Fated (The Soul Seekers #1)(15)
I pause, unsure how to respond. The speech I’d prepared—the one where I make clear that I’m not one to be messed with—is no longer appropriate. So I shake my head and stare at my menu instead. Studying laminated pictures of hamburgers, sandwiches, salads, and pies as though a pop quiz will follow. And still, when the waitress comes for our order, I ask to go last, needing more time to choose something I probably won’t eat.
Jennika orders a coffee with cream, says her stomach’s too nervous—she’ll grab something at the airport or eat on the plane—while Chay forgoes all thoughts of nutrition and asks for a slice of pecan pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side—an act that scores him another point in my favor. And though I’m tempted to do the same, I ask for a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke. Telling myself that if nothing else, it’ll provide a distraction, give me something to toy with if the conversation becomes as unbearable as I expect.
“So, how’s Paloma?” Jennika asks, the moment the waitress moves on.
“Good.” Chay nods, splaying his hands on the paper place setting before him in a way that showcases his intricate silver ring that, from what I can tell, bears the head of an eagle, with deep golden stones standing in for the eyes.
“What’s she up to these days? Still growing herbs, I know, but what else? Is she still in the same place? What does she do for a living? Does she get by purely with the healing? You know I haven’t seen her in years. Not since Django’s funeral, and even then she left early—strange, don’t you think?”
I cast a nervous glance at Chay, wondering how he’ll respond to Jennika’s machine-gun approach. How she shoots a whole spray of questions at a person, then sits back and waits to see which ones, if any, get answered.
But Chay is calm, if not methodical, and he addresses each one as best he can. Saying, “She keeps the same small adobe she’s always had. And it’s true that her garden grows so plentiful she is able to support herself with the money that comes from the healings and herbs. Seventeen years is a long time to go without a word, but I suppose all different people mourn in all different ways.”
Jennika squirms. Chews her bottom lip. Furiously drumming up a whole new set of questions, I can tell just by looking, but stopped short when Chay looks at me and says, “How are you doing? I hear the herbs have provided relief?”
When his eyes meet mine, I have no doubt he’ll know if I lie. A fact that causes me to admit, “They help for a while, but as soon as they wear off, the visions start up again.”
Jennika gasps. Her face a mask of shock, hurt, and an undeniable anger at what she surely views as my betrayal. Holding her words long enough for the waitress to place our dishes before us, then launching into a full tirade the moment she’s gone. “You told me you felt better! You said you weren’t seeing those things anymore! Did you lie to me? I can’t believe this, Daire. I truly can’t believe this!”
I take a deep breath and pluck a fry from the pile, dangling it for a moment, watching it wag back and forth, before I plop it into my mouth, chase it with another, and mumble, “I didn’t lie. I really do feel better.” I duck my head low and take a sip of my Coke. Using the opportunity to sneak a quick peek at Chay, curious to see how he’s reacting to this, but he busies himself with his pie, wisely steering clear of Jennika’s and my awkward mother/daughter dispute. “It works for a while, and it doesn’t make me feel all lazy and foggy and weird like the drugs do. Still, the second it wears off, the visions return. But I didn’t see the point in mentioning it, since it’s not like it would change anything. You’d just end up worrying even more than you already do.”
I shrug, try for a bite of my hamburger, but I don’t have it in me, so I return it to my plate, while Jennika frowns into her coffee. And though it may look tense and awful on the surface, the truth is, I’m grateful for the silence.
That’s how we eat—Jennika alternately frowning and sipping, me toying with my pile of fries, as Chay scrapes his spoon hard against his plate, making sure to get every last trace.
After dabbing the paper napkin over his lips, he leans back against the shiny red banquette, and says, “The food absorbs the energy it’s prepared with, as well as the energy it’s met with. Bad energy, bad meal.” He nods at my uneaten burger, but his eyes flash in kindness.
Then, without another word, he plucks a small pile of bills from his wallet, covers the tab with what looks to be a sizable tip, and ushers us all outside where my entire life changes in the amount of time it takes to transfer a single black duffle bag from a generic rental car to an ancient pickup truck with New Mexico plates.
Just that one simple act, and it’s done. Leaving Jennika to come at me, her face distorted by grief, her shaky arms enveloping me. The two of us clinging in a soggy, incoherent heap of whispered promises and apologies—until I force myself to be the first to withdraw.
Force myself to be strong.
To smile like I mean it, and to not look back no matter how much I long to.
Climbing into Chay’s truck, its engine already idling, getting myself settled beside him as he pulls out of the lot and onto the road, heading toward the place that offers my only real hope.
six
Since Chay gave me permission not to talk, I spend most of the trip napping, reading, and occasionally window gazing. It’s only when we cross state lines into New Mexico that I crack open the red leather journal Jennika gave me, figuring I may as well jot down my impressions while my expectations are few.