Soulmated Read online

  Great. Just what the world needed—another jock.

  But what were a Mercedes, some expensive SUV, and an Audi doing on our street? We lived in a neighborhood of small single-family homes, the kind with carports or the odd detached garage, like ours. It was homey. Our neighbors took care of their shrubs, put up holiday decorations, and carried pooper-scoopers for their dogs. It was rare to find a house whose paint wasn’t peeling, whose gutters weren’t blackened, or whose sidewalks weren’t christened with initials whenever cracks were sealed over.

  A newer Mercedes pulled up and parked in Mrs. Robertson’s gravel driveway. A uniformed chauffeur got out and opened the back door. A young man in slacks and a button-down shirt stepped out. He hugged the adults and grabbed the soccer guy—his brother?—in a headlock. They knocked each other around for a bit while the chauffeur lifted a small suitcase and a messenger bag from the trunk before getting back into the Mercedes and leaving.

  I hugged a cushion to my chest and settled in to spy. With the air-conditioning vents blowing right above my window seat, goose bumps chased each other across my arms.

  The mother and the dressed-up young man moved toward the house and out of my view, leaving Mr. Clappy-Hands and the jock outside. Jock still hadn’t turned around. He kicked the soccer ball between his knees and feet with almost dance-like skills. The few times he struggled to control the ball, I’d hold my breath until he resumed his self-assured, lazy rhythm. I was impressed with his dexterity and pressed my nose to the window to watch. Something about his movements warmed me, like the moment the morning sun burst above the horizon. I didn’t dare turn away for a second in case I missed anything.

  I wondered how tall he was compared to me and how broad his shoulders were. What color were his eyes? Was he a junior like me? And where would he be going to school?

  The soccer ball flew into the air. He bounced it off his head and let it drop to his foot, and in one lithe movement, kicked it back to his knee, turning enough for me to get a good look at the front of him.

  A black V-neck T-shirt stretched snug across his muscular chest. While his feet did their thing, he balanced himself with his arms outstretched, the curves of his biceps clearly visible. What would they feel like under my fingers? My hand went up to the window on its own, and a sizzle shot up my arm and settled behind my eyes. I yanked my hand back down with a yelp. Soccer guy jerked around as if he’d heard me, and I shrank back, my heart racing.

  Don’t be stupid. He can’t see you. Maybe a noise had startled him.

  He scanned his surroundings, but never looked up. He ran a hand through his dark hair, pushing back what fell over his forehead, and rubbed the back of his neck. What was he thinking about? He faced his front lawn again, and my shoulders slumped. The urge to touch the window again overwhelmed me. What is wrong with me?

  I shook out my hand, balling it into a fist, and squeezed the cushion tighter against my chest. Falling for a neighbor when I was being forced to graduate early wasn’t a choice I could afford to make.

  CHAPTER 3

  Liam

  We’d parked on yet another dull street, in another dull neighborhood, of another dull city. Ah, sure look it. At least it was something new to see—a new state. North Carolina.

  I stepped out of Mum’s Audi and stretched. It felt good to be walking around since our last stop was more than three hours ago, back in a place called Asheville. We’d taken a self-guided sightseeing tour for three days, from our last house in Memphis to Cary, and if I never saw another Cracker Barrel, I’d die a happy man. Since Da had gone on ahead to meet the movers, he’d missed all the fun.

  I reached for the football I’d tossed in the boot back in Memphis and spun it on my finger. Agh, they call it a soccer ball in the States, Liam. For as many years as we’d been returning here, each autumn was like the first time—relearning American English and trying not to be standing out like a tourist. Except now, I didn’t find myself much caring.

  The sounds of a lived-in neighborhood met my ears—dogs barking, lawn mowers running, and kids laughing. The street offered up more trees than in our last few neighborhoods, but their thick, dark green canopies felt oppressive to me, nothing like the lively greens from home.

  Da stood on the porch, rubbing his hands together, a smile glued to his face. He was always excited by the prospect of a new lead from another one of his visions.

  “Isn’t this grand?” he asked. “The mountains, did you see ‘em on the drive? Fantastic, weren’t they?”

  I ignored him and bounced the football between my knees and feet.

  My brother arrived minutes later, having flown into the Raleigh-Durham airport an hour ago. Ciarán would be staying only the weekend to help us with the unpacking. Wherever we’d moved, finding movers cleared by the empath government was brutal. It meant that every year, we had to pack and unpack our personal possessions on our own, in case outsiders saw something they shouldn’t. Ciarán would be flying back home early Monday, and I’d be starting as a senior at a new high school, looking for my next target—again. If I’d been at home, I’d have been done with my Senior Cycle and have gone on to university by now.

  As I concentrated on keeping my balance, I sensed a fleeting presence touch my mind, like fingers pressed against my skin. I jerked around, but saw not a soul. It took a moment to settle back into reality, as if I’d just woken and was trying to call to mind a dream.

  The sensation stuck around like an itch I’d never be able to reach. Even though it wasn’t an empathic projection, I reinforced the mental blocks guarding my mind. Now that I was head of our clan and refused bodyguards while in the States, I’d want to be careful.

  We made a quick supper of sandwiches around our kitchen table. I hadn’t much of an appetite. Each time we returned to the States, it was the same. I’d miss my cousins and the calm of the countryside something fierce. Wherever we’d lived here, I could never walk more than ten feet before I’d be staring at a chain-link fence, a dying patch of grass, or a rattling air-conditioning unit. Compared to our estate, everywhere here felt like the devil’s closet.

  Mum waved her hand in front of my face. “You know, darling, you’re making it worse by brooding.”

  “Stop trying to read me, yeah?” I must’ve relaxed my block, so I closed my mind off tighter.

  “I don’t have to. Anyone can see what you’re feeling.”

  Da and Ciarán were arguing about something useless, so I popped in my earbuds to drown them out and picked up my paper plate to throw it away. Splender’s “Yeah, Whatever” blared from my eighties and nineties playlist. How fitting. Mum frowned and shook her head.

  I excused myself to go and unpack my room. The first thing to set up was my stereo, which already had Twenty One Pilots in the disc changer. In the coffin that was now my room, I fell back onto my bare mattress, staring at the ceiling, wondering how my last year in the States would be. If the drywall nails popping out around the ceiling fan were any indication, life would be grand.

  Just grand.

  Ciarán stuck his head around the door.

  “What’s craic?” I asked. Hiding my sarcasm would’ve been pointless.

  “Just checking on my little brother … the prince.” He waved his fingers in the air.

  “Little? I’m tall enough to be stopping your cakehole, boy.” Ciarán stepped into the room and leaned a shoulder against the wall. He’d changed into some girlie-looking T-shirt and a pair of Da’s safari shorts. Smooth. “Couldn’t find a tie in Da’s room to go with that?”

  “You’re in a maggoty mood.” He turned down my stereo and glanced into a box of books.

  “Registered for your modules at Trinity, have you?”

  “I have. When do your classes start here?”

  “Monday. New school, same old shite.” I pushed off the mattress to unpack.

  “Think you’ll be finding this soul mate in some little girl still in school? It’s a woman you’re
needing.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me and shoved some books on a shelf.

  “School means the girls are the same age as me, moron. I’m not a perv.”

  “‘I’m not a perv.’ Jaysus, you’re even sounding like a Yank.”

  I ignored him, flattened emptied boxes, and threw them into the corner. If the room were any smaller, it’d be regurgitating all the furniture stuffed in here.

  “Oh, Ciarán,” he mimicked. “These girls can’t flirt, they’ve no sense of humor, and not a one can snog worth hell.” He laughed. “Did I sum up the last few years well enough for ya, dear brother? What you keep on about is a girl in pigtails. Now the women I’d shown you this summer, there’d been a few there worth a shag. But no, you’ve got this soul mate blather stuck in your head. What happened to you needing an outlet?”

  “Don’t be making shite up now.” I’d never admit to needing an outlet to him. Those girls he’d put my way had been too old for my taste—or even younger than my targets here. Listening to him whine on about how I needed to find a right-now girl aggravated me to no end.

  “Mother of Jaysus.” Ciarán shook his head. “You don’t shag a girl with your brain. A right poof romantic, you are. One of these days you’ll dive too deep into these visions of Da’s, and you’ll never come up again.”

  I shoved a pile of my jeans into a drawer and slammed it shut.

  “You’re chasing clouds here, Liam. To hell with Da. Come back with me, yeah? Screw these arseways visions and start living your life.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a thumb drive. “Your latest estate reports.” With his eyebrows raised, he tossed me the reminder of the life waiting for me in Ireland.

  Why had I come back here to the States after my summer at home? I ran my hand through my hair and sighed. I was eighteen now. I could leave and quit the search. Maybe I was some teary-eyed romantic looking for my damsel in distress. But there’d be no chance I’d be admitting that to Ciarán.

  “I promised Mum,” I said, defending my decision.

  “Ma’s boy,” he muttered.

  “Why the bleedin’ hell are you even lurking about? Is it for the pure enjoyment of being a pissing arse?”

  He fanned his face with a kid’s book about the fifty states. Our little cousin, Ian, had bought it for me as a birthday gift so I’d not “lose my way.”

  I pointed to it. “Maybe you need to be finding your way to Maine if you’re having trouble with the heat down here.”

  He frowned at the cover. “Who’s being an arse now?”

  An hour later, we had most of my room sorted. Ciarán studied a photo from the box he’d just opened by my dresser. His back was to me, but in the mirror’s reflection, I could see the look of disgust flash across his face, leaving it pinched. I’d never have seen it if he weren’t standing where he was. He wasn’t an empath like me and Mum, but he’d learned how to block his emotions. Once he had, he never wanted to stop.

  “I’ll bring up some Guinness later, yeah?” He dropped the photo back on the pile and left.

  I maneuvered around boxes and picked up the photo. It showed the four of us not long after I’d felt my first empath ripple. So why was I getting Ciarán’s disgust? Hell if I knew how to figure him. I flung it back into the box.

  I yanked up the silver metallic blinds over my window and stared out. My room had a view of our driveway and detached garage. Several of our neighbor’s overgrown trees hung heavy, leaning over the fence between. As if on cue, someone’s air-conditioning unit rattled to life, reminding me again we weren’t in Ireland.

  I braced my hands on either side of the window and rested my forehead against the warm, west-facing glass. Why the hell was I back here again? I’d rather boil off my skin than have to be faking enthusiasm again for a target when I knew she wasn’t The One—all while we waited for Da’s next vision to confirm it. And dealing with the emotional drama when I’d break up with them? It was like throwing salt in the boiling water with me. No, I’d not let myself get sucked in to Da’s excitement like every year past. Of that, I’d make certain.

  The back of my neck tingled, reminding me that the itch from earlier hadn’t ever left.

  CHAPTER 4

  Laxshmi

  Between bites of our dal dhokli and rice at dinner, Mom spewed more of the same drivel she had all week. She’d found out about early graduation last Sunday from some woman at the mandir. To her, it was the answer to her prayers, the reason she’d gone to the temple in the first place.

  She served herself more rice and let the spoon clunk against the pot. “If you graduate early next summer and go to the faster medical school like Bhavnaben’s son, you will be done in six years. Six, not eight, hunh? If you don’t want to do that, then I will start looking for a boy for you to marry. You want a choice? That is your choice.”

  Whatever. The spoon’s handle dug into my tightening fingers. I could forget to tell her college applications would be due in November.

  “Once you become a doctor, you can find a good Indian boy. And see, if you finish early, you will be younger and more pretty than the other girls.”

  Wow. Apparently, beauty years were now like dog years—girls one year older than me would look a whole seven years older. Mom smiled like some evil genius. Where does she come up with this stuff?

  Her idea of a good Indian suitor was a mama’s boy who thought flirting was pulling a girl’s hair. As if. The boys at the temple were the worst. They’d parrot their parents’ criticisms of Americanized girls and then fall all over themselves when one of those girls flipped her hair back and flashed a flirty smile. I’d gag every time I’d see it.

  My ears stung with Mom’s litany of her friends’ daughters who were more Indian than I was, who cared more about their future, and who would have better marriage prospects. I could go to school every day with a freaking chandlo on my forehead, and she still wouldn’t think I was Indian enough. When would I ever get to make my own decisions?

  I bit back tears. God! Why do I always let her get to me? I couldn’t stomach any more food.

  Making the only choice I could, I pushed back, dumped my dishes into the sink, and muttered something about finishing my summer reading as I fled upstairs.

  I settled into my window seat and began rereading Wuthering Heights by the light of the setting sun, opening the window just a crack. A humid breeze fluttered the sheer curtains, and with it came the smell of someone barbecuing. The sound of two kids laughing floated up as they enjoyed the last bit of light. Mrs. Robertson’s sprinklers were on, making a tinkling sound as it hit her windows, and from a distance, two dogs were barking. I took a deep breath, letting my muscles relax.

  After skimming a few chapters, I spied two of our new neighbors climbing onto their roof, tools in hand. I barely saw more than their darkened silhouettes bathed in halos, so I raised my hand to shield my eyes against the sun and watched while they fiddled with something that looked like a fan. The dad seemed busy at his task, and the son sat, leaning against the chimney. He occasionally left his perch to help his dad, but otherwise, he’d just stare off at the horizon.

  When the last light of day filtered over the treetops and my pages were a dull orange brown, I reached up and flicked on my reading light. It was a good time to take a break.

  Turning on my CD player, I did some ballet turns to one of my favorite songs by Mindy Gledhill, “Bring Me Close.” After years of taking lessons, resisting the urge to dance was never an option. It put me in my happy place, the place where I could forget about the world and get lost in whatever emotion needed expressing. When Mom had forbidden me to audition for the University of North Carolina School of the Arts’ high school diploma in dance, I had quit ballet. There didn’t seem to be a point anymore. I’d focused on my Indian dancing, Bharatanatyam, instead, hoping she’d let me apply and audition for an undergraduate degree in dance. That wouldn’t happen now.

  Before Daddy had died five years ago, he’d
set up an account only I could access, but I couldn’t touch it until I turned eighteen. A yearly allowance from the funds helped pay for my dance lessons. I’d dubbed it my Princess Fund, after his nickname for me. Mom and I weren’t allowed to know how much was in it, though, which was weird. It wasn’t like we were rich. I’d always assumed Dad locked the money away so Mom wouldn’t use it on bills instead of my dance lessons.

  The plaque above my dresser mirror was my focal point for my turns. “The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.” The Aristotle quotation kept me believing I could be part of something extraordinary someday, something greater. Mom and Dad’s arranged marriage had been far from extraordinary, so why did she keep threatening to saddle me with one?

  After letting the song repeat several times, I got a drink from downstairs and returned to the window seat.

  Twilight bathed the neighborhood now. The dad and his tools were gone, but the son had stayed behind. He sat there in the darkening shadows as still as the chimney behind him. Had he fallen asleep? It didn’t seem real to have company up here. I wondered whose vantage point was better.

  Intrigued by this muscular and admirably agile guy who now shared my world, I narrowed my eyes to see if he was moving and detected a flicker of light in his lap. Probably a cell phone. It illuminated his sagging shoulders and head, bowed down as if in defeat. He seemed deep in thought, sad even. His edges were soft and vulnerable there in the shadows. With an occasional heave of his chest, it seemed like some kind of hopelessness weighed on his mind. Somehow, it made me ache.

  My hand was resting on the window again, my fingers itching to touch him. I shook out my hand. Geez. Not again.

  I wondered if he’d be going to my school. Would he be walking like the rest of us this Monday?