Traveler (Traveler #1)(16)

I put the phone away and brush my teeth. I add a touch of lip gloss and a swipe of mascara, and then I’m heading downstairs to the kitchen, where my mother is pouring a cup of coffee.

“Looks like I timed it just right,” she says. “I thought I heard the water stop in the shower.” She pushes the mug toward me. “I made pancakes, if you want some.”

“Just one,” I say distractedly.

She stares at me, a frown creasing the space between her eyes. “Everything okay?”

I look up guiltily. Am I that transparent? “I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep well.”

She puts a hand to my forehead. “You don’t have a fever. But you don’t work till later, right?”

“I work at nine today. Tomorrow’s an afternoon shift.” I take a sip of coffee. “Oh, by the way, I’m going to the movies with Ben tonight.”

“We’re going to the movies?” Danny calls out from across the room.

“It’s a scary movie, Danny. You wouldn’t like it.”

Danny makes a face. “I want to see Penguin Palooza.”

Mom smiles, shaking her head. “Danny, we’re going to see it tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.” He goes back to his television show.

Mom turns to me. “We’ll be at work till five, and then I promised Danny we’d get pizza. I’ll see you when we get home. Why don’t you go lie down for a little while—you’ve got time.”

I give her a nod, but I know I won’t get any more sleep.

I head back upstairs, whittling away the time by working on my homework. I’m hit with sudden inspiration and open up my dream journal, reading over the entries there. It’s not surprising but definitely unsettling when I realize that I’ve been dreaming about Finn—who is now real and here with me—for months. I may not have known his name, but reading my notes brings the memories of the dreams back, and I connect the fragments easily into a picture of him. Or, more accurately, of us.

I’ve detailed walks in the park, trips to the beach, quiet meetings in coffee shops, and bizarre memories of swimming with dolphins, eating fruit the size of my head, even dancing someplace with palm trees in the background.

And if he’s telling the truth, I’ve lived every bit of it.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been told I have a wild imagination. I’ve had vivid dreams and lost myself in daydreams, and I always felt that was a sign that I was meant to be a writer.

When I was four, my family visited the aquarium. My parents were, as usual, chasing after my six-year-old brother, who had no interest in fish but did have a strong obsession with running up and down the handicap ramps by each set of stairs.

He took off at one point, knocking into a stroller and nearly tipping it over. My mother ran over to make sure the baby inside was all right and apologize to the parents, and my father took off after Danny.

I wandered over to the dolphin display, watching the light behind the giant wall of glass filter through the water, daydreaming about swimming with my dolphin friends in an underwater dolphin kingdom, when something odd happened.

I stood there, spellbound, staring with wide eyes at the girl staring back at me, and I was mesmerized by my own reflection.

They found me there nearly ten minutes later, and my mother scolded me even though Danny was the one who ran away first. She only remembers today that I was lost and scared her half to death.

But I remember these two things:

First, that Danny, as always, had all their attention.

Second, I remember the way my hair rippled and swirled in my reflection on the other side of the glass.

The years passed and things changed and yet they didn’t. They say when you’re left alone a lot as a child, you either act out to get attention or you turn inward, relying on your own creativity to keep yourself company.

This is why I write. If it’s true, all of this has always been a part of me, and to find out there’s a reason is a relief just as much as it makes me feel like a fraud. If it’s true, I don’t have a great imagination. I’m not creative or gifted or any of that. I’ve only been transcribing events that occurred to me someplace else.

Which makes me not as much of a writer, I think.

I slam the journal shut and do my best to ignore the rock in my stomach. It’s not working. This is some serious freak-out-level crazy. And I have to decide whether I believe it or not.

I hear the door slam downstairs as my mother and Danny leave for work. I glance over at the clock, and I realize I have to leave for work soon myself. Then I have to meet Finn for lunch at Mugsy’s.

If, of course, I actually believe a stranger is talking to me through my dreams and I should meet this stranger for lunch. Because that’s a totally smart and sane thing to do.

I manage to make it through my shift at Wickley’s market handing out samples of organic granola and gluten-free brownie bites that are surprisingly good. At the end of my shift, I have a couple of brownie samples left over that I shove into the pocket of my hoodie for Ben. That’s against the rules, technically, since I’m supposed to throw them away, but that just seems wasteful to me. Ben will be happy to devour them.

I look down at my phone. It’s five after twelve.

My eyes shift down Main Street toward Mugsy’s, which is only a seven-block walk from here. But I’m not going there.