Capturing Today

“My Pairing is a traitor.” – Gabby Creed

I take the concrete steps up to the police department two at a time. Not because I’m excited or in a hurry—far from it. I want this to be over.

A cop opens the door for me, and as I pass, he shakes his head once, slowly. “Sorry to make you come in again.”

“Well, I’m all he’s got.”

He follows me into the lobby. Right away bleach and a lemony pine smell of whatever they mop the floor with burns my throat, making me cough a little. My eyes sting. I blink back moisture. They definitely need to tone down their cleaning rituals.

A potted plant with leaves bigger than my hands decorates the corner. As if they want the place to feel homey. Don’t they know no one wants to be here?

The officer reaches for a stack of cups near the water fountain. “Can I get you water? Or maybe coffee? I think we have tea in back.”

I’m not a mouth-breather, but the smell is so strong I’m forcing myself to breathe that way. “No offense, but I don’t really want to resort here or anything.”

Seemingly against his better judgment, the cop half smirks. As if he appreciates my attempt at humor, but we both recognize there’s nothing funny about the situation. At all. His hint of a smile only lasts a second, and then his shoulders sag. The man is tired. For a split second his eyebrows lift a bit, almost as if he wants to say something encouraging. But he lets them fall back down. How many royal mess-ups of mankind does he deal with on a daily basis? More than I care to think about. He probably carries the stress from every situation around with him.

I never felt a kinship with policemen before. Not before I shifted. But I do now.

“Go ahead and have a seat. I’ll be back with him in a minute.” The cop waves his keys over a lock-pad near a door at the far end of the lobby and heads down the hallway into the secured portion of the building.

A television hangs from the ceiling, and some home improvement show is on. The overly stylish host sends a wink at the screen and then slams a hammer through the wall of the kitchen. Achieving the ever-desirable open floor plan. I’ll never understand the fascination some people have with constantly trying to make their house better. Does everything need to be improved? Why can’t they be satisfied with what they have? With life as it is now?

I scrub my hand down my face.

Okay, I guess I really have no room to talk there.

Reaching into the pocket of my hoodie, I scrunch the money between my fingers and stare at the floor. It’s summer outside, but knowing how cold the air conditioning pumps into these public buildings, I grabbed a sweatshirt on my way out the door. At ten in the morning, the florescent lights still feel too bright. Nothing should be cheery right now. Not the blasted birds chirping outside. Not the woman smiling behind the front desk. Not the sunshine soaking onto the white tiles.

My phone vibrates, and I glance at the screen. It’s a text from Emma.

We need to talk.

I love Emma. I do. But I can’t deal with the drama that always comes with we need to talk at the moment. No one ever says that when they have good news. They just share it. Or they hint that they have something great to tell you. No. We need to talk is always bad.

I tuck my phone back into my pocket.

The door clicks, letting me know they’ve brought Dad out from the back. Don’t look up. He doesn’t deserve eye contact. Not right now.

I press my molars together so hard my jaw hurts.

The policeman clears his throat. “That’ll be three hundred dollars.”

As I stand the stench of alcohol smacks into me with enough force to make me rock backwards and hold my breath. It’s emanating from Dad like he’s been bathing in the stuff for a month. I square my shoulders, brush past my father, and toss the wad of money onto the counter. “All done then?”

“His court date is on the paperwork. Make sure he shows.” Handing over the tickets and forms, the cop coughs. Maybe the mix of bleach, lemon, and alcohol is getting the better of him too. Maybe he feels badly for me. Or maybe he’s fighting a cold and wants me to leave with my dad as quickly as I can. “He needs to hire an attorney. A good one. The court doesn’t look well on two offenses so close together.”

I fold the papers in half and stuff them into my pocket. “Yeah, well, I don’t consider it a great thing either.”

My dad jams his baseball hat onto his head. “You know, I’m standing right here. You can speak directly to me like I’m an adult instead of talking to my child.”

Then act like one.

“You want me to speak to you like an adult, Mr. Creed?” The cop loops his hands on his duty belt and straightens his spine. The tired man from before is gone. He’s morphed into a strong man who isn’t going to let my dad off easy. “Stop driving. You’re not allowed to drive at all until things are settled in court. Got that? Even more, stop drinking. If you don’t, you’re going to wind up dead or responsible for killing someone. You’ve got this young lady to live for. So do it.”

My dad glares at him. “Not like she’s going to be around for long.”

The cop grabs the door and holds it open for us. “With the way you’re acting, I don’t really blame her.”

I grab my dad’s arm and propel him toward the exit. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Words lodge in my throat as I nod at the cop on the way out. Honestly, I want to thank him and tell him that what he does matters, because I wish someone would say the same thing to me.

I’ve spent the last eight months holed up in the library researching history. Not really knowing what to look at but pulling out books each day and taking notes all the same. Twice a month at the nearby shooting range, I’ve worked with different guns, learning to shoot from the instructor. When the weather is behaving, I search for Portals. And I even signed up for a fencing class offered by the park district. I failed miserably at it, but I did try. Promise.

Lark would say that wasn’t enough. Is it strange I miss her?

Not that any of it matters. Eight months without shifting. Which probably means I’m up for the grand ‘Least Wanted by Nicholas’ award or something. I should have known he couldn’t be trusted. People hiding behind curtains pulling strings can never be trusted. Any help I thought Nicholas gave me when I first shifted was in my head. He doesn’t care. I would have shifted again by now if he did.

I lead Dad toward Porter’s small SUV. They towed my dad’s car and put a twenty-four hour hold on it, and we don’t own another vehicle. The police department’s not that far, so I could have ridden my bike, but my dad wouldn’t have made it home walking. As it is, he looks like he’s going to fall asleep while standing. I help him into the passenger seat and buckle his seatbelt. Choke down the queasy feeling in my stomach whenever I get close to him.

Without a word I start the vehicle and pull out onto the main road. About a minute later, I realize my arms are shaking, and I can’t rein in my words any longer. I always have when it comes to him but not this time. I’ll explode if I don’t let them out.

“What’s wrong with you?” There’s a growl in my voice I didn’t know I was capable of. “When we said good night yesterday, you were sober. We had a good night. We even had fun.” I made steaks with a butter sauce for dinner—a dinner he declared was perfection—we watched a movie and played a card game. We laughed. We hugged before going to our rooms.

What did I do wrong to set him off again?

Dad slumps into his seat a little and stares out the window. “What do you care? You’re just going to leave. Just like her.”

It will always come back to my mom, won’t it?

We come to a stoplight, and I jam on the brakes so much harder than needed. My dad lurches forward in his seat, the seatbelt snapping him back. He winces and rubs his forehead.

He’s had me for the past eight months but has been in mourning the whole time. In a sense, I get it. The situation is harder for him. When I was shifting and spent time at Keleusma, what felt like a couple weeks to me was five months in my father’s time. Five months of him not knowing if he’d ever see me again. Wondering where I was and if I would be okay. Fearing that he’d set me up to die since he hadn’t trained me for my shifting duties. Telling anyone who asked about me that I’d taken off to explore the world and find myself after graduating high school.

So, yes, I get that he had a really, really rough five months.

But it’s not like I’ve up and disappeared again. I’ve been here, next to him, every day since returning. I turned down a chance to go away to college with my friends, sticking with community college for now. In order to stay with him.

My knuckles turn white as I grip the steering wheel. I used to try to protect him. I used to swallow my words for the sake of peace. That’s changed.

“How can you even say that? It’s not like I have a choice. She didn’t have a choice either. You’re the only one who could have chosen not to live like this, and you still chose Mom. So don’t ever throw that at me again.”

Someone behind me beeps their horn. How long have we been at the stop sign?

“A choice?” His laugh holds no humor. “I didn’t have a choice. I got screwed for my entire life. You know that.” The sunlight cuts harsh shadows over the planes of his face. How much weight has he lost in the past year? It’s not like he was a big man to begin with. Now, all his clothes hang on his frame. “Love isn’t a choice, Gabby. It’s a sickness. It makes you do things … promise things … It’s weakness.”

I have no rebuttal. None. What do I know of love?

In the short time it takes to get home, Dad falls asleep against the passenger’s door, snoring like a bear, mid-winter. The second I bump over the curb of our driveway, Porter jogs over from the porch.

He’s at my door when I pull out the key. And his hands find my waistline as I slide out of the vehicle. “I’m sorry I took your Jeep without asking. Your mom gave me the keys and—”

“Don’t. I wish she would’ve woken me so I could have gone for you.” Porter’s green eyes rake over my face. “Are you okay?”

Deflect. “Should we just leave him in the car?” I point my thumb over my shoulder, indicating my dad.

Porter shakes his head. “It’s too hot out. I’ll help him inside. Get the doors for me?”

Right. July. In Chicago. It’s morning still, and there’s already a trickle of sweat going down my back. People die in cars in this kind of weather.

Not wasting any time, Porter rounds the Jeep, opens the door, and eases my groggy father out of the seat and onto his feet. Supporting his weight, he leads him to our front door and helps him navigate the stairs. Dad mutters something, but I can’t make it out.

I trail them up the stairs, but Porter stops me at my dad’s bedroom door. “He needs to change his clothes. Let me get him settled. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

I should fight Porter. Tell him Dad’s my responsibility to deal with. But frankly, I’m sick of being the one to handle him all the time. Porter is only home on break from college for a month before soccer related activities start to eat up all his time, so I let him take over and head down to wait in our living room.

Minutes later the stairs creak, letting me know Porter’s on his way down.

I pace over to the door, ready to thank him and then usher him out, but Porter pauses on the steps, and the left side of his mouth tugs a little bit. “Come here.” He takes the last step and then pulls me against his chest. “I’m sorry about that.”

He’s wearing a blue t-shirt that’s been washed so many times it’s softer than a favorite blanket. I burrow my ear into the fabric, like a small animal in search of heat. I want to hear his heartbeat. Don’t ask me why.

And yet, I’m supposed to feel something when Porter holds me like this. Right?

Don’t get me wrong, I do feel something. But I don’t think it’s what I’m supposed to feel. If that makes sense.

With Porter, I feel safe. He helps me breathe slow and even. If I’m a boat being tossed in a hurricane, he’s an anchor holding me in place so I don’t drift quite too far into the sea.

Is that love?

I wish I knew.

Porter pushes me back so he can make eye contact. “Let’s go for a ride.”

I bite my lip, stalling for a second. I should stay home and dig into the pioneer book I checked out from the library last night. I should … Enough of should.

“Why not?” I shrug away from his touch and grab the small backpack I’ve carried with me everywhere for the last eight months. Sling it over my shoulder. “Lead the way.”

Porter holds the front door for me and does the same with the passenger door before climbing in himself. He’s oddly quiet as he pulls out of our subdivision. Then again, it’s been a strange morning.

Near the busiest street that cuts through our town, he turns toward the expressway. “Where are we going?” Not that I care. I don’t have anything important going on at home. But still, going for a short ride to blow off steam and hopping on the expressway like we used to do in high school when we were searching for adventures are two different things.

Porter rams his Jeep into a higher gear as he merges onto the highway. “Did you have to bring that along?” He keeps his eyes trained on the road.

“Of course. It has my shifting clothes in it. You know I have to be ready at any time. I have to—”

“It hasn’t happened again. Has it? Not since the first time?”

Breathe. Take a breath. Another. I want to yell at him, but it’s not Porter’s fault I’m not wanted. But seriously, does he have to poke a bruise?

Porter glances over at me. “You owe me answers, Gabs. I should know everything you know. Last summer you disappeared, and then I couldn’t speak about it. I physically couldn’t tell anyone. I tried.” The speedometer is inching past eighty-five. He’s so worked up. “I tried a hundred times to tell someone, but my mouth would lock up. I walked into a police department to report that you were missing, and I could only stammer. They took me in an ambulance to the ER because they thought there was something wrong with me.” He cuts off a sedan. Porter’s told me all of this many times before, but I don’t dare interrupt him. “Do you know how messed up that is?” The speedometer climbs past ninety.

“Please, slow down.” I press my foot into the ground like I’m hitting imaginary brakes.

“I could only talk to your dad. I had to get all my answers from him. Had to hear from him that you and I are somehow meant to be together. I should have heard that from you. Do you know how that felt?”

“I didn’t know anything. You know that. I would have told you if I had.”

“Would you have?”

I can’t answer his question, so I let it hang in the air.

He takes the next exit, and we rocket down a country road. That’s the thing about where we live. We might be in a suburb thirty minutes outside of Chicago, but when it comes to the expressway, we’re only minutes from the invisible line in Illinois where everything turns into farmland. I’ve tagged along to enough of Porter’s family parties to know he has cousins on the Jensen side of his family that live in this town. They raise soybeans and hogs on a large plot of land that’s near a bunch of wind turbines.

Sadly, all it means to me is that, besides the sparse few found next to the spaced-out homes, we’re far from trees. Which means no Portals. Why did I even bother bringing my bag?

Porter banks around a corner at full speed, causing him to lose control of the Jeep momentarily. We fishtail before he regains the road.

I brace a hand on the dashboard. “Slow down.”

“Come on, that was fun.” Porter’s eyes dance with mischief, and he weaves his vehicle across the road.

“I’m serious.” I grab the handlebar on the ceiling. “Stop doing stuff like that.”

“Stuff like what?” His Jeep revs, and he overtakes a semi on a blind curve. “Like this?”

“Yes. Stop.” My heart is pounding against my ribs like a caged jackrabbit.

He slows but not enough. The tires grab for traction as he drifts onto the dirt shoulder. Thankfully, his cousins’ land comes into view, and he turns down their pebbled driveway. None of the usual trucks are parked out front, and no dogs run out to greet us.

“They’re on vacation. I have to feed the horses and check the house.” Porter jams the Jeep into Park and then turns to face me. “You used to be fun. Used to actually enjoy doing things. What happened to you?”

“You think almost getting killed is fun?”

“Relax, will you? We didn’t almost anything.” He rolls his eyes. “The old Gabby would have laughed it off. She would be begging me to take the Jeep out into the field and do donuts.”

He’s probably right.

My mouth goes dry.

How can I explain it to him? Once you’ve seen people die … once you’ve had guns pointed at you and unloaded as you ran for your life … once a Shade has looked you in the eye—suddenly danger for the sake of an adrenaline rush doesn’t hold much appeal.

I lick my lips, getting ready to offer some sort of an answer. After all, he’s my Pairing. I owe him the truth. Don’t I?

Porter unbuckles his seatbelt. “It’s him. Isn’t it? That Michael.”

Why did I ever tell Porter about Michael? Each time we talk, Porter finds a way to bring him up and ask for more information. But thankfully, most of the time I’ve been back, Porter’s been away at school. I mean, it’s annoying when him and Emma call and are both speaking into the phone, telling me everything I’m missing out on by not going to the same college. But truth be known, I haven’t missed Porter much.

Which makes the whole Pairing thing even more confusing.

I ease the backpack on and hunch with it on my back in the passenger seat like a turtle. “Michael has nothing to do with this.”

“Wrong. He has everything to do with what’s happened.” Porter shoves open his door and heads toward the giant red barn.

I trail after him. “I don’t even know what you mean.”

My phone beeps in my pocket. I tug it out. Another missed call from Emma. “Do you know why Emma’s so desperate to talk to me?”

Porter freezes in his tracks. “Emma’s trying to get in touch with you?”

“She says we need to talk. I have two missed calls from her.”

He rakes his hand through his shaggy, blond hair and blows out a long stream of air as he narrows his eyes against the bright daylight. “It’s hot in the sun. Let’s get inside.”

I follow him, but the second we’re inside the barn I snag his arm and make him face me. Porter and I have been friends our entire lives, which makes me an expert at reading him. He’s hiding something. “Clearly, you know what’s up with Emma. Fill me in.”

Porter throws his hands in the air. “We kissed. Okay? We kissed. That’s all.”

“You … kissed her?” I take a few steps back until my bag is flush with the barn’s wall. I brace my hands against the nobs in the wood. The air in the barn is stifling, making it feel like I have to work harder than normal to take a simple breath. Horse stalls carrying the smell of damp, dirty straw that should have been mucked out a day or two ago probably aren’t helping either.

Porter drops his gaze to the ground. “It was more along the lines of making out.”

My stomach jolts. “But you’re my Pairing.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s not like I’m getting any action from you.”

“Porter.”

In three strides he eats up the distance between us until we share the same breath. His eyes search mine for a few seconds, almost like he’s going to kiss me. Now would not be his best chosen moment.

But I should want him to kiss me. Shouldn’t I?

“I have been in love with you for as long as I can remember.” His words land hot against my cheek. “For my whole life, Gabs. But you’ve always pushed me away. You’ve always made me wait.”

I swallow hard. “Don’t be dramatic.” I sidestep him, so I can get away. “It hasn’t been your whole life. For starters, you’re a year older than me. Remember? I skipped a grade. So there’s a whole year for you that I didn’t even exist.” My smile falters when I see his jaw muscle pop. Evidently, he doesn’t appreciate my stab at humor. “You make it sound like I’ve kept you dangling for forty years, when we were kids for most of our friendship.”

He rounds me, blocking my path. Stupid, fast moving, soccer player. “If we’re a Pairing, like you’ve said we are, why wait? Why aren’t we together? Honestly, if it’s like you say it is with shifting people, then why not strip down now and take a roll in the hay right here?” He points toward the hay bales that are stacked against the far wall of the stables. “Maybe that’s what you need to get over this head block of yours when it comes to me. I’m serious.”

Tears clog my throat. What’s my problem? I feel so trapped.

Leaning toward me, he clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides. His eyes spark with an intensity I’ve never seen before. “What are we waiting for?”

“I don’t know.” My voice sounds so hollow.

“I wish you did. I really do. But I can’t wait for you anymore.” He rocks back on his feet, away from me. “If you would talk to me … if you showed the least bit of affection, I could walk through all this with you. But I’m not waiting for you to get your head together. I can’t hang everything on hope when it comes to you any longer. It’s such a waste of time.” Like a conductor at the end of a musical number, he holds up his hand and makes a cutting off motion. “I’m done.”