“Never ask a gentleman his age.”
Not for the first time, I wonder what he is, where he came from, what his story is. But I can’t ask in front of them, and I know he won’t answer. All these weeks together, and he’s told me so little about himself. It should bother me more than it does. But he’s here with me now, supporting my plan, and that matters more. “Lie to people. Tell them...tell them I reminded him of the daughter that he abandoned, and he went to make sure she’s okay. But she isn’t okay, and now he’s helping her.” I like that lie. It would have been nice if it had happened to me. “I bet they’ll even want to believe it.” I was very good at lying to myself. I bet the townspeople would be good at it, too, especially if Victoria and Sean were to give them the appropriate nudge.
Sean is nodding. Victoria is at least listening.
“Lie to them,” I say. “Lie like your lives depend on it. Because I think they do.”
* * *
It’s almost sunset by the time we’ve finished laying out the details of the lie. Claire wanted to add a bit about winged ponies, which we rejected, and Peter embellished with his own details, most of which we rejected, too. At the end of several hours of debate, the basics remained the same as my original idea: I’d reminded the Missing Man of his daughter, and he’d gone to check on her. He’d return as soon as his personal business was complete. We also settled on a simple reason for why Sean and Victoria would have this information: the Missing Man had contacted the Finder, and the Finder had told Sean. Given Sean’s well-known hatred of the Finder (there was an incident with a kitchen knife, Claire whispered to me), this would be considered an objective report. Besides, no one ever doubted Sean. The man who could concoct heavenly meatloaf out of half-eaten old cheeseburgers was never doubted.
As the sun dips lower toward the ocean desert and the haze of dust, Victoria rises and says, “We should be going. It’s late, and we have lies to spread.”
Sean shakes our hands and thanks us for our hospitality.
I should offer to let them stay. It’s the polite response. I war with myself for a moment. My mother would have offered already, given up her bed and borrowed the neighbor’s cat so they could have something to cuddle. Bracing myself, I say, “You can use my room. It’s a queen-size bed. I’ll bunk with Claire.” I don’t mention Peter’s fondness for the closet. I hope he’ll follow me to Claire’s closet, rather than stay with them. We’ll have to clear out a few stuffed animals before he’ll fit, unless he likes fur-and-fluff pillows. I don’t relish explaining why he prefers closets, especially since he’s never given me a decent answer. It may be similar to why Claire likes to eat hidden in corners, though I have at least managed to coax her to the table. Everyone here is damaged in some way.
“Thanks for the offer, but we’ll be fine.” Victoria leads Sean toward the door.
I’m relieved. I don’t try to convince them to stay.
Her gaze fixes on the coatrack. “Where’s my gun?”
With a nod from me, Claire scampers away and then returns with it. She solemnly hands it to Victoria. Victoria raises her eyebrows at me but says nothing. I don’t bother with an explanation or apology. Instead, I come out with them as far as the porch and wave as they leave. Softly, Peter says to me, “Do you trust them?”
“Sure. No. You?”
“I’ll follow them,” Claire whispers. It’s a stage whisper, and it carries across the yard. But Victoria and Sean don’t slow, and I don’t know if they heard or not.
“You don’t need to...” I begin.
Claire slips away. She darts into the shadows and circles around the junk pile. I swear under my breath. Peter seems amused. “Girl is part eel,” I say, trying not to let the worry that claws my stomach creep into my voice.
“She’ll be fine,” Peter says. “She’ll spend the night in town and be back in the morning.”
“But the void—”
“She’s a survivor. She’s smart. Plus she took the bullets out of Victoria’s gun, so they might need her.”
I laugh.
My laugh dies in the wind, and I listen to waves crash in the desert. I wish I were back in the water. I don’t want to go into the house. I won’t be able to sleep, not knowing if Victoria and Sean plan to cooperate with the plan or betray us immediately.
It’s a good plan. But I bet there are plenty of people in town who think killing me is an even better plan. I’m glad that Claire is following them, even though I would have stopped her if I could have.
Standing on the porch, I make a decision. “Grab pillows and blankets. We’ll sleep in the art barn tonight. I’ll leave Claire a note, in case she comes back before dawn.”
Peter obeys without question, which I think means he thinks it’s the right call.
He comes back with backpacks stuffed with bedding, as well as snacks. I leave a note, deliberately vague and cryptic so only she will understand, stuck to one of the spines of the puffer fish. We then strap the packs on our backs and head out, after locking the door with even more care than usual.
We spend the bulk of the journey on the rooftops. He runs across the roofs in a low crouch, and I mimic him, walking across several of the boards rather than scooting like I usually do. Peter helps me onto the zip line to cross to the abandoned Laundromat, and I help catch him and undo his harness when he crosses. We move silently and quickly, and I try not to think about how I’ve become used to this life.
Several roofs later, I look back over my shoulder. “Wait,” I say softly. The sun is setting over the ocean. I haven’t seen that sight in literally years. I can’t remember when I last drove down to the ocean purely to see the play of orange and red on the waves. It’s more stunning than I remember, even with the void obscuring the actual horizon. Peter says nothing, but he watches with me. I have tears in my eyes. I wipe them away with the back of my hand.
As the last dollop of sun vanishes, I turn and lead the way across the final rooftops. It’s not too dark yet, though the ground below us is shadowed. We make it across the roofs as the first stars come out.
Peter drops to the ground, and I join him for the last part of the journey. We skulk through the shadows until we reach the barn, and then we wordlessly check the booby traps that we’d set around it. None have been triggered. No one is interested in an old hay barn. We slip inside.
It’s dark already in the barn, but I want the masterpieces exposed. I like the idea of having them around me as we sleep. By feel, I go from piece to piece and remove the sheets over them. The sheets flutter to the ground as I pull them, and the breeze whooshes in my face.
Finishing, I look for Peter. His silhouette is barely visible from the stray moonlight that seeps between the boards of the walls. He hasn’t unpacked the backpacks yet, so I do it by feel, pulling out the pillows and blankets. I lay the sheets that I’d pulled from the artwork on the dirt floor and then I put the pillows and blanket on top. Only when I finish do I realize that I’ve put them side by side, whereas we could have easily slept apart or in different corners.
I look again at Peter and then at the blankets.
I can’t move them without being obvious about it. Besides, I’m not sure I really want to be alone asleep in this cavernous barn, even with the Monets and Rembrandts watching over me.
I am aware of him in the darkness as I kick off my shoes and slide in between the blankets. I didn’t pack pj’s, so I’m sleeping in my clothes. I hear him lie down beside me.
“Your plan isn’t a permanent solution,” Peter says. “At best, it will buy some time. Keep the void at bay for a few weeks, maybe a month or two, until people begin to doubt again.”
“Maybe that will give the Missing Man enough time to return.”
Peter doesn’t respond. In the darkness, I can’t guess what he’s thinking. I listen to him breathe. It reminds me of the waves,
the steady crash as the water folds under and embraces itself. At last, he says, “Tell me about your mother.”
I’m startled. He rarely asks about my life before Lost. He’s always about the moment, the now. It’s one of the things that’s great about him. Everything is about surviving the moment and wringing as much joy out of it as he can.
Lying beside him, I realize I don’t want to think about the past, either. Not right now. It hurts too much. So instead of thinking and instead of answering, I turn toward where I know he is, I scoot closer until our bodies are touching, and I kiss him.
Chapter Fifteen
It’s like kissing sunlight. His lips are warm and soft, and I feel his body against mine. His hands are in my hair and then on my face, cupping my cheeks.
For an instant, I am not lost.
But then he draws back.
I feel his body shift away, and I’m cold. Air drifts between us. He doesn’t speak. I hear him turn, and I think his back must be toward me. I reach toward him but stop before my fingers can brush his skin.
I touch my lips and feel more alone than I did before.
I lie still and stare at the dark rectangles that I know are the masterpieces. I imagine that I’m on that ship in the Sea of Galilee, and I’m pulling on the rigging with my full weight, waiting for the clouds to break, waiting to be saved, trusting I will be saved. I listen to Peter’s breath as it slows. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in... I mimic that, trying to will myself to sleep within the rhythm of his breath.
I dream of the crash of waves and the feel of water on my skin and the softness of Peter’s lips. I don’t wake until dawn.
Sunlight pierces the slats of the barn, and I am looking up at the Rembrandt from within the tangle of blankets. Peter is awake beside me. He’s propped up on one elbow and is looking down at me. I remember the kiss, and my eyes fix on his lips. I force myself to meet his eyes. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do I.
I could joke, laugh it off.
I could explain myself, though I don’t have a decent explanation.
I could pretend it didn’t happen.
I could ask him what he’s thinking, why he kissed me back and why he pulled away.
I could ask if he still thinks I’m beautiful and clever and funny, or if he ever did.
I could ask if he wants to kiss me again.
I don’t do any of these things. Instead I draw my knees up to my chest and hug them. He’s still looking at me, so I look at the Rembrandt. “That’s Rembrandt.” I point to one of the figures on a boat. “He painted himself into the painting. There are fourteen figures. Jesus, twelve disciples, and Rembrandt.”
“Had a high opinion of himself.”
I point to a Picasso. “That one was dumped into the trash after its theft, but the Dumpster was empty when it was searched.” I point next at a golden, glittering portrait of a woman, a painting by Klimt. “Nazis stole that. Confiscated it. It was supposed to be donated to a gallery in Austria, I think, but it never made it.”
“You know all of these?”
I study the sparkling gold in the Klimt painting. “Saddest thing about stolen art is that only the thief can view them. They’re meant to be seen.”
“You’re seeing them.”
“Yes.” He’s not looking at the art; he’s looking at me. I want to ask him what he’s thinking, but I’m a coward so I don’t.
“You’re an artist.” It wasn’t a question.
I shrug and wish I’d chosen another topic. “I’m not a Rembrandt or Picasso. Not even close. For a while, I tried to find a job as a graphic artist...but I wasn’t lucky.”
“You should paint here.”
“I’m painting the house. Or I plan to.”
“You should paint this.” He gestured at the masterpieces on the wall. “You have time. You’ve bought yourself time.”
For an instant, I am tempted. I think of the attic room and my vision for it, filled with easels and paints. But it’s not realistic. “If Victoria and Sean don’t change their minds and raise a mob instead, and if I had a century or two worth of art classes, then yes, but you said yourself the lie wouldn’t buy much time.”
“I can’t help with the art classes.” Shedding the sheets, he stands. He’s shirtless and as stunningly beautiful as the masterpieces around him. “But I can check on the existence of a mob.” After an instant’s hesitation, he holds out his hand. I take it, and he draws me up. I’m standing close to him. His body feels warm. He’s looking at me, and I wonder if he’s thinking about the taste of my lips the way I’m thinking about his.
If he wants to pretend it didn’t happen, then...
No.
I am not going to feel like a teenager, awkward and wondering what he thinks of me. I tilt my head up and look directly into his eyes. “If I kiss you again, will you turn away from me?”
His eyes widen slightly. He licks his lips. I can tell that every muscle in him is tense as if he wants to run, and I suddenly feel like I want to laugh. He can’t be afraid of me. I’m the most powerless person in this entire town. I have less information, less experience, less everything than anyone here. Yet he’s looking at me as if I’m a rattlesnake. Except I don’t think he wants to run from me.
I take a step closer, experimentally.
He flinches back.
And then it’s suddenly not funny. “It’s okay. We can pretend it didn’t happen. Let’s go find Claire.” I start to turn away, and he catches my arm. He draws me closer, and then he’s kissing me.
I sink into his arms, and he melts against me.
The barn door bursts open. “Peter! Lauren!” Claire races in. “Victoria and Sean did it! And people believed them and it worked! The void is back where it belongs. Everyone’s gathering in the streets. They’re actually having a party. There’s music. And food. And a man is making balloon animals!” She holds out a pink balloon dog. One leg has popped, but the knots keep the rest intact.
“That’s great, Claire.” I try for a cheerful tone.
She lowers the balloon animal. “Were you two kissing?”
“Um...”
“Yes,” Peter says. He picks up his trench coat and throws it over his shoulders. Hurriedly, I stuff the blankets and pillows into the backpacks. I feel my face blushing as red as a stop sign.
She looks from one of us to the other. “You don’t look happy about it. Were you doing it right?”
Peter stomps past her. “Yes.”
I pause to throw the sheets over the masterpieces. By the time I’m done hiding them, Peter is on the rooftops. “Where are you going?” I call after him.
“I’m going to find the Missing Man,” he calls back.
“But you hate him,” Claire says. “And he hates you.”
“I have to ask him a question,” he says. He then races across the rooftops, leaving Claire and me behind on the ground.
* * *
Midday, I swim in the ocean again and hope the water will calm the endless please find him, please find him, please find him...that is stuck on repeat in my brain. The blueness fills my eyes, and the water caresses my skin. I breathe in the saltiness and feel it seep into me, soothing me. Around me, the fish brush against my legs. I feel them nibble and then dart away, like tiny kisses. I think about how Peter said he couldn’t find the Missing Man, and I wonder if that means that Peter lied or if it means that he will fail. I dive under the waves, open my eyes, and feel the sea sting my eyes and see the orange, yellow, and pink coral with the blue, silver, and striped fish. I burst out of the water and swim back to shore, where Claire is building sand castles out of wet desert sand and lost utensils.
Peter hasn’t returned. But the void is back on the horizon, nearly as far away as it was. So I try to take solace in that fact and not think about
Peter or the Missing Man. Or Mom. I haven’t let myself think about her lately.
In the late afternoon, Claire and I head out to scavenge for dinner. She’s delighted with a box of macaroni and cheese, even though we don’t have milk or butter, and I find an avocado, an unopened package of American cheese, and a stale tortilla, which I envision transforming into an okay quesadilla. We wait until nearly dark to eat, in case Peter comes back. But he doesn’t.
In the shadows of the kitchen, we eat what we found then heat up the leftovers from Sean’s meatloaf and pair them with an apple. The apple has a bite out of it. I cut that part off and wash it thoroughly. It makes a decent dessert.
At night, I tuck in Claire with her teddy bears plus Mr. Rabbit. I kiss each of them on the forehead and then I retreat to my bedroom. It feels extra quiet, and I’m extra aware that the closet is empty. It takes me a long time to fall asleep. Eventually, I do.
I wake in the night to the sound of a creak. I freeze and then I slither out of bed. We have a plan for intruders—I get low as fast as possible, and Peter— But Peter isn’t in the closet. I creep to the corner of the bed and peer out. There is a silhouette in the doorway. I see the shape of a man in the moonlight, a coat swirling around him. “Peter?” I whisper.
“I didn’t find him yet.” Peter slips into the closet without another word, and he shuts the door. I stand in the moonlight and feel as if a wave is crashing inside me. He didn’t find him, didn’t find him, didn’t find him. Slowly, I climb back into bed.
At least he hadn’t lied.
“Missed you today,” I say.
No response.
“You know, you don’t have to sleep in the closet. There’s room here.” As soon as I say it, I wish I could draw the words back as if they were in a balloon on a string.
I don’t want a relationship.
I don’t want to lead him on.
I don’t want to be alone.
He doesn’t come out. So it’s a moot point. Eventually, I fall back to sleep.
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