Traveler L.E. DeLano (bookreader .txt) 📖

keep you posted.” He tilts back in his chair again, bracing his knees under the table as he rocks gently back and forth. The table is rocking with him, but it’s not a big deal—we’ve got nothing on it anyway.

I shift again on the hard chair, and my hand moves unconsciously to rest on my journal.

Green eyes, so clear they’re like looking at the bottom of a mountain lake, where the rocks are covered in moss. He jumps off the ski lift and pushes the hair out of his eyes and then … and then …

“You’re zoning out on me again, St. Clair,” Ben teases.

It’s gone. The perfect half-formed story in my head and it’s gone now. My fingers curl into a frustrated fist, but I make myself smile so Ben doesn’t see that he irritated me. It’s not his fault.

My mind replays the dream in my head once more, and I see him. I have vague memories of calling my dream guy by name, but that name vanished before I woke. It’s frustrating in the extreme.

“When’s the candy going to be here?” This from one of two girls in drill team uniforms, who are madly texting as they wait near the front of the table.

“It won’t be long,” Ben reassures them.

“Do they know what happened to the delivery?” asks the guy in the red shirt again.

“It was supposed to have gotten to the school earlier today, but the truck broke down,” Ben says. “It’s possible that’s just a cover and they’re driving it straight to Tijuana to sell it on the black market.”

I pinch Ben’s leg under the table and bite my lip to keep from laughing as Red Shirt Guy stomps off in a huff, and then I hastily scrawl out a sign for the remaining masses who still don’t realize that this is, in fact, just a table and not a candy table. Maybe if we tell them to come back in half an hour, the candy will finally arrive. Then Ben could deal with them instead of me, since I only agreed to do the first half of the shift.

Once the sign is taped to the end of the table, I open up my journal and stare at my list again.

Dark hair, green eyes …

I pull out my phone and aimlessly Google “Top Boy Baby Names” to see if I might recognize something, or maybe find one I can use that seems to fit the person in my head. None of them feel right, so I guess I’ll just keep calling him Green Eyes for now. He’s the face I see in every story. The name has to be perfect.

This was someone I’ve seen before, but where? That’s what dreams are, anyway, according to my creative writing teacher. She claims that your subconscious holds the memories of people you’ve met or even seen on the street or on TV, and then creates scenarios for you to live out in your dreams, featuring all of them. You never really dream of anyone unknown. So what was my subconscious trying to tell me?

Probably to get a life, I think.

Fingers tickle my neck and break me out of my thoughts. I shrug in reaction, and Ben lets out a low chuckle.

“Is it time to go already?” I ask hopefully.

“Nice try. I think this is the goods.”

Sure enough, a van rolls up and the delivery guy hops out and starts unloading.

I turn around in my chair to look at the boxes of candy being set down behind me.

“Sorry I’m so late,” Delivery Guy says. “Traffic.”

“No problem. Everyone!” Ben exclaims, getting to his feet behind the table. “Candy table’s open! Just give us a few minutes to set up!”

He rips off the sign I just made, and then he picks up my journal and hands it to me. “Let’s clear this off and you just start handing me stuff,” he suggests.

I shove the journal into my bag and get out of my chair to start opening boxes. I turn just as the delivery guy is straightening back up, and the world suddenly tilts on its axis as I see who is leaning against the wall of the store, just behind the delivery guy.

Dark hair. Green eyes.

2

Encounter

“Can you take this?” Delivery Guy asks, handing me a box. I am mute. I can’t stop staring over his shoulder.

“Miss?” he says impatiently.

“St. Clair! Come on, hand it over!” Ben calls out. I force my arms to move, reaching out for the box the deliveryman is passing to me. I’m trying very hard not to stare at the guy leaning on the wall.

Which is difficult to do, because he’s staring at me.

I force myself to look away, and in minutes we have the boxes unpacked. A few more minutes after that, everything is displayed or stored under the table, and the first wave of candy buyers is crowding us. I know this is a seriously lousy thing to do, but I grab my backpack.

“Ben, I have to go,” I say abruptly.

“What?” He looks at me over his shoulder. “You can’t give me ten minutes?”

“I—”

I look over at the wall, where my mystery guy had been standing, and he’s gone. I blink hard, and stare even harder, like I’m trying to will him to be there.

“You with me, St. Clair?”

“Huh?” I look back at him. “Yeah, I guess I can give you ten more minutes.”

“You did just finally get the chair warm,” he points out. He cranes his neck to look over his shoulder, following my gaze.

“What are you looking at? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I just … it was nothing,” I finish lamely. I reach for the little metal box we’re keeping the money in, and hand Red Shirt Guy three Giant Pixy Stix. The next several minutes pass in a flurry of candy and money changing hands until the crowd thins out.

Did I imagine him? I look back over my shoulder once more. He’s not there.

But he could have gone into the store.