The Medium

Chapter 10

"You look upset," Jacob said when he finally winked into existence. "Is it my fault?"

"No," I said from the chair beside the fireplace where I'd read the same page of my book five times. I still had no idea what it was about. I'd sat there after fixing my hair, a task which had taken considerable time as I hadn't requested Lucy's help. I didn't want to place her in the awkward position of aiding me in my escape. "Why would it be your fault?"

"It never hurts to check." He sat on the foot of my bed and stretched out his long legs, crossing his ankles. He looked so perfect, so handsome and real with his too-blue eyes regarding me closely. His hair and clothes were dry and I wondered how long it took for that to happen in the Waiting Area. Perhaps it was instant. "So what's wrong?" he asked.

"I had a disagreement with my sister." I waved my hand. "Nothing of consequence."

His eyes narrowed and I thought he'd detected my lie but he let it go with a nod. "So you didn't catch a chill?"

I rolled my eyes. "It would seem not."

"Good. Good."

"It was fun, wasn't it?" I said. "Dancing in the rain."

He breathed deeply and squeezed his eyes shut. "It was irresponsible. You should have waited in the coffee house."

"You're beginning to sound like Celia. It was simply a little rain—."

His eyes flew open and I stilled at the flare of anger I saw in them. "There are many spirits in the Waiting Area who are there because of a little rain."

I bristled and formed a defense in my head but bit my tongue before I could let it free. Nothing I could say would sound appropriate after his outburst because he was right. Sometimes people died from a chill. Usually the old or very young or the weak, but not always. So I blew out a calming breath and thanked him instead.

"What for?" He looked surprised, as if my failure to argue with him had caught him off guard. Almost as if he'd wanted me to disagree.

"Well," I began but stopped. I stood and set my book down on the writing desk then sat beside him on the bed. He lowered his gaze to our hands, inches apart on the bedcover.

And then something happened. His fingers moved ever so slightly towards mine. My breath caught in my chest and I watched, waiting for his fingers to move again, but they did not. Nevertheless, they had moved. Jacob was still looking down at them.

Silence enveloped us but it didn't feel awkward or heavy. More...charged, thick with unspoken words and a thousand jumbled emotions.

All of a sudden I wanted to touch him. I wanted to feel his skin against mine, explore the bruises of his knuckles, the smoothness of his fingernails. I inched my fingers closer and his moved too, towards mine, as if we were two magnets drawn to each other. Finally we touched, just our pinkies, but it felt like a spark jolted through me on contact.

"Emily," he whispered. My name had never sounded so good, like the hush of a gentle breeze across a grassy meadow. "Tell me what you'd been about to say." His voice was buttery soft.

"What?"

"Why are you thanking me?"

"Oh. For caring about my health of course."

His fingers recoiled and curled into a fist as if I'd slapped them away. I felt the abrupt loss of his touch so keenly it hurt. "Don't," he said, desolate.

"Don't what?"

He stood and dragged a hand through his hair and took one step towards the fireplace, backtracked, then changed his mind again and stalked across the room. He picked up the coal scuttle and poured more coal onto the dwindling fire. "Let's discuss what you're going to say to convince my parents I'm dead." He set down the scuttle and, still crouching, watched the fire blaze to life. The dancing flames brightened his face and eyes but did nothing to brighten the dark mood that seemed to have descended upon him.