Earthbound

with physical therapy.

And time.

I insisted Reese call Huntington. After she explained everything, I was surprised how willing they were to defer my scholarship—to let me start up in January when my injuries were healed.

But the fall months passed and I could still barely write my name. Every time I tried, I’d turn into a crying mess all over again. Reese encouraged me through November, December. She told me art was an inherent part of me, part of who I am. To this day I’m not sure why she cared so much. But New Year’s came and even though my hands were better, my artist’s block was all too firmly in place. I called the school myself, on my last day in the neuro-rehabilitation center, and withdrew.

Reese and Jay didn’t try to talk me out of it.

I sigh, loudly. With Benson still AWOL and the weight of anxiety pressing down on me, I cast about for something to keep me busy—to distract me—while I wait. I grab a newspaper from the table next to me and start mechanically reading the words, hardly taking them in. I’m on the second page before I feel an arm drape around the back of my chair.

“Sorry I took so long,” Benson says. I have only a moment to take in a blur of khakis and a pastel green and blue plaid shirt before he’s there on the chair beside me. His breath feels warm on my neck as he glances at the paper, and I feel my fingers tingle. I grip the page tighter and force myself not to lean in—not to press my forehead against his cheek and see if it’s as soft as it looks or gritty with stubble. “Marie had a crapload of filing saved up for me.”

“I hardly noticed you were gone,” I say with mock-loftiness, though my body has practically gone limp with relief. “I was too busy reading about the plague that’s going to destroy the world,” I say, but my humor falls flat.

“That virus again?” Benson says grimly, pushing up his glasses as he leans in to read the story over my shoulder.

“Yeah. They found a new case in Georgia. Dead in twenty-four hours, just like those six people in Kentucky.” I flip back to the front page and point to the first part of the story, then hand over the section.

Since almost dying, I feel like I’m surrounded by death. People are constantly killed in accidents, from diseases, flukes. I know it’s always been that way, but now I’m hyper-aware.

“Sixteen victims so far,” I say quietly. But Benson doesn’t respond—his eyes dart back and forth as he reads. “Jay’s lab just started him working on this,” I add as Benson flips to the second half of the story.

“Really?” Benson’s sudden attention startles me.

“Really, what?”

“Jay’s lab?”

“Yeah. New assignment. You want me to ask him about it?” Benson’s been following the story pretty closely since the first mini-epidemic in Maryland last week. Then Oregon, then Kentucky just a few days ago.

Benson meets my eyes for a second and sits back and pushes the paper away. “Nah. I imagine everybody’s working on it. Hoping to be the one who makes a big breakthrough. It only makes sense.”

“I guess.”

Benson glances down at my backpack. “So what do you need my incredible expertise with?” he asks. Technically Benson doesn’t actually do all that much helping anymore—mostly I just needed the microfiche thing —but we sit and discuss my assignments and readings and he often returns the favor with his own suggestions. It’s why I started reading Keats.

“Nothing but calculus today, actually.”

“Please, a waste of my creative skills. Also, way too hard,” he says with a grin. “I’ll let you do that one on your own.”

“Thaaaaaanks,” I drawl, whapping him on the nose with a pencil.

He pulls my backpack open with one finger and peeks inside. “Don’t you have anything fun in there? Like history?”

“I’m completely finished with my history class for the rest of the semester, as of that paper we researched last Friday. We ate our dessert too quickly.” Since Benson and I are both history buffs, it was just too big of a temptation to work ahead.

“More’s the pity,” Benson says in a faux British accent.

I shake my head at his dramatics. The first time I saw Benson, I thought he was just a run-of-the-mill library nerd. But his comfortable grip when he shook my hand and the way his light green button-up shirt and gray sweater vest had an all-too-purposeful touch of wrinkling told me this was a carefully crafted look—not a persona he stumbled into after a geeky childhood.

In some ways, he keeps me sane better than my shrink. Reminds me of the normalcy life used to have.

He’s an intern from UNH, but even though he’s in college, we’re practically the same age. His birthday’s in August and mine’s in December, so we’re both eighteen, just on opposite sides of the school year cut-off. Not that he doesn’t take every opportunity to bring up the fact that he’s older and wiser.

I’ll give him the older part. But only just.

“I just had to get out of the house.” It’s only a half lie. A few more seconds of procrastination as I try to decide how to start the real conversation.

“Admit it, you missed me.”

“Pined,” I say with an eyebrow raised. But it’s the truth. More than I like to admit.

I rummage through my backpack—not actually trying to find my math book, just avoiding looking him in the face. “Hey, Benson?” I begin. “Is … is stalking ever acceptable? Like, justified and not weird and creepy?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Benson says in a very serious voice.

“Really?” I say, and I feel my heart speed up as hope leaps into my chest.

“Yes. When Dana McCraven is stalking me. That is completely acceptable, rational, and even expected as far as I’m concerned.” He strikes an exaggerated thinking pose, resting his cheek on his fist. “No, other than that it’s pretty much always weird and creepy. Why?”

“No reason,” I grumble, going back to my pointless poking around.

“Oh please,” Benson blurts after nearly a minute of silence.

“What?”

He runs his fingers through his light brown hair, styled in a casual messy look today. “‘What did you have for lunch?’” he says in a high, mocking tone. “That’s a question that people sometimes ask for no reason. ‘What did you do last night?’ is also a random question. I would even accept ‘Did you shower this morning?’ as a question without true motivation since you are aware of the fact that my hygiene habits are beyond reproach. Whether or not stalking is socially acceptable is definitely not a random, casual question.”

I refuse to meet his eyes.

He angles himself toward me and lets his arm rest on the back of my chair again, as if that didn’t make this whole conversation even more awkward. “Tave, seriously. This isn’t funny. Are you the stalker or the stalk- ee?”

“That’s a stupid word.”

“Is someone seriously stalking you?” Though he remains calm, all traces of humor are gone from his voice.

“No! Yes. Sort of.” I groan as I cover my face with my hands. “It’s complicated.”

“Reporters?”

I shake my head.

“Cupcake, spill.” He always refers to me as some kind of confection when he’s trying to worm information out of me. Which, considering my somewhat sordid past, happens on a semi-frequent basis. I caved once to muffin but put my foot down at croissant.

Cupcake is acceptable, though, so I give up and tell him. Once the words start, it gets easier. Then it’s a relief. Then I’m talking so quickly I’m having a hard time enunciating. The guy, the triangles on the houses, everything. By the time I reach the part where the guy tried to get me to come outside, Benson is done joking.

“Tavia, you need to call the police. This is some seriously scary shit.”