Shadows Gray - By Melyssa Williams Page 0,41

classics,” I point out stiffly, setting down the guitar. “And I’m not taking requests. I’m off the clock.”

“You’re singing depressed because you are depressed, is that it?”

I would argue but I don’t see the point. Normally I would lie, pretend that things are okay even if they aren’t, maybe to spare someone’s feelings so they wouldn’t feel obligated to cheer me up. But Luke doesn’t seem the sort to feel obligated to anyone. He actually looks like he is annoyed with me. My first initial pleased reaction at seeing him fades into a mutual annoyance. He has no idea how difficult my life is at the moment, and he comes here and judges me for my response to it? What a maddening person.

“I’m not depressed! I’ve had a hard day is all. I’m no closer to finding Rose and I’m worried. My time here isn’t going to last forever.” I won’t let my voice shake.

“Come here,” Luke says, patting the floor next to him. “What you need is a bucket list.”

“A what?” I obediently slide down next to him, but I am still feeling frosty. I stretch my legs out next to his; though mine are long and gangly, his are longer and end in brown hiking boots, the edges of his blue jeans faded and frayed, the threads hanging down like spider webs or the edges of my old nightgown at home. I am close enough to smell him; he smells like spice and soap. I wish again I had taken that bath and finished off my ginger pear bubble bath.

“A bucket list,” he repeats. “It’s a list of things you want to do before you die. In your case, what you want to do before you travel on. Things you couldn’t do in another century. Bungee jumping, for one.”

“No thanks,” I shudder. I’ve seen that on the television. “I drove,” I confess, feeling shyly boastful.

“Definitely a bucket list item you can cross off. Not bad, Gray. What else?”

There are so many things I haven’t done yet, I’m at a loss for words. Where to start?

“Have you flown?” Luke prods.

“No! And I’ve never taken a bus either.”

“Sky diving!”

“No!” I laugh. “Dye my hair.”

“Get a tattoo.”

“Surfing.”

“Been to a zoo.”

“E-mailed someone.”

“Try to aim a little higher on the excitement scale, Gray. Ridden a bike.”

“Gone to an art show.”

“What? How did you go from tattoos and surfing to an art show?” He cocks one eyebrow up.

I point next to his head where a poster is taped up to the wall advertising an art show. “I was running out of things to suggest,” I admit. “But I have never been to one and I am certainly not getting a tattoo.”

Luke squints at the poster. “It’s tomorrow, right around the corner at the gallery. Fancy schmancy.” He turns his soap and spice scented self towards me. “Pick you up at eight?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, but unfolds his legs and before I can recover from my surprise, he is gone.

Chapter Eleven

I have never had so much trouble sleeping as I have had the past few nights, since Rose’s appearance and subsequent disappearance. My reliance on Nightfall pills is not ideal (they are as addicting as any other drug and can lead to withdrawl symptoms if you take them too long and then stop) and even in spite of them, I have trouble drifting off and staying asleep until morning. Staying awake is never an option, especially this late in the game, when we could potentially travel on at any time. I know it’s coming, I feel it, and yet I can’t pinpoint why I know. I believe there must be a trigger of sorts, something to judge by, something to gage our time and distance, but I, like every other Lost, cannot find the pattern. It’s as though we’ve been given a 5000 piece jigsaw puzzle with a palm full of key pieces missing. If I could find those pieces, I could put together this frustrating puzzle of a life.

There are theories, of course, and they vary from something as simple as a headache that proceeds travel, to something as complicated as the alignment of the moon and planets, to the earth’s gravitational pull, even to ancient Mayan calendars and predictions. For me, I simply get restless. I do get headaches before we travel, yes, but it’s probably more to do with not sleeping than it is with predicting travel. The spot on the back of my neck becomes stiff and sore,

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