The Past-Life Chronicles

1

My name is Willow Raven Solomon, and I don't drive.

A nineteen-year-old with no prospect of a driver's license is a little pathetic, I know.

Okay, a lot pathetic. The thing is, I suffer from a phobia no one quite knows how to cure. And part of that may be because we don't have any idea what caused it in the first place.

It isn't the result of any traumatic event that I'm aware of. Neither is it due to lack of exposure to automobiles. And it's definitely not like I love being chauffeured around Middling, Ohio like some sort of small-town diva. I've never sat behind the wheel of a car, ever. It was simply never up for negotiation. Since the day I was old enough for a learner's permit, I've flat-out refused. It's bad enough in the passenger's seat.

Maybe it's the recurring nightmares about driving a car that suddenly goes out of my control, which have haunted me for as long as I can remember. Or maybe it's the debilitating loss of breath and sense of claustrophobic panic I feel every time I open a car door and climb into my own personal prison—leather or cloth. Maybe it's the way my hands tremble in my lap until I arrive safely to my destination, however close or far, that's made learning, or even wanting to learn, how to drive impossible.

My mind is on cars this morning as I'm on my way into one. I've just finished up some work and shut the laptop. I close my bedroom door behind me and head up the hallway. My timing must be impeccable, for coming up from the bottom stairs of our split-level home at the same moment is a broad, blond figure.

I back into the kitchen and turn around, busying myself in search of a clean thermos from the cabinet.

"Hi."

"Oh, hey." I feign surprise as if I hadn't seen him coming. I grab a thermos and switch on the filtered water faucet. Inwardly, I curse the water pressure on the filter for being so inconsiderately low.

Henry has a bookbag slung over one shoulder. His collared T-shirt looks in need of ironing, and so do his beige khakis. His dirty-blond hair could also use another comb-through. "So, I've got tickets to the football game tomorrow night."

He says this as a statement, but it hangs in the air like a question between us.

My thermos is almost full. Hurry up, I silently urge the faucet. Finally, I switch it off and screw on a plastic lid. When I'm done, Henry's still watching like he expects something. "And?" I ask, trying my best to sound polite.

"I thought we could...maybe...go together?"

"Yeah, we've talked about this." I swipe my hair behind my ears as an excuse to duck away from his relentless gaze. "I have this rule? About not dating my relatives?"

Besides, I hate sports. I'm anything but athletic. Really, he should know by now.

He exhales. "Come on, Wil, it's not like we're actually related."

"As of last year," I squeeze past him and the Formica kitchen counter, "your dad is my stepdad." And it's kind of weird you haven't stopped trying to pick me up since our parents' wedding. Just saying.

Henry laughs, half-exasperated, half-amused. His sheepish smile would truly be charming...if the word 'brother' wasn't part of the title that now describes our domestic relationship. Plus, preppy med school guys aren't my type.

Not that I have a type. That I know of.

He follows me out of the kitchen. "Is that your mom?" He indicates the front window. In the driveway, the used silver Yukon idles, engine rumbling.

"Yeah. She's taking me to Health Haven. Want anything?"

He lifts his keys from the hook on the wall. "You know none of those 'herbal remedies' and supplements they sell are FDA-approved, right?"