by Dawn Metcalf
Ink’s face dimpled, secretive, pleased. “I like yours, too.”
She watched the knife slide.
“Draw me a line,” she said.
He stopped carving his middle finger, curious. “Where?”
She pointed, gliding her index finger gently against his palm, a half-moon from his wrist around the ball of his thumb. They both sank into a sudden, intense quiet.
He took up the razor and quietly obeyed. The silver edge separated his skin as elegantly as a skater on ice. They both sat hushed, admiring what they had done—what she had suggested and what he had made real. Drawn like a signature, her request on his skin. He looked up at her quizzically, intent.
“Again, please.”
Joy moved closer, holding their hands up like mirrors, and delicately touched the valley of her palm. She repeated the motion in his. Ink concentrated, following her silent suggestion. The silver blade flashed under the kitchen light and her skin fairly hummed as she traced arches, loops and whorls, which he then copied onto his own.
They sat together, trembling on an edge.
Touching her own skin made it feel like his fingers. Watching him as he made his hands more like hers. She slid their palms together, feeling the rippling textures under her fingertips, the minute changes that were making him hers—her his—each of them one another’s, theirs.
“Wait,” Ink said and closed his eyes. Joy felt his hand grow warmer. His skin gave under hers. He squeezed her hand and spoke into her hair, each word a puff of breath.
“Again,” he said. “More.”
Joy drew her fingertips down into his palm—they became palpably warmer, sensitive, softer. Their fingers explored one another’s hands: slow, curious interlacings of Joy and Ink.
She felt his cheek and the edge of his jaw on her chin. The flush of her skin echoed on his. The sweep of his eyelash brushing her face. She strained to feel the tips of his hair, the nonexistent scratch of his never-shaven face. All the while, she watched their fingers stretch along one another’s wrists, afraid to look away and admit what was happening. What was touching. What they wanted.
It became too much. Joy squeezed his hand. Looked in his eyes.
It was as if he were surprised to see her.
“I can feel you,” he whispered.
She nodded. “I know.”
He tapped his chest. “Here.”
Joy nodded again and said, “I know.” Her lips were close. She could taste whispers of him and rain.
“We are here,” she whispered, feeling the kiss before it happened. “We are both very, very here.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“I’M GOING,” JOY called over her shoulder. Monica was waiting in the driveway.
“Have fun,” her father said. He and Shelley sat in the kitchen drinking coffee. She hadn’t stayed the night, but it wouldn’t be long before she did. They were trying out breakfast together. They’d asked Joy for recommendations and were off to Goldie’s for pancakes.
“You, too,” Joy said. “Bye, Shelley. Bye, Dad.”
The inclusion made everyone smile. Joy couldn’t help smiling today. She could still feel Ink’s last kiss on her lips. It was a secret that beat in her chest like a pulse.
I love him. I love Ink.
She felt like she was thirteen again, giddy and silly and filled with music. She skipped down the stairs and across the courtyard. Monica honked the horn, poking her head out the driver’s-side window.
“Get the lead out!”
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Joy said, opening the door and buckling herself in with a click. “Is your wallet burning a hole through your purse?”
“My purse, my jacket and possibly the floor. Hang on.” Monica shifted gears and roared them out of the driveway for extra emphasis.
“Oh, I’ve needed this like nobody’s business!” Monica said, turning the wheel. “Baby needs Victoria’s Secret.”
Joy laughed. “That’s no secret.”
Monica winked. “And that’s no lie!”
They flew down the road, chatting happily and singing along to a great indie playlist and scoring a prime parking space halfway down the plaza. Tasteful window displays gleamed under emerald-colored awnings. The sun shone warm and welcoming in all its butterscotch glory. Frost lined the edges of the grass. The stores were just opening. Everything felt new.
And they’d managed to park right in front of the lingerie shop.
“Sweet!” Monica giggled. Her mood was infectious. Joy grabbed her purse and they dove inside.
Monica immediately strung hangers over her arm—half bras and push-up bras and bits of nothing held together with string. Joy noticed that instead of her favorite bold colors, there was a lot of white and pink lace in her hands.
Joy held up a giant padded double-D in cherry-red satin. “Going all girly on me?” she teased.
Monica might have blushed. “Gordon brings out my softer side.”
“TMI,” Joy warned, replacing the bra on its hook.
“Maybe you should look for something,” Monica said. “For Mr. Someone-A-Guy.”
“I don’t think so,” Joy said, touching a display of polka-dot thongs.
“Why not?” Monica asked. “What’s the matter? Are you...?”
They traded a look.
“Oh, no,” Monica said flatly.
Joy pretended not to hear her. “What...?”
“No.” Monica couldn’t cross her arms because she was loaded with underthings, but her expression said it all. “You aren’t. Why aren’t you?” Monica shook her head in disgust. “I knew it. There was something about this guy. He’s not telling you that he’s ‘waiting for you to be ready’ or something, is he? Like he’s the one who gets to say when you’re ready to give it up so you, the independent woman, can rush to prove him wrong?”
Joy snorted. “No.”
“Good. Because you don’t deserve any reverse psychology, passive-aggressive crap,” Monica muttered protectively. Joy tried not to smile. “You’re too good to be living like a hermit or a nun, but guys can smell opportunity like steaks on the grill.” She held up a cami for inspection. “He’s not younger than you, is he?”
“No...”
“Because you are not dating-down.”
Joy had to laugh. “I’m not!”
“Then he’s older than you,” Monica said, sounding suspicious. “Way older? How old?”
Joy was getting uncomfortable. She hadn’t expected the Spanish Inquisition in a lingerie shop. Joy shuffled through a rack of thongs without seeing them.
“It’s not like that,” she said. “It’s not about sex.”
“Not about sex?” Monica ignored the fact that everyone and their mother could hear her. Joy cringed. “Girl, sometimes I seriously wonder about you.” She peeled through the last season’s sale items, scraping hangers against aluminum like fingernails on slate. “Okay, let’s play this out,” Monica said with a huff. “Let’s say that you’re right and that this mysterious guy isn’t interested in sex. So who dates a pretty girl and isn’t interested in sex? Hmm? Something would have to be seriously wrong with him. Ergo, weirdo. Dump him and move on. Or—” she held up a hand like a crossing guard’s stop sign “—I am right and he is a normal, healthy member of the male species who is interested in sex with a fine young thing and somehow has gotten you to believe that he isn’t.” She drawled, counting fingers. “Head-case, manipulator, playa. Dump him and move on.” Monica glared at Joy, who was caught somewhere between outrage and laughter.
“So which is it?” Monica asked.
“Neither!” Joy said. “It’s not about sex.”
Monica raised both eyebrows as Joy rifled through the thirty-percent-off undies.
“Mmm-hmm,” Monica said
. She held up a bunch of underwires like a peace offering. “Carry some in for me?”
Joy mutely took half Monica’s haul and followed her into the changing rooms. Neither said anything as Joy unhooked and handed pair over pair under the door, hanging them back up when Monica had finished tucking, clasping and reboobing. They were still out together shopping, but now they were just going through the moves. Anger had smothered the mood with padded inserts. Joy quietly fumed outside the stall. This sucked.
“I can’t reach—can you hook this?” Monica asked, opening the door while holding two tabs behind her back. Joy stood up and wordlessly fastened the straps. It reminded her of Inq.
“Thanks,” Monica said quietly, giving a little tug. Both of them paused before Monica raised her eyes to the mirror, catching Joy’s reflection.
“Look,” Monica said while admiring herself. “It’s not my place to tell you who you should or shouldn’t date.” Joy bit back a snort. “But I’m worried about you, Joy. Really and truly. I haven’t even met this boy of yours and I’ve never seen you so overboard. It makes me nervous.” She turned and faced Joy’s morose anger in adjustable straps. “I’m your best friend, right?”
Joy acquiesced, nodding. “Right.”
“So if this guy is worth waiting for or something, good. Great. But if he’s playing you a line, promise me you’ll take a step back, or at least introduce me to him and I’ll take him down a peg or two so he knows what’s what,” Monica said, trying a sympathy smile. “You know that I would. I just want to keep you safe.”
That hit a nerve. Monica knew nothing about the world of the Twixt, but Joy knew exactly how she felt.
“I know,” Joy said. “It’s just...complicated.”
Monica smirked. “Honey, it always is.” She shimmied her shoulders, eyeing the result, and frowned. “Now help me figure my way out of this thing.”
Monica ended up buying three bras and a bunch of panties, including two thongs. Joy shook her head as Monica waved her credit card dismissively. “You know these things all ride up your butt, anyway. Wedgies happen. Thongs tell it like it is!” Joy laughed and by the time they were ogling the cute sundresses across the street, they were back in the groove.
Flash! Flash!
A flicker of gray caught Joy’s eye. There was a shadow hovering near the directory map that she couldn’t quite shake. Instinctively, she steered Monica into the nearest store.
“Ice cream?” Monica asked.
“Sudden craving.” Joy made a show of glancing at the selections, but kept an eye out the window. Something zipped along the edge of the plaza, near the tiny gazebo, frighteningly fast.
“See anything?” Monica interrupted Joy’s worry. “I think I’m getting a toothache just by breathing in here.”
“I guess not,” Joy stammered. Exasperated, Monica pushed open the door. Joy hesitated.
“I gotta pee,” she said.
The cashier behind the counter said, “For customers only.”
“Forget it,” Monica said. “You coming?”
Joy couldn’t think up another excuse.
“Sure,” she said. Outside, a quick blur raced across the rooftops, disappearing over a Crate & Barrel. Several more followed. Joy hooked her arm through Monica’s and nearly bolted toward their parked car.
“Hey!” Monica said. “Pushy much?”
“Power walking,” Joy muttered back, trying not to sound as panicked as she felt. “C’mon, let’s skip!” Monica resisted, so they ended up awkwardly bouncing-slash-running when the first shouts started. Joy detoured quickly into the next open door.
“Hey, look!” Joy said and thrust something into Monica’s hand.
Through the display window filled with candles and colored glass, Joy saw afterimages catapulting between people and trees, tossing leaves and hair and random garbage ahead of their path like a violent gust of wind. Whatever they were, they were closing fast.
“Beeswax owls?” Monica said uncertainly. “I don’t get it.”
Joy dragged on Monica’s arm.
“Hey! Ow! What’s the deal?” Monica snapped.
“Come on,” Joy said and tugged her deeper into the store, placing rows of scented wax and wood shelving between them and the front window. The glass shivered with a prescient rattle.
“Look at these,” Joy said, reaching for a distraction. “Organic candles!”
Maybe it was her imagination. Maybe it would go away. This might have nothing to do with her. Nothing at all. Joy twisted her fingers on the edge of her shirt.
“Oh, please,” Monica said. “What’s inorganic about candles? I swear, they are putting that word on everything....” Joy listened to her with half an ear, the other half cocked for screams. “Like, how can there be a ‘natural dairy’ section? What does that make everything else? Unnatural?”
“Plastic,” Joy said vaguely. “With added hormones.” She glimpsed a blur of oncoming shadows before...
“Duck!” she said, yanking Monica down.
Glass shattered. Women screamed. A shelving unit toppled and there was an avalanche of votives against the hardwood floor. People hugged the walls, the shelves and each other. Joy and Monica crouched beneath a heavy table full of pillar candles and spangled bags of potpourri.
A heavy thud careened off the wall and something rolled to a stop. Joy half expected it to be some sort of grenade and was oddly surprised to see that it was an ordinary rock. A good, fist-size rock. One of many that pelted through the broken windows. There were more crashes. More thuds. More shouts.
Joy had a flash memory of a large, ghoulish tongue. She grabbed Monica’s coat to pull her closer.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Peachy,” Monica spat back, dialing her cell one-handed. “You?”
Joy squinted through the table legs. Fleeting smudges of shadow threw a few more rocks, zoomed westward and disappeared in a flurry of wings. Wings! She wondered if anyone else could see them. There was a tense moment of nothingness before cell chatter and angry voices joined the tinkle of glass.
Joy picked up the rock and dropped it.
“Ow!” It was hot to the touch.
“Damn,” Monica muttered. “Did you see them?”
“I saw something,” Joy admitted. “That’s why I grabbed you.”
“Owe you one,” Monica said.
Joy chanced some honesty. “Well, I want to keep you safe, too.”
People uncurled, shaken, angry and confused. Monica and Joy stood up and brushed off bits of dried flowers and window glass.
“Everybody okay?” the guy behind the counter called out. “Please stay calm. The police are on their way. We’ll be offering everyone some cider, on the house. Just relax, please. Is anyone hurt?”
“Hey, free cider,” Joy said with forced cheer.
Monica dropped her shopping bags on the table and sighed as she hung up her phone. “I’m game.”
They gave their names and phone numbers and signed the necessary paperwork along with everyone else, mutually agreeing to add this incident to one of a growing number of Things Not to Be Discussed With Parents as they headed back to the car. The mood was strangely optimistic, as though they were best friends again. There was nothing quite as bonding as surviving an unknown attack in a candle shop over instant hot cider.
“I can’t believe this,” Monica clucked over her watch. “We lost a good hour back there. My Mom’s gonna...” Her voice trailed off. “No!” She hurried over to the car. The windshield had been smashed. She dropped her bags and gripped her keys. “No, no, no, no, no....” she wailed. “I don’t believe this!”
Joy inspected the car with growing guilt. “It doesn’t look like they took anything,” she said.
“No, no, no!” Monica stormed.
Joy glan
ced down the row of vehicles. “It wasn’t just you.” The lot was full of cars whose windows were cracked, crackled or crashed. Police officers were already taking statements farther up the line. “Looks like it was random,” she added. Joy really wished she could believe that.
“So much for keeping this quiet,” Monica shook her head angrily as she fumbled with her wallet. “Thank Jesus for Triple-A.” She began dialing the 800 number. “This is going to take forever,” she groaned. “And I’m leading church youth group today at three.”
Joy quietly flipped through her phone, staving off her guilty feelings, fearing that keeping too many secrets might show up on her face. Was this really a random incident? Or was Joy being followed? Or threatened? Had she put her best friend in danger just by being with her? She’d never get over it if something happened and she was to blame. Joy paused over the list of saved messages from Mom.
Then she remembered her several new entries.
“Hey,” Joy said. “You want to call for a ride and deal with this later?”
Monica was listening to the automatic messaging system with one ear. “This isn’t a convenient ploy to ruin your dad’s date, is it?”
“Nuh-uh. The less Dad knows, the better,” Joy said. “But there’s someone who can maybe help us out.”
Monica typed in her membership number and hit pound. “Yeah?” she asked. “Who?”
“Friend of a friend,” Joy said while dialing. She was nervous as it rang, still more nervous when it connected.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” she said, trying to sound casual. “It’s Joy.”
“Hey, Cabana Girl,” Luiz drawled. “What’s up?”
She switched hands as she talked. “My friend’s car got its window smashed...” She trailed off.
“Call Triple-A.”
“That’s not the problem.” Joy spoke a little lower. “The problem is how it got that way.”
Luiz paused. “Ah,” he said. “Gotcha. You both okay?”
“Yes. For now.”
“What was it?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But they move fast.”