My fingers itch to touch her, to make sure she’s real and not something I imagined standing in my favorite place in the entire world. Her blue dress flutters in the breeze, with the sun hanging over the tree line and against a cloudless sky. It’s a perfect summer day.
She stretches her arms up, her palms connect above her head, and comes down to touch her heart. She stays like this for a few more seconds. I can’t take my gaze away from her. I drink her in, making note of every detail, how her hair curls at the ends, the rosy color on her cheeks, the curves of her body, how petite she is.
She opens her eyes and smiles. I’m caught staring, but wearing my sunglasses, she can’t tell if I’m looking at her or the lake. She walks to the table and sits opposite me. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Why do you always hide your eyes behind sunglasses?”
Well, fuck. I wasn’t expecting that. I grind my molars and stare her down, even if she can’t see my eyes behind the mirrored lenses. But instead of backing off like everyone else does when I fix my anger on them, she leans over, gently removes my glasses, and then brushes my hair back.
“There . . . you shouldn’t hide your eyes. They’re beautiful.”
I’m hit with something I can’t name—it slides between my many layers of protection and wraps around my chest. It fills me with warm comfort. Her words are like a salve for an old and painful wound. I want to her touch back. “Beautiful has never been a word I associated with my mismatched eyes.”
Her gaze flits all over my face as if trying to devour every feature, every line, and nuance all at once. “Why not?”
I’m not immune to her questions or how she makes me feel. I want to open up to her, unload all my burdens, release all the hurts if it will get her hands on me again. I could give her my standard answer. It’s annoying having people staring and answering questions all the time. It’s just easier to wear sunglasses and avoid both. But I don’t. I tell her the truth instead. “My father hates my eyes. He could never stand to look at me. And he was very vocal about it.”
She frowns. “That’s terrible. It’s not like you have any control over it.”
“Didn’t stop him from blaming me or my mother.” I was called many things because of my eyes—evilanddevil eyeswere at the top of the list. “Wearing sunglasses everywhere became second nature.”
“Your mother went along with it?”
“She tried to protect me the best she could, but she’s a timid woman who never stood up for herself.” Or me.
“But what about kids your age? They didn’t think it was cool?”
I scoff. “Other kids bullied me. And if I tried to defend myself, I got into trouble for it.” It doesn’t matter how many years have passed. Being called names throughout my childhood left a mark. My grandfather was my only friend. I look away. I’m not used to being this open or exposed.
Her frown deepens. “I don’t understand why anyone would act like that.”
“The town was even smaller then. We had a church with a pastor who loved the idea of hell more than God. He preached a lot about all the evil in the world. Anything that didn’t fit his ideas of normal and godliness was a work of the devil. I guess having different-colored eyes made me a target.”
She shakes her head. “I hate people sometimes. There’s nothing evil about Heterochromia Iridum. Your eyes are beautiful and I love them. It’s like looking at the sky and the ocean at the same time.”
There’s not an ounce of flattery or coquetry in her voice. She really means what she says. She loves my eyes. And she knows the name of my condition. I don’t know how to respond, so I give her a water bottle and her meal instead.
I take a long drink of water from my bottle, going back to what she said before I turned into a sappy idiot. I tip the water bottle toward to lake. “It is the same place, but a lot more overgrown. I’m surprised you can recognize it from a . . . vision.”
She unwraps her burger and takes a healthy bite. Covers her mouth, chews, and swallows. “It’s the energy. I recognized the energy first. And it also matches the images I saw.”
I take a bite of my burger and consider what she said. “So, places and objects have energy?” How did I end up in a conversation where I sound like I’m actually buying this crap? Maybe it’s because she seems to believe it. Maybe it’s because I’m attracted to her, or perhaps it’s because if what she says is real, then Grandpa and Emily still exist somewhere.
“Everything has energy. Places, objects, people, animals, plants. We’re all energy vibrating at different speeds. But you don’t have to take my word for it. As I told you before, look up quantum physics.”
“People? You can touch someone and read them?” Can she read my thoughts?
“Not exactly. It’s not the same as reading an object, but in theory, depending on the person and situation, if I tried really hard, I could. But it is not something I actively do or even try to do. Sometimes it happens spontaneously.”
“Like what? You shake someone’s hand and see something?”
She nods and picks up a french fry. “Something like that.”
We sit quietly for a while, thoughts buzzing through my mind like a swarm of bees. If all Ava’s saying is true, the possibility of finding more clues would be invaluable. But I don’t like the idea of someone being able to read me like a book.
I check the time on my phone. It’s almost six. We should have at least another two hours of sunlight.
