Break Away (Away, Book 1) Read online

  Unlike us, Aunt Morgan and Mom were an exact copy of each other. But like us, their wardrobe was completely and entirely miles away from being similar. Mom used to wear jeans, button up shirts and heels. Aunt Morgan always dressed with ankle skirts, chiffon blouses and ballet flats, like one would imagine a teacher would dress. And her clothing today didn’t disappoint—white flowery chiffon blouse, brown ankle skirt, brown corduroy ballet flats—it described her style to perfection.

  Aunt Morgan’s eyes left Buffy’s face and found mine. That unnervingly familiar sapphire, the same that had put me to bed so many times when I was little, was searching the indigo ocean filling my irises, looking for a connection that I wasn’t ready to give.

  I stood up and broke our stare. “I’m hungry. I'll get something to eat.” Without looking in Aunt Morgan's direction again, I told her with a wave of my hand, “Take my seat,” and left the room eager to leave those eyes.

  The brightly lit hallway had been recently cleaned. The sharp scent of disinfectant still lingered on the vinyl floor. Shadows of doors opening and carts strolling reflected on its shiny surface, as if it was the mirror of a parallel dimension. I sat down on a row of chairs outside Buffy's room and waited, waited for my chest to lighten its weight, waited for Gran's brain to pick up my pleading waves. I'd been telling the truth. I was hungry, and I needed money. I'd spent all I had on vending machines, and I wasn't going to enter that room until Aunt Morgan left.

  Suddenly, my jeans pocket vibrated. I fished out my cell phone and saw Linda had sent me a message.

  Forgot to tell you I didn't find anything on Dan. But our conversation took an interesting direction. Lol. He's actually pretty cool.

  The ghost of a smile appeared on my lips and I wrote back.

  You'll have to tell me all about it when you get back. Enjoy the trip!

  Will do :)

  I knew she would kill me later for not telling her about Buffy, but I didn't want to spoil her spring break with dark news, and honestly, I didn't have the energy to talk about it.

  The tips of a pair of battered boots appeared under my eyes. I knew those boots.

  I looked up, shoving back the cell phone in my pocket, and saw a Milky Way bar a few inches away from my face. “You must be hungry,” Ian said with bloodshot eyes. Dark rings circled his eyes. He must've stayed in the hospital all this time.

  I took the chocolate with a growl in my stomach. “Thanks.”

  He sat next to me and sighed. “You know, the cafeteria is open twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Not interested.”

  “Not that great anyway.”

  We stayed silent. I peeled back the paper from the chocolate and plunged the sweet concoction into my mouth. I swallowed back a moan. Never had a chocolate tasted that good. I took two more bites and ended its existence. And never had a chocolate felt so small. It'd left me starving!

  I was so going to sue Hersheys. No, scratch that. I was going to sue Mars, I thought looking down at the small logo.

  “The cafeteria is on the first floor,” Ian suddenly said.

  I glanced at him. An amused smile played on his lips as he watched the brown wrinkled paper in my hands.

  “Real food is always better than vending junk.” He was trying to convince me to eat. How interesting. There was no trace of that anger I’d seen in his face at the house, only a soft blush of rose in his cheeks that bordered on pale. Ingesting calories while in sleep deprivation did that to people's skin, I guessed.

  When I didn't respond, he embarked on the mission again. “I mean, if we talk about quality food, Lola is the queen, but—”

  “Lola?” I arched my eyebrow.

  “Yeah, she rocks the kitchen like nobody. But Candace Spencer sure knows how to make a good tomato soup.”

  “Can dispenser?”

  “No, Candace Spencer.”

  “Yes, I heard you, and I don't get how a can dispenser makes a good tomato soup.”

  “Exactly.”

  I frowned. Had the blood stopped from flowing into my brain? Because I wasn't grasping anything of what was coming out of his mouth.

  “Candace Spencer is one of the cooks at the cafeteria downstairs, not a can dispenser.” A cracked chuckle escaped his lips, as if he was holding back himself from laughing.

  I stared at him with incredulity, not able to mouth the words churning in my throat, waiting like missiles to be ignited.

  He must've noticed because that stupid smile left his face and was replaced with a big Uh-Oh flashing across his eyes.

  “Are you trying to make me laugh?” I said.

  He shrugged one shoulder. “I thought it was funny.”

  “Do you think any of this is funny?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Do you think any of what happened to Buffy is funny?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think waiting on a stiff chair for my sister to wake up while no one, not even doctors, know what the hell caused her to fall into a coma in the first place is somewhat funny?”

  “No.”

  “Then, do you think Candace Spencer is worthy of my time?”

  He let out a strangled breath. “I was just trying to—never mind. I'm sorry.”

  I wasn't going to let him go that easily. “You know what you should try? Being here for Buffy, in body and soul. She doesn't need a freaking clown babbling stupid jokes around.”

  By the look on his face, I'd hit home, really deep. “Do you think I've just spent more than thirty-six hours without sleeping just to hang around here and joke? Do you really think that?”

  I looked at the crimson corners in his eyes, at the thin, almost invisible rosy branches reaching out to his emerald irises. A dull glow of fatigue glazed in them, turning those two lush forests into frozen leaves. I turned my head away, shame wrapping me in a cocoon of guilt. Ian was in no better condition than I was. We both looked like shabby automatons in need of a new set of mechanical parts.

  He'd done a great deal for us in the last forty hours. I still hadn't forgotten how he'd helped to still my screams after the paramedics had taken Buffy away. His arms had enfolded me, surrounded my quivering body with warm promises of peace and serenity. I couldn't have lived through that dark, choking moment without his soothing words and human touch. And for that I owed him. Even if my hatred for him continued as unadulterated as ever, I made a silent pledge to repay his good deed someday.

  “Tell me,” he continued. “Do you really believe that?”

  “No,” I sighed.

  I felt him relax into his chair. He bent forward and settled his elbows on his knees, taking a deep breath while he was at it. “I think we should just…rest, sleep a few hours and peel off this grumpiness we both have going on.”

  That was Ian's gracious, civilized way of saying I had to temper down my inner beast. On a regular day, I would've ripped off his dragon wings faster than a cannon bullet, but on this unexpected dreary day, where rules didn't seem to apply anymore, I let his words pass. Maybe I was too tired, or maybe I'd suddenly felt a tad of sympathy toward Ian for bearing with my cranky persona. Either way, I decided to leave things like that, with an unspoken answer.

  “What do you think?” I felt him watching me. “Should we take a quick detour and sleep a bit?”

  We. The full implication of his words fell on me. He wasn't leaving this place, this cold hallway, unless I did. It was another startling sign of support from his part that, once again, I wasn't exactly sure how to handle. Feeling vulnerable in front of others, especially in front of Ian, wasn't something my mind knew how to process, because without those walls surrounding me, I recognized the impermanence of things, of the frailness that followed. And having weak thoughts, like the ones flapping in my head in that moment, permeated my resolve with possibilities. Possibilities that could mean the end of everything I'd worked so hard for.

  Gran chose that moment to walk out of Buffy's room. “Ian, you're still here,” she said with no surprise.
It was more like a scolding. “Did you get something to eat, Dafne? You're still as pale as a bone.”

  I didn't want any of that scolding near me, so I looked at Ian with a silent warning in my eyes and said, “I did, Gran. Tomato soup.” From the corner of my eye, I saw him smile.

  She eyed me, doubt narrowing her eyes. “Then go and have something else. I'll feel better when you have a bit of fat in your stomach. There's plenty of time for you to go. Morgan will stay the night with us.”

  I froze. Spend the night with Aunt Morgan in that room? As if drowning in a storm-ridden ocean, with nothing else to latch my arms on, I said, “I think I'll go to Ian's house to spend the night.” The desperation in my words resounded like an echo in my ears. Had Gran noticed? I hoped not, or else a long, uncomfortable explanation was going to be needed. And I so wasn't ready for anything of that sort. Not now. Not ever.

  Gran looked at me with shock, as if I'd just told her I wanted to become a nun. “My poor, Dafne, you must feel pretty tired to say something like that. No offense, of course.” She glanced at Ian with a sweet smile.

  “No offense taken,” he said, raising his hands. He caught my eyes and shot me a questioning look.

  Taking advantage of Gran's unawareness, I rushed to explain. “I told Ian I was pretty tired but that I didn't feel like going back to the house.” I looked at him. He was waiting for me to go on. “So, he offered to take me to his and…I said yes. I really am tired.”

  He stared at me, amazement and confusion sharpening the green emerald in his eyes. As if realizing Gran expected a confirmation, he blinked and shook his head. “Uh, yes. Yes. I told her she should come with me. We were about to leave, actually.” He said like it was a question and looked at me.

  I nodded and glanced at Buffy's room. “I was going to tell you right now, but you got ahead of me.”

  Gran took a step toward me and cupped my cheek. “It's a very good idea. You need to regain some color.” She brushed her thumb on what must've been a taut slab of cheekbone. “You can call me anytime, okay? We'll be here.”

  “Okay,” I smiled.

  “And you,” she turned to Ian and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Take care of my Dafne. Feed her something, even if you have to force a spoon into her mouth.”

  “Gran,” I blushed.

  She smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “You're a good boy Ian. I'll always be in debt with you for taking care of my girls.”

  He smiled back. “No need. It was my pleasure.”

  Gran kissed him tenderly on the cheek and stepped into the room.

  Ian's face was glowing with something warm I couldn't quite put my finger on. It suited him. He looked fulfilled and pleased. For a moment I wondered if his mom had ever kissed him on the cheek, or taken his body inside the circle of her arms for a hug. He didn't have any grandparents left. That much I knew—so no chance to have been pampered with hot cocoa and cookies. Buffy had even told us that his mother had left him and his dad a long time ago. His father had gotten married again and found happiness. But Ian…had he found real happiness? I wondered if his life lacked warmth.

  That is why my next words shouldn't have been uttered. “What? Now you're infatuated with Gran, too?”

  He unglued his eyes from the door and looked at me. His face no longer glowing. “You're unbelievable.”

  Since I regretted what I'd said and didn't know what to tell him, I did what conveyed both, agreement and anger, in one little motion. I crossed my arms over my waist.

  He snorted and shook his head. “Let's go.”

  CHAPTER 9

  I shuffled around in my seat, rasping the rough fabric of my jeans against the smooth, butter-soft surface underneath. I crossed my hands on my lap and looked through the window beside me. I had to give them that. For car leather seats, their feel and texture was amazingly sleek and delicate. Their color a soothing camel brown that filled one’s senses with vanilla caramel scents and silk veil images. But soon my mind struck me with thundering visions of cows being slaughtered and skinned, and my senses were quickly flooded with putrid scents and revulsion.

  I sighed sharply. So much pain and death to just fulfill people's vanity. I shuffled around in my seat once again.

  “Are you uncomfortable?” Ian asked.

  I turned to look at him. “You have me sitting on something made out of torture and unconsciousness. What do you think?”

  He frowned and glanced at me, confusion cloaking his eyes.

  I arched my eyebrow to emphasize.

  “Ah,” he suddenly remembered. “Yes. How could I've forgotten your veggie psycho mode?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Come on, you know you get—” He trailed off when he saw my face. He paused and said, “Shit. I'm sorry.” He shook his head, as if realizing this wasn't the time for this. “Please just…ignore what I said. I can be a real asshole sometimes,” he added, muttering to himself.

  I swallowed back the need to agree with him and focused my eyes on the lush tree line edging the road. Even though darkness dyed the skies and obliterated everything around into a mass of hazy shapes, I knew that pretty blue chiming bell wildflowers graced the skirts of these towering trunks. I knew that the limbs of these soaring trees formed a beautiful emerald canopy above the road, turning it into the passageway of a fantasy world.

  This hill was widely known and talked about in Berryford. It wasn't only its natural beauty that attracted locals and tourists, that called them to dream of settling with their families in here and sharing barbecues out in the picturesque, green land with friends. It was the stunning houses embellishing the scenery, too. Some people called them architectural masterpieces, with several of them having being featured in magazines.

  Ian's house was among them.

  I'd once driven Buffy there. I remembered the sense of littleness while facing that monster of a house through the windshield of my Mini. It looked like a sparkling, see-through black iceberg, catching beams of light like a diamond. The two-storey house was a stunning glass and black-clad structure, the vast living room, brightly lit foyer, and high staircase visible through the large walls of glass wrapping its façade. The smooth and glossy black panels framing them gave the appearance of polished marble, enhancing the beauty of the house with the reflection of trees and clouds on its surface. It was a breathtaking example of contemporary art, a perfectly executed design by some well-known architect for sure.

  And like all of the houses in this tree-covered hillside, Ian's crib featured a state-of-the-art heating technology based on an air exchange system and extraction of energy deep from the ground below—a piece of information that'd been quite the buzz once it'd gotten out. Still was. If possible, it placed the residents of Berryly Hills a hundred steps above us commoners of Berryford.

  I eyed Ian and his presumptuous car and wondered what was with hills and rich people. Was it something with height, altitude equaling power?

  “So,” Ian said, dissolving the coat of silence that'd been shrouding the car. “Why were you in such a hurry to leave the hospital?”

  “I wasn't.”

  “Dafne, I may be an asshole sometimes, but I'm not an idiot. You could barely move an inch away from Buffy without feeling guilty about leaving her side.”

  Without looking away from the window, I said, “Only because you're on the receiving end of Gran's gratitude doesn't mean you're on mine.”

  “I did help you back there.”

  I paused. “Yes you did,” I said reluctantly after a while. “But that doesn't mean that we're buddies and that I'm sharing my deepest secrets with you.”

  “Deepest secrets, huh?”

  This time, I turned to look at him. “You're not going to make me talk.”

  He smiled, like a child that'd been caught in the middle of a plan, and aimed his eyes on the road ahead. “So,” he said again. “What are you in the mood to eat?”

  The switch of conversation took me aback for a few seconds.”Eat?”
<
br />   “Your grandmother did tell me to feed you.”

  “Oh, my God, don't tell me you want to cook for me.”

  “Why? Do I look like a bad cook?”

  “You do want to cook for me. Jesus, I think Candace Spenser's tomato soup sounds like a good option now.”

  “Ha. Very funny. Actually no, I can't cook. But Lola can, and you won't be disappointed.”

  “Lola? The one that rocks the kitchen like nobody?” I thought it'd all been a joke.

  He nodded with a half smile. “Please tell her that. She'll make me more brownies if she knows I've been advertizing her food.”

  Brownies? He loved brownies? One more thing to add to the list of shared likings. Linda was going to tease me on this.

  The car stopped. I snapped out from the cloud of my thoughts and looked through the windshield. Like a déjà-vu, the black iceberg stood imperially in front of us, only this time, it shined from the inside and not from the outside, making it look like an incandescent volcanic rock in the middle of the night.

  I pulled open the door and slipped outside, thinking the house looked even more breathtaking in the hours of darkness. I followed the limestone path that snaked through the front yard and came to a halt before smashing my face into Ian's back. He'd stopped in front of the sleek, knobless door, as if hesitant.

  He glanced at me over his shoulder. “My dad and Cheryl aren't in the house so…make yourself at home,” he said and placed his thumb over what looked like a small, oval-shaped dent in one side of the door. There was a click and the door opened, all by itself, as if a ghostly butler had been waiting behind.

  Fingerprint recognition, I thought with my eyebrows pulled up as we walked into the house. Since when had knobs and keys become a nuisance? For rich people they certainly were, I guessed. And maybe security reasons had something to do with it, too, which increased the chances of your hand getting chopped and your thumb becoming a key. I shivered.