Me: Nothing major. See you tomorrow
I was staring at the blue text bubble on my phone when keys jiggled in the lock. Mom was home early? I moved as quickly as anyone could through the goat tunnel maze to my room. I stepped in, dropping the letter on top of the book spines housed in the nearest shelf. Then I ducked back out and closed my door, leaning against it, panting.
“Darcy?” Mom called.
I met her halfway, springing off the door toward the kitchen. I poured a glass of water I probably needed anyway.
Mom pushed at her temples in a move that reminded me of Asher. “Terrible headache after all that worry about the district manager. Caroline took over my second shift post so I could call it a night.”
I nodded. My hand trembled around the glass.
She searched the cabinet where she usually kept alcohol. The shelves overflowed, but not with vodka, gin, or whiskey. She’d come home empty-handed, too. Her wallet was likely as empty as her stash. Instead, she sighed over a water glass. After swallowing two aspirin, I thought she’d escape to her room to sleep off the headache. I wouldn’t have to look at her then, or try to do human things, like eating and talking.
But Mom didn’t budge. She eyed me curiously as I planted my sneakers onto the floor tile, grounding myself when she framed my cheeks with clammy hands. So close, I could see tiny gray hairs sprouting along her center part. When was the last time she’d touched me like this?
Cold thumbs grazed over my eyebrows. “I’ve been neglecting these. Let me shape them.”
“You should get some rest. Your head.” My life and the lease and the letter.
“I’ll be fine. These need help.” She pulled me into the bathroom and quickly transformed the tiny, product-heavy space into our own personal Elisa B. brow bar. She sat me down on the toilet seat while wax heated in one of our six electric facial wax pots. “Close your eyes.”
Wisps of her kohl pencil drew guidelines around each brow. Wax smeared off the wooden brow stick, always too hot when it first met my skin. The kind of pain that disappears the instant you feel it. She pressed with clean cotton strips. Expert strokes ripped them off, and I flinched a little each time.
“Relax your shoulders, honey. You’re so tense.”
A hot breath staggered out. I’m lying to you. And the apartment manager might evict us.
She trimmed with scissors and shaped with tweezers. “School’s okay? Your forehead is all creases.”
“It’s fine.” Grandma’s news. And no one can come inside this house. And you won’t stop buying things.
Her movements slowed. I knew she was almost done when she rubbed tingly Elisa B. brow gel over the newly plucked skin. She took the time to massage my temples before her hands netted my hair, kneading into my scalp. Comfort, the only way she could give it, I guessed. Eyes closed, I smelled her herbal shampoo and tuberose perfume as she dabbed creamy lotion over my eyelids.
“There. Beautiful.” She unplugged the wax and set her tools on the counter. “Now I need to sleep. ’Night, sweetie.” She patted my cheek again.
I rose only when I heard her bedroom door against the frame. Behind a closed white panel, stolen makeup hid inside my desk drawer. Atop the books, a father waited—a fantasy world, a make-believe life, a man I never knew encased inside a small blue rectangle. I swallowed and faced the room that held all of my risk as much as my comfort. I didn’t know what to do with the father, but I knew what to do with the letter.
Which one would it be? Steinbeck or Rowling? Lewis or Atwood or Fitzgerald or Austen? Then it clicked—Charles Dickens. I had just the book, too. I found my hardback copy of Great Expectations. The prose was perfect, notes of poverty and theft and orphans. A woman starred in the story, too, forever dressed in a tattered wedding gown, waiting and dying for everything and nothing.
I slid the blue stationery into the center section, closed the book, and shelved it in its usual place. Take him, I thought. Do what you always do.
Fourteen
Mirror, Mirror
Remember it was me who grabbed Time
by its fine-boned neck?
Black cloaked, I cut the pulse,
stopped the red pulsing heart of the universe.
You saw me then,
staring for long minutes that no longer were.
Until I released my hold.
Time doubled over under coughing spurts, bruised,
staggering backward too far
into the breath of yesterday.
—Peter Pan Mystery Scribbler
Tess, wearing a long, russet brown bob not unlike my real hair, petted Marisol’s gorgeous leather jacket before handing it over. “Why didn’t you come over for your break earlier? I got this new tea. Cinnamon Chai Maté.” She glanced at a large silver wall clock. Just after six-thirty. “Too late for it now. Stuff has more caffeine than coffee.”
“You know the shipment from the new distributor that was supposed to come in little by little over the next two weeks?” I matched her grunt with an eye roll. “Instead, the boxes came in one big load, and Mr. Winston got all...”
“Winstonish?”
“Exactly. So I stuck around and tried to get the new merchandise sorted quickly for everyone’s well-being.” I draped the red jacket over the counter, where I’d already placed my tote and a new book Asher’s uncle Mike had been anxiously waiting for. Yellow Feather had received its copies one day before the official release date, but the deliveryman had barely caught Mr. Winston and me before we closed up, lights already off and keys in the lock. According to my boss, Yellow Feather’s personal brand of customer service—more like my personal brand—meant I would hand-deliver the preorder before going home for the day.
Tess tapped one corner of her mouth. “Now I’m certain you need a boost.” She dashed to the used section and came back with a wig I’d never seen before. “This is a guaranteed mood lifter.”
For once—and after last night—I felt like believing her. I let Tess give me the full treatment. Instead of just shoving the wig on me, she grabbed a nylon skullcap and fed my real hair underneath the stretchy fabric. Then she molded the new wig over the cap. Made from real, black hair—but not an overdyed, fake black—it was like wearing a night sky. The wig fit tightly to my head, sweeping back and upward into a sleek, long ponytail.
“Look at you, Darcy-Diva!” Tess beamed.
Oh, I was looking, mouth parted. This time, she’d gotten me and seemed to know just what I needed, even though I hadn’t said anything about the letter.
I stepped tentatively. Right, then left. Back just a bit, then a twirl in the mirror, the long tail swooshing over my gray sleeveless top.
Tess approached. She braced gentle hands on my shoulders. “I swear, this one was made for you. But we’re not done yet.”
“We’re not?”
She grabbed the leather biker jacket from the counter and pushed my arms through the sleeves. “Your Marisol won’t mind.”
Marisol’s body was the opposite of mine in every way, but the red jacket fit my frame like it had appeared with the flick of a magic wand. I suddenly had curves. The waist nipped and corseted. The flap collar spread across my chest like wings. “I, uh—”
“Where’s your lipstick?”
“I don’t think I have any with me. Maybe some nude gloss I put on this morning.”
“Hmm. That won’t do.” She reached under the counter for her pink makeup bag.
“Tess, it’s okay.”
“Nonsense. Humor me. I’ve been wanting to do this for weeks.” She chose a tube, checked the shade against my skin tone.
“Dooerrr wut?” I asked while Tess applied the lipstick.
“Hold still.” Another swipe, a quick fix with her thumbnail. “Voilà.” She turned me toward the mirror again. My glossy lips looked fuller, bee-stung and tinted strawberry red.
“I’ve been wanting to bring your sassy side out to play. This, right here, is my Darcy-Diva. Strong and fabulous. She’s ready to take on all th
e boys at Jefferson with her flirty self.”
“I do not flirt. I don’t even know how to flirt. What to even do with my uh...self,” I added softly.
“Bah!” She clucked her tongue. “Flirting isn’t about doing. Flirting is something you are. The confidence of a girl who knows what she wants—or who. Knows she’s worth it.” Tess pressed her palm down the long line of my back. I straightened. “Now walk. Strut your stuff, Miss Superstar Hair and Jacket of My Dreams.”
I frowned. “Tess...”
She grabbed my hand, led me down the center of Tops like we were taking Fifth Avenue for a late-night strut. Back and forth, the wigged mannequin heads our only audience. “That’s it, honey.”
At first, I felt like the definition of ridiculous, cat-walking to Tess’s high-pitched cues to lift my chin, purse my painted lips. Lead with my hip, but subtly. Just a touch, nothing overdone. But after a few minutes, I started to have fun.
Tess stood back, clapping her hands. “I knew you had it in you. Stunning. The whole package!”
I skidded one black ballet flat to a stop on the tile. Package. “Oh no! It’s almost closing time, and I totally forgot.” I glanced out the window to Mid-City Legal. Good, the lights were still on. “I’ll be right back.” Grabbing Michael Fleet’s book, I ran out into the dusk.
“Darcy! You’re still...”
Tess’s words vanished into the crisp October air as I sprinted off. At the crosswalk, I patted my head and I realized I was still wearing Tess’s black ponytail wig and cap. But I couldn’t go back and risk the center closing; admitting to Mr. Winston I’d missed a delivery because I was playing dress-up with his ex-wife was not an option.
When the green walk signal appeared, I forced my legs into brisk strides, wondering—not for the first time that day—why Asher hadn’t come by Yellow Feather for his break. I hated that I’d noticed. Hated that I’d come to associate him and his tea and his speed-reading with part of my daily routine.
I couldn’t help associating Mid-City’s brick building and dark green door with Asher, too. I rolled my eyes at myself, and at the business hours sign on the way in. Tonight they were staying open an hour later for walk-ins. I’d rushed over in the black wig for nothing.
Voices boomed and bodies crowded, unlike the last time I was here and found little Olivia alone on a bench. Waiting clients chatted in groups or jammed to tunes through earbuds. Hannah looked overwhelmed trying to help a family of four at her reception desk while fielding a stream of incoming calls.
The crowd shifted enough for me to squeeze through toward the office hallway. I slipped the book into the clear plastic door caddy hanging on Mr. Fleet’s closed office door. Rock music pumped from the taped-off construction zone, along with whirring power tools.
The entrance door suddenly smacked open, a sunburned, dirty-blond giant swallowing up the threshold. “Where’s he at?” The man staggered in and I instinctively stepped back.
Hannah stood from behind the counter, grimacing. “Mr. Andrews—Jeffrey. They’re not here. You need to leave. Now.”
Jeffrey Andrews roughly pushed through the crowd, prompting a litany of complaints.
“Watch it, dude.”
“Chill, bro.”
Mothers tucked children between their bodies and the wall. Others retreated onto the sidewalk or pulled out cell phones.
Jeffrey approached the counter, scowling. “Not Olivia and that cheating slut mother of hers.” He looked left, then right, even into the supply closet behind Hannah. “That Fleet kid.”
Hannah flinched, drawing back. “He’s not here—”
“You’re lying. I need to have a private conversation with him, now. Fleet!” he barked.
I froze. Olivia. Fleet kid. Jeffrey Andrews was Olivia’s father and currently spreading his explosive reputation all over the center. My feet were already moving before my brain caught all the way up. I slunk down the hall, almost bumping into a suited man—likely an attorney—as he dashed from his office toward the waiting room scuffle. But I kept moving, reaching the plastic construction barrier as chaos exploded behind me.
Jeff shoved the approaching lawyer away, and the man lost his footing, careening to the ground. Jeff forced his tank-sized body into bystanders like a battering ram, eyes hunting. Voices rose. Clients swarmed the felled lawyer and tried to subdue the assailant while Olivia’s father openly yelled Asher’s name.
I didn’t know why Jeffrey was looking for Asher—I only knew that I had to warn him.
Past the barrier, I peered into a tumble of dust, chalky plaster, and scattered debris, all backed by an Aerosmith guitar riff. Asher was facing away from me, drilling through studs, oblivious.
I yelled his name and ran to cup his shoulder.
Flinching, he turned. “Darcy?” He stepped back, slack-jawed, maybe trying to reconcile this black-haired, red-lipped stranger with the ordinary Yellow Feather shop clerk. He cut the power and shoved plastic goggles above his head. His lips closed and he eyed me so intensely, I swore I could feel his stare tunneling up and down my body.
Me. He was looking at me—more than looking. The dreaming part of me wanted it to last forever, but we didn’t even have minutes. “No time.” Then I, Darcy Jane Wells, queen of words, lost all of mine. Even the small ones. “Have to go. You...we.” I couldn’t make them work, adrenaline fizzing through my body.
Brows furrowed, he set down the drill.
Click. Finally. “We have to hurry.” I locked on to Asher’s face. “Trust me.” I tossed off his goggles and grabbed his forearm. This room had a rear alley exit; the door was already propped open, twilight edging in.
At the threshold, Asher locked into the moment, too. He fought against my pull. “Slow down. My knee. What’s going on?”
I sought the wide expanse of safety at the end of the alley as shouts echoed from the waiting room. But we couldn’t run, not with Asher’s leg the way it was. Years of book scenes buzzed around me, needling in. Pages of heart-stopping thrillers and clever authors told me what to do.
I knew what would work.
Grabbing on to a strength I didn’t know I had, to a life I’d never lived, I jerked Asher fifteen feet into the narrow space between two brick buildings.
One nudge, and he was against the wall. One more, and I was against him, the full length of me. “Please, just trust me,” I told him again.
Marisol’s jacket was too distinctive, too red. I ripped it off and pinned it between Asher’s back and the faded brick wall. Sorry, Marisol. Autumn wind blew scents of grease and cigarette smoke, of jasmine mixed with days-old trash, over my bare shoulders. Reckless and stupid and goose-fleshed, I swung my arms around Asher and whispered into his ear. “Olivia’s dad is after you.”
He shivered. His breath wafted across my skin in uneven spurts. “Jeff?”
Our pursuer must’ve reached the hallway. Office doors creaked and slammed as he shouted Asher’s name amid a string of curses. “He’s lost it. Play along.” I placed my cheek against Asher’s. “Pretend you’re...with me.” Not real. Just make-believe. A back-alley fairy tale.
I logged the passing of one clean second before Asher proved he was every bit as good an actor as his girlfriend. He trapped my waist in the tight circle of his arms, angling his face so close to mine, I doubted even a sheet of paper could fit between us. He licked his lips; I felt the warm heat against my own mouth. His eyes seemed twice their normal size. Wild and unblinking, as if he was trying to see beneath all my surfaces. When he inhaled sharply and fixed the rounded collar on my top, his feathery touch shot straight to my knees. He shifted along the wall, and my foot slid on the filthy concrete.
“Sorry,” he whispered as he caught me. Asher sloped his chin into the cleft of my neck, arranging my body until I was pressed against the solid plank of his right leg. One hand splayed across my back, traveling up and down my spine as Jeff entered the construction zone. Metal and wood crashed as I held on tighter to this flying boy, and lost the part o
f me who cared he wasn’t mine. That he belonged to someone else.
Tess, I don’t even know how to flirt. Just acting. I left that behind, too, abandoning myself to a dizzying kiss that wasn’t even happening. I bounced aimlessly between sensations I’d never felt before. The rapid gunfire of my heart, of his. The heady scent of his skin, corded muscle laced with sweat and soap. He keened deep inside his throat as my hands looped into the dusky brown curls grazing his neck. Soft—I knew they would be.
“Your truck’s still here, and so are you!” Jeff Andrews bellowed as his bouldering footfalls reached the alley.
“Shhh,” I whispered, more to our bodies than our mouths. We burrowed even closer, folding into one another, chests pattering with the breath of hummingbirds, trying to blend into the urban cityscape. Asher’s fingers dug into my back as Jeff sprinted past what hopefully looked like two love-struck teens hooking up in a shadowed hideout.
We stayed still and quiet until Mid-City’s rear door flung open again. This time, I peeked as two men ran out and approaching sirens cut through the distant rumble of traffic. Finally.
“Down there!” a man called out, and ran off. His hair was the same color as Asher’s, his work clothes similarly paint-splattered. His older companion hurried behind on brown work boots.
“That’s James, my cousin. And my uncle Brian,” Asher murmured.
I nodded. The commotion shifted to the intersection of the alley and Twenty-eighth Street. Even Jeff wasn’t a match for Asher’s uncle and cousin. Speed, agility, and brawn had him pinned, bucking against a Dumpster in vain until two police cars skidded into the alley entrance.
I let out a sigh of relief. Asher’s attention shifted from the scene to me, his eyes darkening to onyx as he slowly unhooked himself from my arms. From all of me. He grabbed Marisol’s jacket and tried to help me back into the sleeves, but our fairy-tale scene was over.
I shook my head. “It’s not mine.”
A single nod. “Well, thank you. That was genius.”
Make-believe. Just pretend. “You’re welcome.”
Asher glanced down at his knee. “I’m not exactly fit for fighting, lately.”
The Library of Lost Things Page 13