To say I'm worried that Jake will put the pieces together is the understatement of the millennia. I cringe at the thought if he ever found out that I'd been in his dream. Talk about awkward.
A light wind tugs my hair out of my ponytail as I pull into Jake's driveway. My heart drops into the pit of my stomach as I take in the house. I've been here. Not physically, but in Jake's dream. It's the same front door and the same porch, except instead of a beach like in the dream, it's a front yard with trees and flowers and a hedge.
In the past two years of being a part of MaxLife, this has never happened to me or any of the team members for that matter. It's unprecedented. I'm way over my head.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone and call Dad. The phone rings five times before it goes to voicemail and his hologram pops up on my phone. "Greetings. This is Dr. Dustin Hale, psychologist specializing in dream therapy for dementia patients. I'm unable to speak with you at this time, but please contact my secretary to schedule an appointment."
I tap my foot as I wait for the voicemail. Finally, the beep plays, and I open my mouth to tell Dad everything. Except I can't. I hang up.
I blow out a frustrated breath and stare at the house, fiddling with my phone. It doesn't help that Jake's house is intimidating. Actually, it's more of a Spanish-styled mansion with a rounded tower. A balcony with a wrought-iron fence juts out over the arched wooden front doors. Tall palms border the mansion, waving in the breeze, while ivy clings to the smooth stucco walls. The hedges curve around the house like piped green frosting and flowers dot the landscape in a perfect array of colors.
Everything is so perfectly manicured I doubt there is even a blade of grass out of place here. I'm about to crank the engine and bolt when Jake strolls out the front door, hands in his dark jeans pockets. He knocks lightly on the hood of my car.
"Where are you going?" he asks. "Have I already scared you off?"
"I'm not scared. Just had to make a phone call."
"Is that why you've been sitting in my driveway, staring at my front door?" His lips quiver as if it's taking all his power to hold in a laugh.
He's making fun of me again. Screw it. I frown, push the button to slide the top over the car, and turn the ignition off. If I play this right, he'll never guess it was me in the dream.
"Nice place." I slip out of the car and join him up the stone walkway to the intimidating entrance.
He opens the front door and a gush of cool AC hits me in the face. Mom always insists on keeping our house nearly the same temperature as outside because she says it's a healthier way to adapt to the environment around us. But I think it's just because she's so obsessed with her plants that she wants our house to imitate the jungle where her plants really should be growing.
"It's big," he explains sheepishly as he watches me spin, taking it all in. "A little big for my mom and me."
I expect the inside to be like Jake's dream with the lace tablecloths and that tight-bun-haired lady staring down at me. It's not.
The foyer spans all of the way to the ceiling where a wrought-iron chandelier hangs. In the center of the area, is an ornate fountain. Its rushing water adds a soothing staccato to the air. Persian carpets lap over brown tiles. The walls are painted a dark tan and medieval-styled sconces are set between huge paintings with gilded frames. Twirling Grams' ring on my finger, I follow Jake down a ribbed-arched hallway.
"Jake!" A woman waves at us as she marches down one of the hallways. She's wearing purple running gear and her short blonde hair has been pulled back in a ponytail. Blue eyes that look just like Jake's widen when she spies me. "Oh! And who is this?"
"Mom." Jake nods toward me. "This is Aria Hale. She's here for a school project."
"Hello, Aria," Mrs. Johnson says with a bright smile. "You can call me Katy. I'm so glad you've brought a—" She pauses suddenly as if she was about to say something she shouldn't, and then blurts, "Study partner. Well, I'll let you two get right to work. How about I bring up some snacks! That's an idea, isn't it?"
"Great idea," Jake agrees, but as she bustles away, he scrunches his face like he swallowed a package of sour candy. "She can be over-the-top sometimes. Just go with it."
"Your mom seems really nice. Mine never has time to cook. She always gets home from the university so late, or if she is home, she's too wrapped up in her research. And then Dad is hopeless when it comes to cooking. He gets so distracted that you never know what he'll put in the ingredients. Like baking soda instead of salt or a half a cup of butter instead of a cup. Which is why it's always up to me to find us food. Usually, I order from Talini's."
Gosh, what is wrong with me? I'm just rambling like an idiot. Of course, when was the last time I've been at a guy's house other than Tony's? Except Tony and I are like best friends. There's something about being with Jake that feels totally different.
"They've got good food." Jake leads me up a spiral stairwell. "But I wouldn't say my mom is exactly reliable in the cooking department. She only cooks when she's completely stressed out. She's on the board of trustees for Lake Nona Medical and when things go crazy, she locks herself up in the kitchen and cooks up a meal to feed an army. I can't promise anything she brings up will taste good."
We enter Jake's room and I'm floored by how incredibly neat and organized it is. The walls are painted a soothing gray. He's got a single bed with a gray comforter, not a wrinkle in sight. Two large panels hang from the wall with paintings of skateboarders. A round black mat lies in the center of the room and a metal desk presses against a large bay window overlooking the lake. The desk is completely void of anything other than a computer, pencil holder, and tablet. I think about my desk back home, stacked with journals, M&M packages, and empty water bottles.
"So this is your room." I linger by the door.
"Yeah, I guess you could say it is."
I've always found that entering someone's room is like getting a peek at their personality and history. In the Dreamscape, the rooms we enter usually symbolize the dreamer's mood or desires. Plus, since a Dreamer only dreams of people and places they've seen before, it's a way for us to store those memories for our dementia patients. But this room is sterile and rather disappointing. Jake is already sitting at the computer, pulling up a fresh Word document.
"You like skateboarding." I perch on the edge of his bed, noticing how incredibly fast he types.
"Nope. My mom's choice."
"Doesn't that bother you? That she doesn't let you choose what you want for your room?"
He swivels in his chair to face me. "I've got my games. Which if I remember, you weren't all that impressed with."
There's something about his tone that irks me like it's digging under the surface of my skin. My words tumble out before I can stop them. "So you prefer to live in a fantasy world rather than your own?"
He studies me intently, rubbing his chin. "We should start our research. We've got a lot of ground to cover."
My face burns a little. Again. He definitely has a way of unnerving me, which is unsettling. I like to be in control of situations and today I've felt zero ounces of control. A niggling feeling tells me there's more to him than he's letting on.
Still, he's right. I should be concentrating on nailing that A. That's all that matters. Not figuring Jake out. I fish out my laptop while he begins pulling up various medical journals.
"What's your internet password?" I ask.
"I just logged you in." He shoots me a sheepish grin. "For security sake."
"How do you do that? Get into my computer? That's creepy."
"Creepy? Well, it's all about perspective. I look at it as being convenient."
"Convenient? Seriously?"
We argue over the invasion of privacy until I win, or at least until he gives in, and we begin working on our project. About thirty minutes later his mom pops into the room. Most of her hair has fallen out of her ponytail and strands are stuck to her face from sweat.
"How are my two students doing?" She is holding a platter piled up with food that I'm unable to identify.
"Wow, that looks great Mom. What is it exactly?"
"Hummus and tortillas freshly made!" She beams. "Oh, it's so nice to see you hanging out with a girl." She clears her throat at the dark look Jake shoots her. "Err, I mean friends, girlfriends, boyfriends. Friends!"
"Thanks, Mom." Jake picks up a burnt tortilla. "Really appreciate the snack."
"Okay, then." Her eyes focus on Jake and the tortilla he's holding as if urging him to eat it. "Well, if you get hungry, just let me know."
"Thanks, Ms. Sutherland," I say.
"Katy." She smiles.
Once she heads back into the hall, I pick up a tortilla, but Jake rips it from my hand.
"You seem like a brave person." He pulls out a garbage bag from his drawer and dumps the entire contents of the platter into it. "But trust me, that's not worth it."
"That bad?"
"Why do you think Talini's is still in business?"
I laugh and then accept Jake's offer at a granola bar he's got stashed in his top drawer. As we munch on our snacks, it takes all of my discipline not to analyze his dream this morning. Who was that lady in the dream who told him his gaming was pointless? Was that why my teasing about his gaming irked him? And he had been running from someone, which according to our research, running often means the dreamer is trying to escape something. Then there was that whole part with the weird ogres.
But the biggest thing I don't understand is why he was at MaxLife.
"So you were at the doctor's this morning," I venture. It's a risky move, and maybe I should just stay out of it all, but according to Mom, one of my undying faults is my curiosity. Of course, Dad would always argue it's one of my best attributes.
"I've been having some killer headaches lately. Had some CT scans done, but they weren't able to figure out the causes. I didn't want to get into all of that with the teacher, you know? Next thing everyone will be asking if I'm going to die or something."
"Oh. I'm sorry about your headaches." Huh. I don't know what to think now.
"Here's an interesting theory." Jake points to his screen, changing the subject. "Harvard Medical School research indicates that when the brain dreams, it helps you learn and solve problems."
I press my lips together. Dream interpretation and maneuvering in dreams are some of my strengths. Which is why I can't go into too much detail. So I just say, "For the most part, but usually the dream and its environment symbolize how the dreamer feels or emotions they are dealing with."
"Really?" He peeks at my laptop, so his face is inches from mine. The fresh scent of his soap causes me to lose my focus. "Where does it say that?"
"I just read it somewhere." Actually, it's in a thesis I'm writing based on my work at MaxLife. Definitely not going to tell him that. "I'll look up the source when I get home. In the meantime, just put that information in the presentation."
I've always prided myself on my ability to read people well. Okay, so maybe it's a slight obsession. Not only in real life do I overanalyze people, but in dreams, I take that to the next level. I don't just look at the person, but the environment the dreamer is taking me through. Their reactions. The twitch of the fingers or eye. Which is why I'm feeling slightly off over Jake. I can't get a good read on him. I'm searching for any usual ticks. His clothes, room, really everything about him is such a mystery. It's almost as if he's hiding something.
My phone beeps. I ignore it and keep reviewing articles, but then like a flood, a bunch more texts rattle the silence.
"Your phone is missing you," Jake says, a twinkle in his eyes.
I laugh. "It's probably Sun, my coworker. She's been worried about me." But when I look at my phone and see Mom has sent me a bazillion texts.
"Worried about you? Everything okay?"
Shut your mouth, Aria. When did I become such a blabbermouth? "It's my mom actually. I don't know—"
My words are swallowed up with the texts filling up my phone's screen.
Mom: Come home!
Mom: Never mind. Go to the hospital. Lake Nona Medical.
Mom: It's your father.