This chapter introduces a new character, one I have renamed thrice now. If you stumble upon the names Michael or Matthew, please leave me a comment so I can replace them. The correct name should be Ian.

I've always heard about people dreaming in the third person. As in they can see themselves, sort of as a character in a movie scene, and they watch "out-of-body" from the corner of the room. Often in these dreams, the person is aware that they are dreaming — another thing I've never experienced. Until tonight, in which, for the first time, I experience both at once.

I am standing in what I believe to be the corner of the room. My body is laying atop a padded table, and it is dressed in a paper hospital gown. I glance around to see several different things that are telling of a hospital room — a machine that is beeping being the most important. My body is attached to it via various plugs and wires, some sticking to me and some inserted into me. The machine seems to be monitoring me in every way possible — my temperature, my heart rate, my blood pressure, my brain activity, etc. I am unconscious, but I don't seem to be injured.

A door swings open to my left, and a doctor and a nurse walk in. I cannot see their faces, and this makes my out-of-body self's heart pick up its pace. But the monitor indicates no change in my physical dream body's heart. The pair check the monitor. They swap comments, but I can't understand what they're saying; their speech is garbled, muffled, blurred. The only thing I can confidently gather from their speech is their tone — they are concerned.

The nurse writes a few notes down onto her clipboard. She seems nervous, and this makes me nervous. I try to feel for her aura, but somehow I am aware that this is a dream and that I won't be able to feel it. I have the strange inclination that I know these people, but I've yet to see their faces.

Suddenly, the machine starts producing a loud, steady beat like that of an alarm. The doctor rushes to it and presses various buttons on it in attempt to figure out what's wrong. The nurse walks to my side and leans over me. She reaches to my face, and I think she might be about to peel off the sensors stuck to my forehead. But instead she brushes my bangs back and whispers something to me. Something comforting. I can't hear what she says, but I can read one word on her lips: "Penny."

Mom.

"Mom!" I yell to her, but I am out of my body, and this is a dream, and she cannot hear me. I fall to my knees. "Mom," I whimper.

The doctor successfully stops the beeping noise, and now when he speaks I can hear him clearly. "Delia, her brain isn't healing as quickly as we'd hoped. We need to let her rest." His is not a voice I can put a name to, but he has confirmed my suspicions of the woman's identity by calling her by name.

"I know, Ian. I know. I just... I can't keep watching her suffer and not be able to do anything about it."

The doctor moves to my mother and wraps a comforting arm around her. She immediately relaxes beneath his touch. "We don't know that she's suffering. She could be dreaming peacefully, somewhere far away. Some place better."

"Will she come back to me?" she sobs.

"She will come back to us, my love."

And then the two of them turn to leave, and it is now that I can finally see their faces. The nurse is my mother, my beautiful, kind, selfless, wonderful mother. The doctor, however, is a man entirely of my mind's creation. His hair is dark and neat but is silvering at the edges. His skin is clear and ageless except for the creases around his eyes. The sound of his voice had calmed my mother, and therefore it had also calmed me. I have never seen him before, but I can only form warm thoughts about him.

I awaken to a harsh, flat surface, and a jolt of pain to my elbow. The floor beneath my cheek is cool and smooth, the sheet wrapped haphazardly around my ankles warm and scratchy. I pull myself up and take a seat on the edge of my bed in waiting. I'm certain that I'd screamed and that my dad will be here any moment. Two minutes pass, and he doesn't show. I must not've screamed very loud.

I lay back against my pillows, fighting uselessly against the thought path my brain wants to navigate towards. Who on earth is Ian?! And why is he my doctor and what is my brain not recovering quickly enough from and why did he call my mother his love?! These are the thoughts that haunt me at four am. It would be easy to chalk them up to fiction, a fantasy, a dream... were it not for the fact that I have never created people in my dreams before. Everyone I have ever dreamt has been someone that I know, or know of. Anyway, I don't dream. I only nightmare. Could this be considered a nightmare? Maybe I hadn't screamed at all...

Too exhausted to retry for actual sleep, I turn the lamp on and grab for the first book on the nightstand. What Should You Be When You Grow Up? I take one look at it and set it back down. The next book in the stack is The Lunar Project, but I have a sickening feeling that my favorite character is about to die, and I can only endure so much heartache in one night. So I reach for the book Eli had given me. At least it will distract me from attempting to play detective with my own mind.

I must fall asleep somewhere between What are your hobbies and interests? and Could your hobbies and interests potentially be turned into careers? because when I open my eyes, it is morning. I get ready for school slowly, not wanting to go, not wanting to face Eli. Not even a dream of my mother and her mystery friend could make me forget the terrible, awful, unnecessary, unprecedented, hard-way-out thing I'd done last night. To my surprise and relief, I don't yet regret it. But that fact still does nothing to calm my nerves.

The nerves are provided courtesy of my expecting things between us to be different now that Eli knows what he knows. I should've known better — something I often find myself thinking in regards to him. Eli, however, regards me as he always has — a friend, a peer, a study partner, a chance to flirt, seventeen years old, Alyssa Renée... and not as he'd more recently become aware of me as — perpetually in danger, leaving in a month, lied about her identity, nineteen years old, Aspen Brooks. He looks over my shoulder in math, picks off of my plate at lunch, teases me at recess, and encourages me in art.

My hourglass is actually coming along quite nicely. And his earth looks like the earth... if it was under a kaleidoscope. But that's the thing about art, I've learned. It doesn't have to be one hundred percent flawless to be good. And that's also something I've come to learn about myself, I guess... Alyssa's life is far from flawless, but it's still been pretty okay. And I'm sad to go, but I'm glad to have a new picture to put in the family photo album, and even moreso about the fact that this is one lifetime that Dad might actually let me keep.

"You're coming over tonight, right?" he asks me once the final bell has tolled.

"Yeah."

"Good. I'd like to have you around while I still have you around."

He says it so casually, yet it pinches at my insides all the same. There is hope in his voice, hope in his posture, hope in his eyes, in his blood. His entire being is this pure, positive, radiant hopefulness. And I hate to have to rip that away like ripping a carpet from beneath his feet.

Because one thing's for sure: I don't know who Ian is or what role he plays in my life, but I've never had a dream that didn't also double as a warning.

🦎

On the short drive to the Whitneys', I try to recall every romcom I've ever seen. There's typically two kinds of women in those movies, (as if there are only two kinds of women in the real world): the insecure one who doesn't know she's beautiful until a boy tells her she is, and the hot and outspoken one with gumption who goes after what she wants. I always pictured myself to be the latter, but I fear after years of my life depending on being reserved, I have become the former. I try to remember the ways all those women expressed their feelings to all those men (more than just two kinds, of course) — the devilishly handsome well-to-do ones who never thought they'd meet a woman who'd make them go soft; the mysterious and moody "bad boys" with questionable pasts who never knew they could be So Much More(TM) until a girl came along and told them; the quiet ones who like comic books and sit in the back of the class and pine silently for the pretty and popular girl who has no idea he even exists, while the quiet girl who likes comic books wishes he'd look to his left at her.

When I don't come up with a solution, I realize it's because I have not yet found an Aspen or an Eli in these movies. The grungy-looking girl who can read minds and keep secrets and the dark-skinned boy who likes climbing trees and the grungy-looking girl. And unlike the book I was gifted from the dark-skinned boy, there is no guide to how to tell him "It's not you, it's me," "I think we're better as/should just stay friends," "We're both heading down different paths," "I need to focus on myself/school/my family right now," etc., but that I'm leaving anyway so it doesn't really matter.

When I pull into his driveway, Eli is outside waiting for me. At first I don't see him standing on the porch so small it's more like an awning and I jump with a start when I do. I park and he is at my door as soon as I open it. He says nothing, just takes my hand and pulls me out before I've even gotten the keys all the way out of the ignition.

We walk past the door and around the corner to the side of the house, and I don't ask where we're going or why because I know better than to think he'll spoil a surprise. We stop along the bricks that separate the dining room from the yard and he drops my hand. He looks over my shoulder, past me, through the bricks, into the house. Perhaps through the dining room and the living room and the staircase and the other brick wall and to somewhere far, far away where Gray can't find me and where we can be together.

He looks at me, and he's scared, and then I am, too. And I take it we aren't going to make it to the treehouse.

"Eli, what's going on?"

He wrings his hands together and takes a couple ragged breaths. "I practiced this," he says. "All day I was just thinking about what I was gonna say, how I was gonna say it, but now that it's time I can't remember any of it."

It dawns on me that he may have been struggling with the same thing that I was — how to let me down easily. But he can't break up with me... I'm breaking up with him.

"What were you practicing for?" I ask slowly.

He tugs his hands through his hair. "I just... I just wanted to tell you... wanted to say..." He stops, straightens up, and takes a breath. "I know you're leaving. And I know that limits my time, therefore canceling out my plan for the future."

His nervous ticks have left him and instead crawled over to me. I bite the inside of my lip and shuffle my weight over to the other foot. "Your plan?"

"Yeah, I mean, not like a long-term plan or anything, just, like, an idea that I wanted to kind of do."

I stand still and wait. I have a feeling I know what he's going to say. And it's the opposite of breaking up with me. My voice catches in my throat and creates a nice lump.

"I was gonna... I mean, I wanted to. To ask you out. Like, on a date."

"We..." Stop. Swallow the lump. Go. "We went on a date."

"Yeah, I know, the prom. But I wanted to take you somewhere. To the movies, maybe. On a Friday night. I'd pick you up in the truck. And I'd probably, I don't know—" he grabs at his hair again "—pull my hair back, or something. And wear, like, a nice button down. And some jeans." He blushes and gestures to me. "But not saying you had to dress up. You can wear whatever you want. You could wear a jumpsuit and you'd still look nice."

Now I'm blushing. "Noted," I say and look down at my feet. "Then what would we do?" I ask, and the voice that comes out of me doesn't sound like my own.

"Well, first, I'd open your door for you and help you into the truck. And then we'd listen to whatever you wanted on the radio on the way to the movie. There's no CD player, though. Only cassettes, if you've got 'em. And then when we got to the movie, I'd walk 'round and open your door up again and help you out. And then I'd..." He reaches out into the space between us and tugs at my fingers until he's successfully pulled my hand into his. "And then I'd hold your hand." He pulls our hands back towards him, causing me to have to take a quick hop-step into the space, effectively narrowing it. He looks directly into my eyes, his former nerve all but vanished. "I'd hold your hand all the way to the door," he says. "I wouldn't want you to feel any less than one hundred percent safe and secure in a public place with me." He grins. "And, you know, also it'd feel good when other guys looked at you and they'd see that you're mine. Even if it's just for one date."

I look down at our hands, mostly because his gaze holds a very thick amount of admiration, and it makes me uncomfortable. "Would you hold my hand during the movie?"

"Nah," he says and drops my hand. Disappointed, I look back to him, and his eyes are playful. "I'd do that thing where I yawn and streeeetch—" He turns to his side and mimics the yawn, then stretches his arms out in the air. "But really I'm just trying to..." He lowers his arm around my shoulders, pulling me in next to him, now forcing me to take a hop-step to the right.

I can't help the girly giggle that escapes me, I really can't. I quickly catch myself and clear my throat. "And then do I do something like...?" If we were sitting, I'd be able to rest my head atop his shoulder like I imagine would be the next best action for me to take. All I can achieve at my current height above the ground is leaning my head against his side, which encourages him to pull me in tighter.

"Yeah, for sure, you would," he replies, and I can hear the yellow in his voice.

"This is a really good movie," I say as I look upon the fence that I've hopped over three times thus far.

"Just wait 'til you see what happens next," he says, and the way he says it sets my nerves on edge again.

I step away from him, desperate for a breath. "Okay, movie's over. Now what?"

"Now we walk back to the truck," he says, grabbing for my hand again, discontent with the amount of space I've put between us.

"And we continue to listen to my extensive cassette tape collection on the ride home?" I offer, trying anything to lighten the mood again.

He steps back, looks offended. "No, we're not going home yet. What kinda guy do you think I am?" He grins. "We're going to get ice cream." He mimics scooping ice cream from a container onto a cone, as if this imaginary ice cream shop is a self-serve one. "What are you having?"

"Um, I like vanilla."

He rolls his eyes. "Of course you would like the boringest flavor."

"Vanilla is always good!" I protest. "You can't go wrong with vanilla."

"Here," he says, holding out his invisible cone to me. "Try this."

Always go with Eli's bits. I swipe my tongue through the air right above his fist and pretend to swallow. "What is it?"

"Red velvet with cheesecake pieces. Only the best."

I lift my own fist to my mouth and take a big lick of the air above it. "Mmm, plain, boring vanilla."

He swats at my fist, causing me to all but punch myself in the nose. "Hey!" I cry.

He laughs. "Now you've got ice cream on your nose!"

I wrap my fingers around his wrist and force his fist up to his face, as well. "Ha! Now you do, too!"

He grabs my wrist before I've had time to release his, and we struggle against each other for a few moments, laughing. In the end, he's got both of his hands clasped around both of my wrists, my forearms criss-crossing each other. I'm jerked to a stop and our laughter slowly subsides as we realize just how close we've ended up in capacity. The air changes, thickens, like I can feel the aura of the energy flowing between us, tense, frenetic, charged, anxious, several colors at once.

When he speaks, his voice is low and soft. "And then I drive you home. And I help you out of the truck and walk you to your front door. And I ask you if you had a nice time, and you say yes, of course." He smirks a little, but it is not his regular smirk as his eyes convey olive to me instead of their regular royal blue.

I decide to help him out, mostly because he's just staring into my eyes and it's making me weak. "Do you ask me on a second date?"

He gives a slight shake of his head, almost unnoticeable. "No, not yet. There's... there's still one thing left that I wanna do before this date is over."

And I know. I know what that something is. Because I can feel it, too. I've never been kissed before. I know he has — Leila informed me of that — but I don't want to think about Leila right now, or anyone else besides the boy in front of me. Because while there is absolutely no way on earth for there to be any kind of future for us, right now we are here, and he is my best friend, and I think if I'd like my first kiss to be given to me by anyone, I'd like for it to be from him.

He leans down to me, slowly, unsure, so slowly, eyes never once leaving mine, and I know he's asking for permission. One small hesitance from me and he'll stop, and we'll go inside to dinner, and this will be as if it never happened. That might be the best thing, the easiest thing, and all I'd have to do to make it come about is avert my eyes from his. But even as he's standing before me, hands still lightly gripping my wrists — (so lightly that I could pull out of his hold at any moment but have chosen not to) — his words play back in my mind: "You always take the easy way out."

I lift myself up on my toes and my eyes flutter shut, and that is all the permission Eli'd needed.

__________

Hmmmmm. Yep.

So I think Stefanie Scott could be a good Aspen. That's her in the picture. Liliana's working on a TRAILER for CHAMELEON. That's all. I don't have much to say after... ^^^that.