gaze. For now—but what about Wednesday? What about
every
Monday and Wednesday for the next five months?

Oh, god. What am I going to do? How can I go to class and face him twice a week for five months?

“I have to drop the class,” I say, stopping abruptly. Micah runs into me, and I stumble a few steps before his arms come around me, righting me.

“Talk to me, sis,” he says, an urgent demand. I shudder.

“You won’t believe me,” I whisper. It’s true. Micah has never believed me. Why on earth would he?

“Who was that guy?”

I shudder, reveling in the knowledge that whatever else I may believe, whatever delusions I am under, Peter isn’t one of them. He isn’t a hallucination.

“His name is Peter,” I say. I hesitate—I almost say it out loud, but I can’t yet. I can’t tell him because I refuse to believe it—I refuse to believe I’m that off balance. I am not projecting my Boy’s face on random students.

“Did he hurt you?” Micah asks softly. After the incident with Kyle, he’s been especially worried about that.

I shake my head, too tired to argue with him about Peter and why I’m upset. “No. I’m just not used to all of this.” I wave vaguely. It’s true enough, even if it’s not everything I’m feeling. Micah eyes me, and I go on tip toes to kiss his cheek. “I’m gonna head to my room. I need a nap. See you at dinner?”

He nods, distracted, and I make my escape.

I wonder if there will ever come a day when I don’t look at my brother and see that familiar concern looking back. If I’ll ever meet him and we’ll be able to relax over a bottle of wine and the events of the day, without analyzing what they might do to my tenuous hold on sanity.

I want that, so desperately. Micah deserves a little bit of happiness, and he’ll never find it—hell, he’ll never
look
for it, unless he thinks I’m able to survive without his constant presence.

If there is anything I hate about the Boy, it is that he left me so unbalanced Micah has had to take care of me.

“Why are you here?”

The Boy shifts in his pile of leaves. Fall has settled over Pembrooke, and the grounds are speckled in the golds and yellows and reds of autumn. I sit on a bench, but I can see him from the corner of my eye, crouched there, his movements betrayed only by the crackle of the leaves.

The Boy, picking his way through the skeletons of a thousand dead. A morbid thought if I’ ve ever had one.

“I missed you, pixie girl.”

I shake my head, my curls falling over my cheeks and hiding him. The leaves rustle as he creeps out of the forest to sit by me. It’s been almost two years since the accident—what everyone else has decided to call the
accident
. And he looks the same as he ever did. Sly and secretively amused. Quiet as he comes to my side, but something about him is taut, urgently waiting for some sign from me.

I don’t know what to say to him.

“Micah doesn’t believe me, when I tell him about you.”

“Why bother?” he asks, kicking at the ground. He looks young, in this moment—eternally young.

“Because he’s my brother,” I say dumbly. “My best friend.”

“I told you. No one believes. They will tell you I’m not real. They want to take me away from you.”

“Are you real?”

The Boy, always a fidgeting presence, goes painfully still. His breathing stops, and I force myself to stare at the leaves drifting down, to not glance at him. I can’t look at him.

“You know what happened, Gwen. You know the truth about me.”

I shake my head. “Grayson says the accident could have caused a break—that I could be seeing you because I can’t handle the trauma of being on the
Second Star
with my parents dead.”

He scoffs, an impatient noise. “You know better. You just want to take the easy way out.”

That infuriates me, and I do look at him. Damn him to hell. “Easy?
Easy?
What the hell do you think is
easy
about this? I’m in a mental institute. My best friends are a brother who thinks I’m insane and a doctor who won’t tell me I’m not. I see things no one else does, and you—every time I think I’m getting better, you show up and I can’t decide what I believe.” I’m hysterical, my voice a shouting whisper. He stares at me, cat eyes startled. “My parents are
dead!
What the hell do you think is easy about any of this?”