Free Illusions (The Missing #1) by A. M. Irvin Page B

confinement as a means to avoid it at all cost.
    I took a tentative step forward, filled with a strange sense of guilt. As though I would be caught doing something I shouldn’t.
    I tucked my school bag to my chest, I made myself continue on, breaking out through the trees and then crossing the green expanse of manicured field towards the picnic tables.
    Spring was coming and it was the first warm day since the fall. It had been a long, harsh winter, and I was happy to see it gone.
    Despite the pleasurable feeling of having the sun warm my skin, I kept my face down.
    Hide. Hide away . . .
    I sat down at an empty table and tried to still my overexcited heart. I felt a little nauseated and thought about leaving and heading back to school.
    I didn’t want to think about what Mother would say if she knew I was here. I shuddered.
    I had skipped class. I was playing hooky. I was enjoying a nice day outside instead of being closed up at home or at school. It felt liberating to do something so spontaneous.
    Unnatural but fulfilling.
    I pulled out a notebook I always kept tucked discreetly in my bag. It was my secret. I filled the pages with ramblings that would make no sense to anyone but me. It was my safe place.
    I uncapped a pen and poised the tip above the blank paper. I took a moment to enjoy the noise.
    I could hear children laughing on the jungle gym. The loud rumble of the garbage truck as it drove down the street.
    Here, I was surrounded by people. My heart felt full, and I found myself smiling.
    “It’s a pretty awesome day, right?”
    I startled at the unexpected sound of a voice. I looked up, making sure that my hair covered most of my face, and saw the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my short life.
    She appeared to be around my age with long, dark hair that fell almost to her waist. She wore bright pink and white-stripped leggings and a long white T-shirt that fell off one of her shoulders. She also wore a black beret that balanced precariously on top of her head. She was obviously one of those women who were effortlessly fashionable.
    But it wasn’t her clothes that made me stare. It was her incredibly dark eyes. Her face. The tiny dimple in the center of her chin.
    And the way she carried herself with a confidence that I would never, ever possess.
    Looking at this gorgeous girl only served to remind me of how ugly I was.
    I quickly averted my gaze, not responding to her comment. I began to scribble along the margins of the paper in front of me. Careless doodles created by nervous fingers.
    The beautiful woman stood there another few seconds, and I felt my face flush under her scrutiny. My heart thudded at a rapid rate, my mouth went dry, and my palms began to sweat. And I felt a tingling deep down in the darkest, most secret parts of me. I squirmed in my seat, very uncomfortable.
    “Okay. Well, enjoy the day,” the girl said after a beat and walked away. I was sad. I was bereft. I wanted her to come back. I wished I were one of those people with the witty comments and funny one-liners. I wished that I wasn’t so self-conscious and desperate to stay hidden.
    I wished I could be, just once, like that pretty woman with the perfect skin and a lovely smile.
    She sat down two tables away and opened a guitar case that I hadn’t realized she was carrying. I tried to be surreptitious as I watched her, peeking through strands of thin, blonde hair.
    She was lost in her own world, and I wondered what sort of place it was. I wanted to visit it with her.
    Her fingers were long and slim, perfect for strumming a guitar. She pushed up the sleeves of her T-shirt and held a bright purple guitar pick between her teeth while she tuned the instrument.
    I tried not to be obvious as I stared. But I honestly couldn’t help it. There was something about this woman that made it impossible to look away. She made my insides quiver and my heart race. I didn’t understand it. It made me uneasy. But it was also exhilarating. I