Transference: The Empatheia Saga

By Tessa Cox

SOPHIE
Since the moment I saw his face, my life has been in chaos. I don’t know his name, but still I see him night after night—his striking face appearing in my dream. Is it a portent of things to come, warning me to run from him? Or could it mean something else? I can’t seem to make any sense of it, and lately, my idyllic life hasn’t been so idyllic. I can’t tell my parents about these impossible things I can do because I don’t want to see that fear in their eyes—the same fear I feel growing stronger in me every day. So instead of running, I make the decision to trust him. I let him calm my fear while I confront truths I’d rather keep hidden. Still, I can’t tell him that my greatest fear is the little time we have left. Soon, I’ll have to watch him walk away.

ZACH
I’ve done some things I’m not proud of, but who hasn’t? Okay, maybe I’ve done a few more than most, but these days I don’t give into those distractions. Especially when I feel the consequences in ways nobody could ever understand. Now, I occupy my time by going where I’m needed. I keep things calm and controlled while helping them see the hard choices they’ll have to make. I’ve done it countless times. Except nothing about this girl is like those other times. There’s more for her to fear than just these strange, but extraordinary things she can do—she also has a past she doesn’t even know about yet. So even if she would prefer to keep me at a distance, I simply can’t let that happen. I need to know her secrets and keep her safe. It’s what I do. I’m the empath.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781646289301

Book preview

Prologue

-ZACH-

The music blared through my headphones, but it didn’t cancel out any of the noise in my head. Still, it would have to do for now because it was the only alternative to putting a fist through my bedroom wall. I shut my eyes, taking deep breaths as I let the rage and disappointment flow through me in a steady rhythm, one much slower than the pulsing beat of drums and guitar booming in my ears.

Lying on my bed, I opened my eyes again to stare at the blank wall in front of me. Maybe tearing down all the movie and band posters had been another bad idea in a never-ending stream of bad ideas. Now, I had nothing to focus on except the old gray paint, a compromising color between the charcoal I had chosen and the stark white Mom had wanted years ago.

As if she gave a damn about any of that now. I could paint the walls black, and she wouldn’t even know about it.

I shuttered my eyes again, blocking out the gray wall as the track ended and another one with the same angry energy began. I tried to concentrate on it but sensed an end to my private moment. Someone had opened the bedroom door and now stood watching me from the doorway.

Arms crossed over my chest and legs crossed at the ankles, I gave away nothing to indicate I was aware of his or her presence. It wasn’t my dad, that much was certain, because he wasn’t stupid enough to invite himself into my space until I calmed down.

Rage came seeping back in, crushing any progress made in the last few minutes. Intent on finding out who the hell this was, and what the hell they were doing in my room, my eyes flew open, and I tossed the headphones off my head and sat upright to eye my prey.

Since I didn’t know who to expect, it would be wrong to say the man standing in my doorway surprised me, or the fact I didn’t recognize him. His meticulously combed stark-white hair and age lines around his eyes and mouth like my grandpa didn’t squash any of my lingering hostility, and neither did the measured steps he took to my desk chair, indicating that walking any faster might take a great deal of effort.

He lowered himself into the rickety oak chair, pulling back the length of his khaki-colored trousers in that way that old guys always did, like their pants would trip them up while they were sitting down if they didn’t grab hold first. His eyes, the same color as his slate gray pullover, locked on mine once he sat down. A pair of thin, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his pointy nose, effectively separating those gray eyes from mine, but it didn’t make a damn bit of difference. The man’s gaze assessed me with the power of an x-ray machine, and it took every ounce of my fragile control not to let him see me squirm.

Eventually, after staring one another down for a few more seconds, he motioned with his forefinger toward the headphones I discarded on the bed. Does it help?

Without waiting for any reply, he reached into his right pocket, retrieving a neatly folded white handkerchief. Removing his glasses, he began to wipe each lens with the handkerchief, lifting them toward the midday light streaming in from the window to inspect his work. Satisfied, he returned the handkerchief to his pocket and put the glasses back on. Crossing his legs, he leaned back in the chair with a casual confidence that mystified me.

So does it?

As if suddenly realizing he meant for me to respond, I registered the question. Does what?

Does the music help?

I swallowed hard, picking up my phone to shut off the music. How about you tell me who the hell you are, and why you think you can invite yourself into my room?

He nodded. Fair enough, Mr. Daniels. I am Dr. Stephen Fischer, and I can assure you I am here at your father’s invitation because he believes we can help each other.

I flew off the bed in an instant. Doctor? Well, I’m not talking to any more shrinks so you have exactly ten seconds to get out of my room before I throw you out, and I think you should know I pride myself on never making idle threats.

I don’t doubt it, he said in a tone clearly unaffected by my outburst, and I couldn’t decide if that made him someone to be envied or pitied. Sorry to disappoint, but I am not a therapist, and even if I were, I don’t think we would begin our first session with me walking into your room uninvited. I’m certain that would violate some sort of doctor-patient paradigm.

Good, I hissed, walking over to the door and opening it. Now, why don’t you save us both some time and get the hell out? I don’t care who you are, I don’t want to know who you are, but I do want you out of my room.

Sit down, Mr. Daniels, he said flatly.

I gripped the door harder, releasing it only when I could hear the wood begin to crack. My jaw clenched, and I forced a deep breath into my lungs. Don’t talk to me like you have the right to tell me what to do.

Or what? You’ll throttle me like you did that young man at school today?

My gaze snapped back to his. He had it coming.

From what I heard, you stole his girlfriend and then didn’t even want to keep her around after you got her, he said with a sardonic laugh. I fail to see how that’s his fault.

It’s his fault for being stupid enough to date a girl who would come on to me in the first place, I said, moving back in the direction of the bed. I assure you I didn’t seek her out. I flopped back on the bed again with another deep breath, realizing I would have to wait him out. I might be an ass, but I couldn’t do physical damage to a man who had liver spots on his face, neck, and wrinkled hands.

I see, but you didn’t refuse her, did you?

I grinned smugly. I’m not in the habit of refusing when I fail to see the downside.

And what downside could there possibly be when you break up a relationship and put someone in the hospital.

His flat tone contrasted with that steely, intuitive gaze still fixed in my direction. Reflexively, I swallowed hard. I told him he should stop, and he wouldn’t listen.

Leaning forward, balancing his elbows on his knees, he said, And I’ll bet it eased something in you to hurt him, didn’t it? That while you did it, you felt relief from the constant rage that always seems to be simmering below the surface? But how do you feel now, Mr. Daniels? Do you feel that self-loathing and disappointment that your father tells me you feel every time? Is it all-consuming to the point that no amount of violence or loud music can make it disappear? He motioned to the torn and scattered pieces of the posters on the floor, desk, and bed, looking like a bleaker version of Christmas morning. I followed the direction of his hand as he waved at the scraps, finding a few pieces still attached to the wall where they used to be part of a whole.

Shame surged through me, and my hands searched automatically for something to grasp, something to squeeze so I wouldn’t hurt this man. The need to wrap my hands around his throat or toss him into the nearest wall with enough force to leave an impression in the drywall was overwhelming.

Even now, you crave that violence. You want to hurt me for being so bold…maybe it would be your hands, your fists, or simply lifting me in this chair and throwing it out the window with me still sitting in it, and I know you could do it without even straining yourself. He leaned forward again. But do you know what I find the most curious part of all? That a powerful empath like yourself would rather use his fists than his gift as a means of resolving conflict.

Like a bucket of icy water being poured over my head, his words stopped me cold.

How…

Well, it’s my understanding that only three people know about that and two of them are in this room, so I think you can figure out who told me from there, he said with a shrug of one shoulder.

My dad wouldn’t do that, I said with a shake of my head. He wouldn’t.

I am convinced that your father would do just about anything at this point if he thought it could help, he said. I only wish he had come to me sooner.

I stared at him, trying to collect my thoughts before I spoke again, but eventually, all I could manage was, Just what kind of doctor are you?

I have a PhD in neurobiology and genetics, but you could say my real passion is parapsychological phenomenon, he said, pushing his glasses back on his nose.

You study ghosts?

I said ‘parapsychological phenomenon,’ Mr. Daniels, not ‘paranormal.’ That’s something very different, I assure you.

Let’s lose the ‘Mr. Daniels’ since you now seem to know more about me than any of my friends.

Fine. Zachary, is it?

That works.

Well, then I’m Stephen, and as I said before, I’m here because I know we can help each other.

Help each other?

Indeed, he said with a grin. Now, shall we begin?

One

-SOPHIE-

Alighieri, Atwood, Austen…

I didn’t always start at the beginning. The idea of starting somewhere in the middle felt like more of a challenge.

Marlowe, Melville, Miller…

Then I kept going, looping back to the start until I fell asleep again.

That’s the way it always worked since that first time.

The dream woke me only a few days after my thirteenth birthday—that precarious age too young not to be affected, but too old to crawl in bed with my parents. I slipped downstairs as quietly as possible, got a drink of water, and decided to visit Dad’s study. The lingering, lemony scent of the wood oil Mom used throughout the house always seemed to be strongest in the study. Well, I guess that made sense when wall to wall wooden bookshelves, wood floors, and a huge wood desk filled the majority of the space, and with Mom being such a meticulous housekeeper, not a fraction went unpolished. Add to that the distinctive scent of old books, and just stepping into the room always brought an instant calm.

Even when I visited this room on my own, I didn’t sit behind Dad’s desk. The papers strewn from one end to the other and the ever-present leather-bound Bible with a delicate red ribbon marking his page made me wary to move anything, so I usually just curled up in one of the comfy mahogany chairs opposite the desk.

That’s when he found me.

I honestly don’t know what woke him, and to this day I’m not sure what brought him down to the study at that time of night, but relief filled me instantly as he walked into the room.

He took a seat in the chair beside me rather than the one he usually took behind his desk. What’s going on, Sophie Grace?

My eyes shifted from his to the crème-colored area rug, the matching curtains, even the framed photos of Mom and my siblings in various places all over the room, and all the while, he didn’t press. He simply waited for me to speak, and eventually I found the words to tell him about the strange dream—how vividly the surf rose above the pier, breaking boards and beams and flooding the nearby homes and shops, and how my unease had more to do with the familiarity of that place more than what actually happened.

Plus it came out of nowhere. We didn’t watch a recent movie about storms at sea, and I couldn’t even recall the last time we went to the pier.

He nodded and listened in that patient way uniquely his own, always with a circumspect expression that said my silly dream mattered to him. His unruly butterscotch hair, now graying a little at the temples, stood up in places that defied gravity, and the single knot tied around his waist from his bathrobe added to his overall rumpled, sleepy look. Underneath the robe would be a plain white cotton T-shirt and boxer shorts that he wore to bed every night.

You should really try to get back to sleep, he said in a gentle voice as he rose from the chair.

I know, I sighed. I’m just not sure my mind agrees with us. I don’t think I’ll be able to shut it down yet.

Well, maybe you should try counting sheep.

I grimaced. That’s lame, Dad.

He smiled. I don’t mean ‘sheep’ as in the traditional sense. Everyone has their own version of counting sheep. He said the last as he looked around. For you, I think it’s something more sophisticated.

Dad’s books had always been one of his great treasures, with not a single title ever out of place. He kept them organized alphabetically by author from one end of the room to the other, and whenever I woke from a dream from that night on, I always tried to name each author as I visualized his collection in my mind.

The next day, we learned that record surf at the harbor had caused severe damage to the pier and all the nearby homes and shops. People were evacuated, and subsequently, the area would be closed for repairs.

As expected, Dad reacted sensibly to the news, informing Mom about the strange dream from the night before, and she surprised me with her calm reserve. They insisted that any time I woke from a dream, they wanted to know about it.

I didn’t understand their sudden interest. Maybe it had just been a fluke? Didn’t everyone have at least one inexplicable premonition during the course of their life?

But it wasn’t just one.

As time passed, my dreams told the story of more things to come—sometimes nothing more than knowing it would rain, and other times a lot more. I saw my little brother with a broken arm, causing Mom to forbid him to go to the park with his friends the next day. But when he fell out of the tree in our backyard and broke it anyway, her calm façade began to crack.

The dreams never came with any regularity, either. At times, I would dream night after night, and then months would go by and I didn’t dream at all.

Then about six months ago, something changed. I had a new dream, and when it woke me, I found Mom. Still asleep, I nudged her arm until she woke, her wide eyes quickly finding mine as I said, You need to visit Nana today.

She didn’t waste any time gathering us all up to see our great-grandmother at her nursing home. We spent a couple of hours there, and later that night Nana passed away in her sleep.

For Mom, my strange gift took a new shape that day, and as hard as she tried, she couldn’t disguise her wariness about the next one that would inevitably come.

So I made a decision to stop sharing my dreams.

When they asked me if I had any, I lied and learned to deal with it alone—learned to chase the images away and ignore them.

Shakespeare, Shelley, Steinbeck…

Sometimes I didn’t even feel bad about lying because the dreams became less frequent, and since Nana, there wasn’t anything to really worry about.

But then last night, the dream woke me just as it had the previous two nights. I had to force myself to stay in bed, to keep my feet from running into my parents’ room across the hall and telling them everything. I lay trembling, clutching the sheet in my hand like some sort of anchor as I took deep, heavy breaths and tried to calm down.

Tolkien, Tolstoy, Twain…

But it wasn’t working this time. I couldn’t stop thinking about the dream. I couldn’t stop thinking about what it meant. I never had the same dream repeat itself, and not only repeat but expand. Each night, new details unfolded. Just as Nana’s passing had been a shift, this new dream seemed like a doorway leading me to a place I didn’t want to explore.

*****

Sophie?

Mom’s voice called me back to the present.

Did you hear me, honey? she said as she chopped garlic with impressive speed. I need you to pull the card from my recipe box.

Sure, I said, averting my eyes quickly before she clued in to the wandering direction of my thoughts. I placed the recipe card she needed on the counter and went back to my unlucky task of chopping onions. Last night, I promised to lend Mom a hand making her famous mozzarella meatballs for my sister’s sleepover, and as soon as I walked in the door, we got to work.

For a few minutes, we worked in silence, Mom still outdoing me with her speed and efficiency, and me sniffing repeatedly as the onion fumes filled my nose and made my eyes water.

Glancing over, Mom laughed softly. Want me to take over?

I’m almost done, I said, using the back of my hand to wipe at a wayward tear leaking from my eye.

So you didn’t say how your last day went.

I shrugged and went back to chopping. It was the usual last day of school. I’m not sure why they make us show up. The only thing we do in each class is sign yearbooks and mess around. Everyone seemed excited about summer break, though.

You don’t seem that excited.

It’s the onions.

She laughed, but I could feel her crystal blue eyes studying me. With her homing skills on alert, it took everything in me to act normal and not tell her about the latest dream.

But I couldn’t tell her. This new dream would be too much for her, so I quickly searched for a new topic. Whitney and I are meeting up with Simon at the mall later. His cousin who’s staying with him for the summer is supposed to come along.

Mom stopped chopping and looked at me. The cousin he always talks about?

I nodded. Yeah.

Well, that should be interesting, she said with an amused grin, and then went back to her chopping. Honey, would you mind starting the onions if they’re ready?

Sure. Which pan?

The big one.

I turned, opening the lower cabinet on the kitchen island, right beneath the stove-top range, and found the pan we needed. Adding a few turns of olive oil from the bottle Mom always kept nearby, I waited for the oil to heat. Inarguably Mom’s favorite space, she took pride in her kitchen being not only beautiful but practical. White oak cabinets spanned the length of the kitchen and the base of the island, and white marble countertops gleamed with accents of crème and blue. Silver metallic appliances like a countertop mixer, toaster, and automatic can opener stood ready for use, but it was the cornflower-blue industrial fridge that rounded out the space nicely and became the envy of all Mom’s friends.

Soon, onions and garlic sizzled in the pan, followed by the ground beef and pork, and the savory aroma filled my nostrils and made my stomach growl. When Mom added the fragrant rosemary and fennel to the mixture, I almost canceled my plans with Whitney so I could stay home and indulge in eating this masterpiece. Instead, I snagged a couple of finished meatballs, moaning as the nugget of mozzarella burst on my tongue, and Mom laughed at my enthusiasm.

Thirty minutes later, I had finished loading the dishwasher as Mom wiped down the counters. Are you going to need any more help?

I’m good, honey. Thank you.

I’m gonna head up to change before Whitney gets here.

Does it make me a bad mom if I kinda wish I was hanging out with you tonight instead of staying here?

Your secret is safe with me, I laughed.

What secret? said Dad as he stepped into the kitchen, taking determined steps toward the last batch of meatballs cooling on the sheet pan near the oven.

He popped one in his mouth, hissing and turning his lips into a surprised O as he sucked air into his mouth to cool it down.

Mom shook her head and crossed her arms. You couldn’t wait a couple of minutes for those to cool? They’re fresh from the oven.

So I discovered, he said with a grimace, still making strange noises as he finished chewing and swallowing the sizzling meatball. Mom snapped the dishtowel in her hand lightly against his leg and Dad grabbed it, hauling her into his arms as she laughed.

He pecked her on the mouth and then looked at her with a wide grin, the adoration in his big, sea-green eyes unmistakable. She swept her side bangs behind her ear, the rest of her long pale-blond hair up in her usual high ponytail, and as she wrapped her arms around his neck, a grin spread across her beautiful face. I always thought Mom could have been a model if she wanted, with her creamy skin, long legs, and small frame, accentuated nicely by the black yoga pants and her favorite white apron with a print of big lemons and cherries all over it. But her loving expression made it clear she couldn’t be happier than where she was right now.

My parents were so cute, it bordered on gross sometimes.

Two

-SOPHIE-

So just how miserable is your mom about tonight?

I flashed a grin, turning right on Main Street as I said, When I left, she was hiding out in the garage.

Whitney laughed a little and shook her head. Can you blame her? Plus she’s probably working up her case again for your dad.

No doubt.

Whenever Mom couldn’t be found, we looked in the garage. Since the kitchen had a direct entrance, she repurposed it years ago as an extra storage area for the catering business she launched after my younger brother, Jack, started preschool. Before that, she taught kindergarten, but had always been passionate about cooking and wanted to try her hand at running her own business. Her friends and family encouraged her to go for it since her food always made the favorite list at parties and get-togethers. Nana passed along all her recipes and tricks, and then Mom followed that up with some formal culinary training.

Her business thrived more and more each year, with one minor setback: the disorganized state of the garage. Compared to her meticulous care of the rest of the house, the garage looked like a space mysteriously transplanted from another family’s home. She blamed the constant disorganization and clutter on a lack of shelves and cabinets, and Dad kept assuring her he would take care of it soon. My parents seemed to have different ideas about the concept of soon.

I turned into the parking lot at the mall, zigzagging through the aisles in search of an empty space, and just as I thought I found one, a shiny black Mustang swooped in and stole it.

Ugh, grunted Whitney, flinging her arms up in exasperation, the look on her face telling me she might be seconds away from lowering her window and telling him off. I equally loved and despised my best friend’s confrontational nature, loving it when she came to the defense of friends and family, but despising it when I had to cringe beside her and watch.

It’s okay, Whit, I urged, driving past quickly so she didn’t get a chance to yell out the window. We’ll find another one.

She sighed, skipping a song by The Smiths on my playlist she had always hated. We had an unspoken understanding that she could shuffle through the music in my car, though I didn’t always return the gesture when I got to be a passenger in hers. I counted it as one of the many things simply understood when two people had been best friends since fourth grade.

I swear, people are getting ruder around here every day, she mused absently, still searching through the playlist.

I didn’t bother to argue with her, even if I happened to disagree with the observation. In my mind, the level of rude seemed to be where it always had been. It was just part of the trade when you lived in California. You took the occasional rude driver in exchange for beautiful weather and beaches.

I’ve lived in Ventura most of my life, loving how the old and new collide effortlessly in the small family-owned and operated shops of downtown near the beach, and the steady stream of new parking lots, houses, apartments, and retail stores throughout the rest of the city. You can head south and be in the heart of Los Angeles in less than an hour or drive up the northern coast and visit favorites like Santa Barbara and Solvang.

Finally finding a spot, I parked the car and minutes later we made our way to the mall’s entrance and up the escalator. Again, we had an unspoken understanding that Forever 21 would be the first stop and then any other store advertising sales on summer attire. I’d bet money Whitney would be on the hunt for a new bathing suit.

Proving me right, she picked a few bikinis off the rack in one of the newer stores, modeling each one as she emerged from the tiny dressing room at the back of the store. I sat in the single chair provided for customers and waited for each new reveal. The first two, one a cheery apricot with flecks of white flowers and the other a bright magenta with tassels, looked stunning on her. Of course, anything would look stunning on Whitney with her perfect olive skin and curves in all the right places.

Her deep mahogany hair spilled in waves down the length of her back that looked natural and easy to the untrained eye, but I knew she took her time to arrange them exactly as she wanted them. Strands of magenta peaked through as she turned this way and that to examine her image in the long mirror. She usually had a bright color mingled throughout her dark tresses, and for the summer she decided to go with a magenta pink she reapplied every couple of weeks. Before that, she experimented with blue, purple, and ruby red, but I think the pink might be my favorite so far.

Whitney clearly liked it too, having selected the magenta bikini to coordinate and draw attention to her hair, but there was no need. With those exotic toffee eyes framed by thick, dark lashes, her striking eyebrows the same shade as her hair, and her outgoing personality, people were just automatically drawn to her.

I like these two so much I’m not even going to try on the green one, she said, turning away from the mirror to face me. Her last selection had been an emerald bikini with scalloped trim and a halter style for the top. I wish you would, though.

I crossed my arms over my chest and shook my head. Not going to happen.

She sighed dramatically. Your dad wouldn’t have to know, and you would absolutely kill in this one, Soph. With your hair and eyes…Please try it on.

Even if Dad didn’t know, Mom knows everything, and she wouldn’t approve either, I argued. Besides, you know me, and even if it’s cute, that’s more skin than I’m comfortable showing. I’ll stick to my one-piece, thank you very much.

You’re no fun, she said with a jut of her chin. I’m going to shop with Lexie from now on.

You two will make the perfect pair.

She grimaced in disgust, and I laughed as she went back into the changing room.

My sister Lexie, who turned fourteen a couple of months ago, constantly pushed the boundaries our parents set for us, testing them for weaknesses and vulnerabilities like chinks in a suit of armor. She had been grounded more in recent months than she had her entire life, and it seemed a regular occurrence these days for her to be arguing with Mom about one thing or another.

Each time, she would seek me out to pout and complain, but while I had no problem listening to her woes, I couldn’t agree with her. Our parents have rules and expectations, but I don’t happen to think they are too strict.

Before moving to California, our dad pastored a small church in Colorado Springs, Colorado, then we moved when I was only two so he could pastor a bigger church here in Ventura. He loves the work he does and the congregation he serves. My friends at school always assume that being a pastor’s daughter means I have a rule-suffocating life filled with disapproving glances and lectures, but nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, my parents raised us to embrace certain values and morals, but more than anything they want me, Lexie, Jack, and even my baby sister, Zoey, to use those as a guide as we steer our own path. So while Mom might disapprove of certain items of clothing Lexie wants to wear, or movies she wants to watch, she ultimately wants to teach her about making wise decisions, and not just looking for opportunities to say no.

In fact, tonight’s sleepover had been a big yes and a reward for getting straight As in all her classes. I got all As too, but when asked what I wanted as a reward I told my parents I would just take my usual iTunes or Amazon gift card.

Whitney emerged from the changing room wearing the short black denim shorts and white tank she had on before trying on the bikinis. She had a black cami-tank under the looser white tank that had thin straps, a crisscross design in the front and a small tie on the side near her waist.

She made her purchase, and we walked around a bit more since it wasn’t quite time to meet up with Simon. I listened to Whitney talk about all the activities we should plan for the summer, trying not to let my mind wander back to the guy in my dream. I could remember him down to the smallest detail—the shape of his eyes, the size of his hands, and the slight grin that somehow unnerves and reassures, and I know for certain he’s a stranger. His face isn’t the type of face you forget.

I’m glad we’re meeting up with Simon, she said suddenly, bringing my attention back to the conversation. Outside of school, we haven’t seen him much lately.

He’s been so busy helping his dad out. When we were texting the other day, he said they still didn’t find a replacement for that guy who quit.

Simon was one of my closest friends largely because our parents were so close. His parents divorced when he was five years old, and after they split, they shared joint custody, but two years later, his mom passed away in a car accident. Not long after the funeral, Simon’s dad packed up everything and left their home in North Carolina and moved out to California for a drastic change. He started his own auto repair shop, and his business became pretty successful once word got around that he did good work for a fair price. He began attending Dad’s church, and it didn’t take long for them to become friends. Simon and his dad often benefited from Mom’s cooking when she made too much food or needed to test out a new recipe.

So are you still refusing to join me in Arizona? asked Whitney, switching subjects abruptly.

I sighed and rolled my eyes at her. Whitney’s older sister, Allison, lived in Phoenix with her new husband and she had been pressing Whitney to visit. Whit spent the last few weeks trying to convince me to go with her, but I would prefer to stay in the moderate heat of Ventura compared to the scorching heat of Arizona. Plus I wanted to earn some money helping Mom out this summer.

Yes, I’m still refusing. I’ll miss you, but I’ll be right here waiting for you when you get back.

Come on, Soph, she whined, looping her arm through mine as we walked into the restaurant. If you don’t go, I might have to stop being your best friend.

Well, it’s a risk I’ll have to take.

We were seated at a table while we waited for Simon and his cousin to show. Whitney perused the menu while I amused myself by naming the celebrities, classic cars, and random depictions of pop culture that cluttered the walls in the brightly colored restaurant. The noisy, overly busy atmosphere was typical for this time of day, but we tolerated it because we