The Counseling (11 page)

I scoop some foamy water onto my arms and watch as it trickles back into the tub.

"Sooooo..." I say, glancing about. Awkward anyone?

Yep. Quite.

Willow shifts in the water, scooting away from Erin and Carl as they giggle next to her. Can't say I blame her. She flattens her lips and lifts herself out of the tub.

"Whoa! Where are you going?" I ask a bit too dramatically.

She slices her eyes around at the ferocious coupling and says, "I think I'll go meditate with Talking Feathers."

Another one bites the dust. No one pays any mind to her as she glops off leaving wet footprints behind. For that matter, no one pays any mind to me sitting here. Great. What am I, chopped liver? No, it's just that I don't fill out the top of my bikini as well as Jessica and the Puckett triplets do. Not that I'm interested in any of these guys.

I let out a long sigh and lay my head back onto the rim of the Jacuzzi. I try to focus on the massaging action of the jets pressed up against my kidneys as they work their aquatic fingers into my skin. I think of the hot tub in my room and consider slipping away quietly to the cabin to enjoy a long whirlpool session on my own.

Yeah, that sounds like the best idea.

I ease out of the water and wrap myself in the large emerald green towel with
Rose Briar Inn
embossed into the fabric. Oh yeah, I'm totally taking this home with me as a memento. No one seems too brokenhearted that I've vacated the tub; they just spread out more to enjoy the bubbly sensation. I tamp down the itch at the back of my throat that tells me I'm odd man out, which is fine. I didn't fly all the way across America to flirt. I shove my feet into my pink (what's with all the pink?) Reefs and walk across the deck with a
thwap thwap thwap
sound, toward the path back to my cabin.

Coming from the distance is the soft strum of an acoustic guitar. There's only one person here with a guitar: Patrick.

I creep silently toward the music, trying not to be discovered. The moonlight bathes the way in front of me, nearly spotlighting Patrick. He's sitting on a wooden bench under a large bent tree; branches swoop down to provide a canopy for him. The plucked notes reverb off the nearby mountain, making the music sound like he's playing with others. Oddly enough, he's free of the regular disguise he's been sporting. The knit hat lies on the bench next to him, as do the leather gloves and sunglasses. His jet-black hair is all mussed up, and his bangs fall over his forehead in a cascade, just reaching his charcoal eyelashes. He's concentrating hard on the instrument resting on his thigh. His large hands move deftly over the six strings; his left one twists and stretches to form the precise chords. A small white pick sits between his full lips, not in his strumming hand.

He removes the pick and begins to sing ever so quietly about loving everything that a particular girl does and how he should have known better than to mess around with her. Ahhh ... the Beatles. A favorite of his, I can tell from the stickers on his guitar case. I can't help but wonder if the lyrics are intended for me.

He continues to play, oblivious to my presence. I watch as the moonlight dances over his jet-black hair, setting off that handful of grays at each temple. I squash the desire to sidle up next to him and drag my fingers through its thickness.

I jump at the thought of a tryst with the angsted one. My wet flip-flops squeak against the flagstone, and Patrick looks up with eyes blazing.

"What are you doing?" he asks somewhat brusquely.

Not wanting to react to his terseness, I say, "You're really good."

He shifts his eyes to the strings again, bending his head down so I can no longer see his face. "I'm okay. I only just started playing again and need to get my chops back."

"Well, you sound great to me. I can't play anything but the radio." I wait for him to laugh at my stupid joke—actually my dad's joke. Nothing. "Hmm ... tough audience," I quip and then move toward the bench. Patrick doesn't flinch when I ease down on the other end. "Everyone was in the hot tub. Why didn't you come join us?"

Still strumming, he says, "Water's not really my thing."

"How can water not be your thing?" I press.

"It's just not, okay?"

Unwilling to drop it, I ask, "Then how do you bathe every day?"

He smacks his hand flat on the strings. "I take showers, okay? Would you like to know what kind of soap I use as well?"

"Geesh. Touchy, aren't we?"

He drags a hand through his hair, moving his bangs away momentarily before they return to exactly where they were. "I'm not here to socialize, you know? I'm dealing with a lot of shit."

"We all are, Patrick."

"Yeah, well, being immersed in water isn't something I agreed to do on this retreat. Can't a guy just play his guitar?"

I lift an eyebrow at him. "I suppose so. I was sort of lonely, so that's why I thought I'd come listen."

His eyes shift up to my face and slice over me, not in a judgmental way or anything. A hint of a smile paints his lips and then he continues to sing the Beatles song. I tap my foot along and sing the lyrics in my head, not wanting to disturb him. His voice is deep and melodic and ever so sexy as he sings about a girl he wants to make his. It's almost as if he wants to make
me
his.

My mouth becomes desert dry.

Swallowing requires an act of Congress.

Reality rushes in like a wave into a tidal basin, drowning me in the salty depths of everything that is Patrick Lynn. I don't know squat about him other than he's an Air Force brat, has a thing about water, and plays a pretty mean ax. I have no idea why he's here or why he's sectioned off from the rest of us. Yet I'm drawn to him.

Patrick twists again and his gaze goes straight through me, like an X-ray into my soul. I didn't realize anyone's eyes could be so ... hypnotic. The rich brown irises show gold flecks out here underneath the moonlight. Or maybe I'm just losing my mind.

He doesn't blink. Neither do I. Who could even move at a moment like this? Does he feel it too? He has to. Something's taking hold of me. Nothing ghostly or evil, not an entity wanting me to channel it. Rather, the swirling sensation encircling me is like the tingly jets from the Jacuzzi. I'm lightheaded from the intense gaze.

My heart stutters in my chest as if I've just been taken off the bypass machine and everything's starting up again on its own. A quiver begins in my fingers and works its way up my bare arms. Chill bumps break out all over me, and they have nothing to do with the mountain breeze that's suddenly whispering. Patrick leans closer, closer, closer. Intrigue of the moment dances about, cloaking me in jittery excitement. Is he going to kiss me?

"Wooohooo, Kendall!" Maddie Puckett shouts from behind me. "Go for it, girlfriend!"

I pull away from Patrick as far as I can. He withdraws as well, and returns to playing his guitar.

My eyebrows drop and I spin to glare at Maddie. She knows immediately that she shouldn't have been all cheeky like that. A mouthed
sorry
is followed by a wave as she trots down the path to her cabin.

A frustrated sigh escapes me. "That was embarrassing."

"Not really," Patrick says. "Nothing happened."

"Yeah, but it was going to," I say defensively.

He plays a blues lick up and down the guitar in a funky manner and then laughs.

He's incorrigible. Most teenage boys are.

I cross my arms over my chest and huff. Why on earth did I dream about this guy? I wonder with such fierceness that the words echo around in my brain.

Why did I dream of you too?

I snap to attention. "What did you just say?"

Without looking at me, he responds, "I didn't say anything."

"Yes, you did!"

Not out loud...

My hand flies to my open mouth.
Oh my God! You can hear my thoughts!

And you can hear mine.

"You're the one who's been messing with me the past couple of days! Encroaching in my personal space, invading my thoughts."

He stops strumming. "It's not like I want to. Shit happens."

"Apparently so. Can you hear everyone else?"

"Nope." Patrick shakes his head. "Just you."

"
Love
-ly." Not. First I had Emily in my head for months and now I've got some
guy
who can hear all of my thoughts?

I can only hear you when you're close.

"Stop that! Seriously."

Patrick chuckles low in his throat. He's totally enjoying this.

Then he lurches forward. "I'm
not
enjoying this. Any of this," he says as he spreads his hands wide. "This is a living hell, let me tell you. It's like having a twenty-four/seven reality show that won't shut up!"

Somewhat ashamed of my actions—Patrick's obviously suffering through some sort of awakening and he's not dealing with it well—I say, "I'm sorry."

He shoves his hands back into his gloves and then stands, gripping the neck of the guitar. "Yeah, well, believe me, I'm sorry too."

Erin, Jessica, and Harper choose that moment to run by wrapped in their towels, dripping hot-tub water behind them. "Kendall, we're making s'mores in our room. Come on!" Jess calls.

"Sure thing," I answer. "I'll be right there."

I have no idea what to say to Patrick. One moment we're this close, and now I want to seriously go put that aluminum foil hat on. Instead of saying something inappropriate, I ease off the bench and slowly turn to walk away. But not before Patrick tries to get the last word.

We'll pick this up later.

His words ricochet in my head and I have no choice but to think,
I guess so.

"Y
OU
LOOK LIKE CRAP,
" Jess says to me as we walk up the path to the dining room the next morning.

"Thanks, so do you," I retort. She doesn't really. "Geesh, make a girl feel special, will you?"

Jess wraps her arm around me. "I'm sorry, Kendall. You've, like, got these dark circles under your eyes and you talked in your sleep all night."

"About what?"

"Not really sure what, but who..."

I quirk my mouth to the side, waiting.

Jess shades her eyes from the sun. "Something going on with you and Patrick?"

"No!" I say way too quickly.

"Yeah. Right."

I stop in my tracks at the bottom of the staircase. "Ugh! Is it that obvious?"

Her smile is wide and totally cheesy. "I read auras, honey. Told you. You are Pinky McPinkerton any time he's around. Go for it! He's a total babe!"

"Yeah, I know. But he's got problems."

She rolls her eyes and attacks the steps. "Honey, we
all
do. That's why we're here."

She's got a point.

"One day at a time, Jess. It's Wednesday. This retreat will be over before we know it."

"So?"

"So, I don't need ... complications."

Jess tsk-tsks. "Life is complicated."

"Ours more than others," I shoot back. "I only mean that in four days, we'll all be hopping back on seven-twenty-sevens and flying our separate ways."

"Not me. I was driven up."

Now I roll my eyes at her. "I just got out of a relationship. I'm not looking for a rebound."

"Mmm," she says with a cat's purr in her voice. "Those are the best."

Erin calls out, "Hey, y'all, wait for us!"

She and Harper jog to catch up and we all walk into the dining room in silence. I know Jess has more to say on the Patrick topic, but for now, the call of Chris's breakfast wafting toward me is what's driving everything. However, I nearly fall over when I see Patrick sitting at the end of the long table, sipping a cup of coffee. A stack of buttermilk pancakes is in front of him, slathered in butter and dripping with maple syrup. His hands are covered in leather and his hair is hidden under the knit hat, but his eyes are free of his usual shades. His brown orbs connect with my hazel ones, and there's a slight smile as he raises the cup to his lips.

Okay. Fine. Whatever.

Boldly, I plop down right next to him. Jess takes the seat across from me and nods her approval.

"Here you go, girls," Chris says as she places a steaming hot plate of pancakes in front of Jess and then me. I reach for the carafe and pour the pungent black coffee into a mug then follow it with a long stream of cream.

Jess lifts up the sugar shell that holds packets of sweetener. "Want some Sweet'n Low? It's pink, you know." She winks.

I squint my eyes at her, ignore the pink-new-relationship aura reference, and snatch four sugars. "No, thanks. I like the real thing."

"I hear that."

"God, the bacon smells a-frickin'-mazing," Maddie sings out, ever the morning person. Her sister Harper passes her the platter with the breakfast meats on it and she loads pork onto her plate. "So, what's on the agenda today?"

Chris places a fresh carton of orange juice on the table and straightens. She wipes her hands on her apron and says, "Oliver and the counselors are expecting you in the conference room for morning sessions as soon as you finish eating."

I nab some bacon myself and luxuriate in the crispiness and saltiness of it. Mom always microwaves our bacon—which is just fine—but I can tell that Chris cooked this in the oven until it was just perfect.

I like my bacon this way too,
he says in my head.

A long sigh, followed by my fork knocking against my plate draws everyone's attention to me. "Sorry. Butterfingers."

Smoooooooth, Kendall.

Trying to keep it subtle, I narrow my eyes in Patrick's direction and laser my thoughts at him.
Stop doing that. It's creepy enough that you can hear my thoughts. Do you have to do it in front of everyone?

Didn't sleep much, huh?

Thanks to you, no. Not much at all.

Sorry about that.

I snap my head up and look straight at him. Usually his remarks to me are snarky and somewhat defensive. Not now, though. He seems to sincerely feel bad that my slumber suffered because of him. Maybe Oliver can help us sort this out and tell us why this is happening.