Lost In Us (Lost 1)

He healed old wounds, ripping the claws that were inflicting them, and letting balloons carry them far, far away from me.

And all he asked of me was to smile.

I walked away instead.

I shudder, suddenly drenched in cold sweat. I think Parker asked something, but I didn't catch a word, so I just nod. A sign we pass on the highway tells me that we're one hundred and eighty miles away from the airport. Which means we're already fifty miles away from Tuolumne River and James. This doesn't offer me the relief I hoped it would. It makes my heart beat like crazy. Not the good kind of crazy, though. It pounds so hard, I'm certain it will explode. The pounding gets more unbearable the more miles we put between us and the river, growing to a clog that chokes me. And then a thought weasels itself in my mind. It paralyzes me in my seat.

What if I'm making a mistake?

Some time later, I figure out what Parker had asked me: if it's a good time to stop to eat. We get out of the car and go into a shabby restaurant. Parker eats a steak, and there's one in front of me as well, but I can barely swallow a bite. Parker talks spiritedly about his return to London and all the plans he has. I don't listen to him half the time, just nod or smile when I feel a reaction is required.

I wobble on my way back to the car, as if my feet refuse to carry me in that direction, and I panic as we speed on the highway, putting more miles between us and the river. And less between us and the airport, where the plane to New York awaits. I used to cling to this trip—to the idea of New York—as if it were my salvation. The way someone who is about to drown clings to a log. But sometime in the past hours, the idea ceased being a log, and transformed itself into a rock, large and heavy. A rock tied to my feet that will not save me, but drag me to the bottom of the ocean, drowning me.

By the time we arrive at the airport, I've bitten my nails to the flesh. Parker takes his three enormous bags and I take my hand luggage from the trunk, and we head inside. His flight is two hours before mine, and our stop on the highway took quite some time, which means he must go right to his gate. We say some hurried goodbyes. I usually get emotional in these moments, but I remain remarkably solemn. And then Parker is gone, and I'm alone, with nothing to distract me from the thoughts wrecking my sanity.

I clasp my fingers tightly around the handle of my bag, and desperately look around for something that might help distract me. I decide to buy a book, and then sit down in front of the panels displaying all the flights. After reading the first five pages without taking in one word, I toss the book aside, glancing at the panel above me. The clock above the panel tells me my flight is in a little less than three hours. I pull my knees against my chest, holding my arms tightly around them. But there's no easing of the sinking feeling in my stomach.

I compare this to the day I flew here from London, the day I moved. I had asked my parents to drive me to Heathrow Airport almost half a day earlier than my flight, because I couldn't stand being in our house anymore. The moment I stepped into the airport, I felt lighter, as if someone had taken a giant weight off my shoulders. I was fleeing back then too, just like now. But I wasn't nervous at all. I knew it was the right thing to do. I felt it. I watched the flight panel, and the hours ticking away on clock above it, drinking in the relief it offered me. Now that same sight is torture. I could tell myself that it's because it's not permanent. I'll have to come back and it will be some time before I move away for good. But the thought of moving permanently to New York sends a violent spasm through me.

I look away from the panel at the two women next to me. They resemble each other, so I guess it's a mother and her daughter, who looks younger than me by a few years. The daughter has a magazine open on her lap, and she's obviously arguing with her mum over whatever is on that page. I sit up a bit straighter, peeking at their magazine. It features a gorgeous model, posing in a casual, but luxurious outfit.

"I don't understand why you need more clothes," the mother says. "You have enough clothes as it is."

"I'm going to college, Mom. There's no way I'm taking my high school wardrobe with me. I might as well just write loser on my forehead and walk around

campus like that."

"There is absolutely nothing wrong with your wardrobe," the mother replies in a severe tone. "If you continue with this ridiculous idea to change it, you'll have to pay for it. So I suggest you start looking for a summer job."

The daughter scoffs, and I cannot help but smile. I think of Jess and of Dani, who both had similar ideas of change right before starting college. Both changing their haircut, Jess also getting a tattoo because… well… because she's Jess.

And then I think of me.

How I never had an urge to change anything about myself, just about my surroundings. Fleeing from the world I knew into the unknown worked before. But my sweaty palms and nauseatingly quick heartbeats tell me it won't work this time. They tell me it's time I took Jess's advice, and the very thing I asked of James: change myself. Take some risks. No, not take risks. Because I will never seek risk—be it reckless adventures like James's, or downright self-destructing endeavors like Kate's.

But I can learn to accept risk.

That thought has a strange effect on me. It's like warm honey suddenly runs through my veins, relaxing my muscles and slowing the insane rhythm of my heart that has plagued me since the moment I got inside Parker's car. That's it. Accepting it. Accepting that I cannot always have certainty. Because the things that really matter are not within reach unless I grit my teeth, and let go of my safe harbor—take a leap. And I am so lucky to have found something worth that leap. No, not something. Even better.

Someone.

Whose words breathe life and hope into me.

Whose touch turns the blood in my veins into fire. A fire only his kisses can extinguish.

Someone who almost ruined himself to show me that he loves me. A proof of love I so easily dismissed because he couldn't say three words. Not anymore. I have my scale right now. The thing that is keeping him from saying the words… I want to be by his side, waiting, helping him overcome it. Just like he pulled me from my nightmares and showed me what lies beyond regret and guilt.

Now, I only need to let him know.

Before another woman, one who isn't an idiot or a coward like me, snatches him up. I spring from my chair, my heart beating like crazy once again.

The good kind of crazy this time. I grab my bag and look around for a sign that indicates where I can find a cab, then remember I don't have enough money on me to pay for a cab back to the apartment, let alone for a three-hour drive to the river. Besides, I don't even know if James is still at the river. I take out my phone, thinking of calling him, or actually Dani, because I don't have the nerve to call him. My phone is dead. I curse loudly, and the mother and the girl stop their fight over the magazine, looking at me in alarm. I apologize and slip off toward the main doors, making a little plan along the way. It's when I decide that the best I can to do is get on a bus, go to James's apartment, and wait for him to return home, that I see him.

Standing in the doorway, not fifty feet away from me, looking wildly around. James.

And then his eyes find me.

I want to run toward him, but my legs suddenly have the consistency of a soaked sponge, and all I can do is hope they'll be able to sustain me so I can at least stand. But James's legs seem all right, and he is using them to walk toward me with determined strides. When he stops, inches away from me, the rest of my body, all the way to my lips, seems to have turned as useless as my legs. We lock eyes, and the despair in his gaze sends spasms rippling through me.