Free Overtaken by Mark H. Kruger

I . . . don’t.” I honestly didn’t say it so coldly to be snarky or elicit pity or sympathy from Jackson, only to state the hard facts, which seemed to be in short supply.
    â€œIt’s complicated. You know how I feel about you.”
    â€œI thought I knew,” I responded, my heart pounding and emotion welling up from the pit of my stomach as I recalled being in Jackson’s arms a few nights earlier. “I’m not so sure anymore.” My anger was subsiding, with sadness taking its place. It was an awful, empty feeling. It was all I had.
    â€œGive me time to figure stuff out,” he asked.
    â€œTime’s in short supply,” I reminded him, “in case you’ve forgotten. I’m not waiting around for Bar Tech to kidnap me or you or Oliver like they did Maya. I’ve got to do something before they find out that my— our —powers are here to stay.”
    â€œI’m not asking you to sit on your hands and do nothing, Nica. Just tread lightly. We don’t know who our friends are. Who to trust.”
    â€œThat’s why, until I know which side Dana’s on,” I said, “I’m keeping my distance. And so should you.”
    â€œPlease trust me,” he pressed, his normally bright blue–green eyes projecting confusion and regret. “Let me handle things my own way.”
    I had to turn away. It was too painful to see him struggling with his complicated feelings about Dana and me.
    Two minutes of silence later, he arrived at my house and pulled into the driveway. I quickly exited the pickup and slammed the door. Without saying another word, I hurried up the walkway and disappeared into my house, fighting off a wave of hurt and tears that I didn’t want Jackson to see.
    Once Jackson had pulled out of the driveway and I was safely behind the closed front door, I threw my bag across the foyer and screamed at the top of my lungs.
    â€œFuck!”
    Jackson was right about not knowing whom to trust. Truth was, my emotions were all over the place. I didn’t even know if I could trust myself anymore.
    That’s when the tears came.
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    I woke up several hours later buried underneath a mountain of bedcovers, completely disoriented as to whether it was day or night. Then I heard my dad calling me downstairs for dinner and the roller-coaster ride of a day came rushing back to me in living color, along with my looming problems. One of which was the massive headache that was suddenly pounding in my head. I staggered to my feet in no condition to face anyone—least of all my father.
    I shuffled down the stairs into the kitchen, not caring that my hair looked like a Medusa fright wig.
    â€œWhat happened to you?” The expression on Dad’s face said I looked far worse than I imagined. He was dishing up delicious chicken curry and lamb tikka masala from Dhaba, the one and only Indian restaurant in Barrington.
    â€œCan we not talk about my day?” I grumbled.
    My dad respectfully nodded and didn’t press me to open up. Unlike Lydia, Dad respected boundaries and never tried to push me into sharing the source of my anguish. Although I sounded calm and in control, my desperation clearly shone through, because he pulled out a chair for me. I gratefully plopped into it. I didn’t stop inhaling my meal until every ounce of food was gone. At least my appetite was unaffected by all the turmoil.
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    Later that evening my dad knocked on my bedroom door.
    â€œCome in,” I muttered from my cozy window seat while staring out at the neighborhood. I had sequestered myself into my room after dinner, pretending to do homework when I had in fact been texting back and forth with Oliver.
    â€œFeeling better?” My dad opened the door and lingered in the doorway, not violating my space.
    I nodded that I was feeling better even though it wasn’t entirely