At the third corner, I stop. I have to step away to open the door, but the windows feel like spotlights. Spencer wasn’t thinking this dark thing through. Getting to the door will leave me completely exposed. Once glance out the window and his mom could see me.
How long has it been? Has Spencer had enough time to get her out of the room? Maybe I’ve waited too long.
Just do it already.
I chance a quick glance to the windows again. His mom is still facing away from me, and she’s not alone. I see the tall blond I met yesterday. Allison. Then I see his mother laugh, and a shadow that might be Spencer moving his hands.
He’s distracting them. He’s giving me my chance, and I’m wasting it. I run to the door with my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth. My hand closes over the doorknob. It’s like ice under my palms, so cold it burns. I twist, and for a second, it sticks.
Oh my God, he was wrong. It’s locked.
I try again, the other direction. The knob clicks. I push hard using both hands, and it jerks open with a scrape that sends every hair on my body standing upright. They heard that. They had to hear that.
I imagine the mother frowning in the kitchen. His sister turning for the sliding door. Blood roars behind my ears.
I peek at the house. It’s fine. They are still lost in their own world, talking and laughing. My gaze lingers a beat longer than it should before I slip inside and tug the door closed.
There is zero light inside. As a kid I was afraid of the dark, but these days it’s sanctuary. I sink down to the tile floor in relief, my breath coming hard and fast in the silence. After my heart slows, I start shivering again. The floor feels like ice.
I test it with my bare hands and recoil. It’s freezing. Not just the floor, this whole room. I shift around, moving to my hands and knees. There was a rug or carpet, I think. I work my way around inch by inch looking for it. My memories of this room aren’t clear, and I wish they were.
My palms and knees are burning with cold from the tile when I finally find the carpet. Still cold, but so much better. I sit in relief for a few moments, then realize it’s still not going to be warm enough for sleeping. I’ll go hypothermic in here.
Or maybe I just feel like I will. I might not have a pool house, but I’m still a typical American who’s rarely forced to deal with the elements. I’ve also paid enough attention in science and history classes to know my body is capable of much more than my comfort preferences would lead me to believe.
It can’t be colder than forty-five degrees in here. Maybe forty. Forty degrees won’t kill me. I don’t think.
I pull my backpack beside me and unzip it. My sweatshirt is soaked, but I could add another layer. But everything inside my bag feels damp. I find the plastic umbrella bag, and the wet clothes that spilled out of it. Nothing is dry. I swear, pulling my trembling hands out of the backpack.
Think, Mallory.
I try, but my teeth are chattering again, and my brain feels sluggish. When Spencer comes, I’ll ask about blankets or towels. Maybe I can lay things out to dry.
Unless he doesn’t come.
And he might not. I told him not to come out if his mom was up or if it was weird.
Footsteps sound outside, and I crouch back down. Because I’m not sure until I see him. The door opens.
“Mallory?”
His voice is the barest whisper.
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to turn on the lights. She knows I’m coming out here to play.”
The lights flick on and I flinch, despite his warning. The room feels strangely bright. Exposing. I cringe in the corner between the couch and a row of cabinets on the wall.
He shrugs off his coat then grimaces. “Hell, it’s freezing in here.”
My teeth start chattering as if on cue. He notices, his expression going dark as he comes toward me. I hold up my trembling hands and shake my head. “Turn on the TV. The light is different from a TV. She might…”
I can’t quite explain through my chattering teeth, but he complies, searching until he finds the remote. He clicks a button, and I expect the TV, but a fire whoofs to life instead. It’s in an alcove below the TV, a wide and beckoning ripple of flame. It doesn’t feel warm yet, but the glow alone is a welcome sight.
Spencer snaps on the television set, even starting up the gaming console, though I didn’t ask for that part. Old school, he said, but I’m pretty sure this is the one Lana’s brother plays.
“She’s in bed,” he says softly. “And the blinds are closed.” He doesn’t touch the controller. His eyes stay fixed on me, and I resist the urge to squirm.
“They could—”
“Mallory, she went to bed. Her room is on the first floor. Windows face the front of the house.”
“What about Allison?”
Spencer puts down the remote, and I know I must look terrified. I hate it. Shame crawls up my spine.
“On her laptop in her room. Before you ask, she never opens her curtains. Claims the sunlight is bad for her sleep. I suspect vampirism.”
He wants to make me laugh, but I can’t. I’m cold and frightened and completely humiliated. Spencer drops the goofy smile and moves closer.
“Do you want to sit down?” he asks.
I stumble a step or two. And then he’s got my hands. His warmth is such a shocking relief it almost drowns out the concern flickering on his face. I know my hands are cold. He wouldn’t feel so hot if I wasn’t half frozen.
He rubs my hands and sinks onto the couch, taking me with him. I’m fumbling and nervous beside him, but he doesn’t scoop me into his arms or make it a thing. He takes off his coat and pulls it around my shoulders, zipping me inside. My skin sucks his leftover body heat up so fast that I’m cold again almost instantly. My nerves and the rain and the cold are all adding up to this moment. I’m cold from the inside out.
Spencer finds a soft, thick throw in one of the cabinets. I command myself to stop shivering. I try to breathe in the smell of chlorine and laundry detergent instead, to distract myself. Just warm up, for God’s sake, because this is getting stupid and embarrassing.
The heat from the fire is permeating the room now, and should be making me warmer. It really should. But the shivers won’t stop.
Spencer sighs, shifting awkwardly on the couch. “Okay, at the risk of sounding like an absolute tool with a line about shared body heat…”
“No, it’s fine,” I say. “I’m really cold.”
He wraps his arms around me without another word. It isn’t exactly a hug. There are thirty layers between us, and I’m possibly hypothermic, but feeling him this close hits me low in the gut. Even through the throw blanket and his coat and our shirts, his body is hard and strong in all the places mine isn’t. When he shifts, my cold nose brushes his hot neck, and every inch of my body feels it. Feels him.
We’re both contorted, our bodies lined up at odd angles and my arms mashed to my sides. And despite all of that, I close my eyes and let my forehead rest against his bare neck. Slowly, my shivering slows, and I remember how to breathe.
My eyes flutter open, and my lashes must have tickled his neck because I hear him take a sharp breath. His hands flex on my back. I’m done being cold, but I am not done being close to him.
“Better?” he asks, his voice a soft croak.
“Much,” I say. But I don’t move, and he doesn’t either. I should because I desperately want to touch him and I shouldn’t. Kissing a guy is one thing, but this would be more. No matter how right it feels to be near Spencer, I don’t trust guys with my feelings. I don’t trust them with anything.
Until this moment, I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted to.
Eventually the stiffness gets to us both. We part, my hair catching on his stubble, and his hand dragging down my hip.
Something changes in that moment, h
is eyes extra bright in the blue-white glow of the game preview screen. My cheeks burn. Suddenly, I’m way past not cold; I’m overheated.
I unzip his coat, and a few seconds later, I pull it off, draping it over the back of the couch. He watches me until I feel squirmy.
“Why are you staring?” I ask.
“Do you really have to ask?”
The warmth flashing over my skin is proof that I’m blushing. He doesn’t notice or doesn’t mention it. Either way, I’m grateful.
I glance around the pool house because looking at Spencer feels dangerous. I didn’t come here for… I didn’t come here for any of this, but now the air feels charged. Expectant. I didn’t see this coming.
Didn’t you?
My body goes cold, a sour taste blooming on the back of my tongue.
Is that what he’s expecting? Some sort of payment for his help?
I lurch to my feet, and he tenses. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know.”
It’s the truth. I don’t know if I’m okay or what I’m doing. Now that I’m standing, I’m second-guessing everything I’ve done tonight. Spencer’s given me every reason to trust him, but who says that’s enough.
Life with Charlie made one thing clear: in the beginning, you only see what they want you to see.
“Are you still cold?” Spencer asks.
I cross my arms. “No, I’m not. Why?”
“Because you’re shaking.”
I swallow, realizing he’s right. I’m trembling because I’m afraid.
I glance at my backpack on the floor across from him and the door across from me. He notices.
“Am I missing something?”
“What would you be missing?”
“Whatever has you suddenly freaked out.”
“I’m trying to be smart about this.” I’m careful to hold his eyes. To make sure he knows that I will look him in the eye. “No one knows I’m here. No one even knows I know you, and I’m here in your pool house. I don’t even think my phone is charged, so if I needed…”
I trail off and Spencer looks shocked and embarrassed in quick succession, but it’s something close to hurt that settles on his face. He stands up, and I realize with a start that his advantages don’t end with being rich and pretty. He’s big, easily six inches taller than me with shoulders and arms I wouldn’t stand a chance against.
What do I really know about this guy?
When he looks at me with soft eyes and a hurt expression, I think of Charlie’s sweet voice. Charlie buying us ice cream. Holding open doors.
Stop it.
Spencer is not Charlie.
And he’s not. Everything in me tells me he is nothing like my stepfather. My heart is screaming it out with every beat. He is different.
But what if I’m wrong? How would I know? Regret pangs through my middle at the mix of hurt and anger on Spencer’s face. Whatever secrets he might have, he’s lousy at hiding how he feels.
He pulls his phone out of his pocket and places it in my palm. I wince. This is the second time he’s paid for Charlie’s sins. The second time he’s been nice when I’ve been awful.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be,” he doesn’t meet my eyes. “It’s smart to be safe. To think about it. But I can tell you I’m not… There isn’t any way—”
“I know,” I say, because suddenly I do. I just wish believing him was enough to chase the fear out of my head. Is this the way Charlie has his claws in me?
Spencer shakes his head, still clearly hurt. “I’m a lot of screwed up things, Mallory. But I am not that.”
He goes back to the couch without another word and starts a game. I don’t know what to say or do. He’s put himself on the line for me. More than once. I don’t want him to think that doesn’t matter.
I want him to know it’s not him I’m afraid of, it’s me. I’m afraid to trust my own gut, because it didn’t warn me about Charlie. Ha—look at me now. I would love to believe I’m so much stronger than my mom, but here I am. Frozen in fear, just like her.
I close my eyes, imagining Mom’s pale hands wringing together in helplessness, her spirit shrinking day by day. No. I’m not going to live like that. I’m going to fight it, because we can’t both need rescuing. One of us has to be strong enough to take some chances.
I walk to the couch on steady legs and put the phone on the coffee table. I still don’t understand him, but I want to. I want more than the things I can find in his baby book or in whatever police report chronicles his climb up the side of the library. I know the who’s, what’s, and where’s of Spencer. But I want to know the why.
“I am sorry,” I say again.
Before he can feel like he needs to answer, I sit down beside him. I pull my legs up on the couch and lie down, using a throw pillow under my head and stretching the chlorine-scented throw over the rest of me.
I’m sure I won’t sleep. How could I, with my heart beating so fast and Spencer right there, his thigh brushing my feet if he moves? He is way too close and way too attractive for me to tune out.
The minutes stretch into a languid rhythm I don’t pay attention to. I don’t know I’ve dozed off until I wake up. He’s moving. Standing up. It startles me. His hand brushes my ankle, feather light.
“I should head inside.” I can tell he doesn’t want to. His hand lingers on my foot, and he doesn’t even glance at the door.
He looks mussed and sleepy above me, and I want him to stay.
“I probably shouldn’t leave the TV on,” he says. “The heater should be working now, but I turned off the fireplace.”
“Okay.”
“Mom and Allison leave around seven. I’ll be over after that.”
I lift my hand to my head, like I can rub the sleep fog away. “Don’t you have school?”
His smile is quickly becoming my personal kryptonite. “Funny. I feel like I’m coming down with something.”
I grin, staying still as he leaves. When the door closes, I scamper across the couch to peer out of a tiny crack in the curtains. He lopes to the house, coat unzipped and his long strides making short work of the distance.
I still don’t know why he’s so desperate to help me, but tonight I don’t care. I curl into the warm spot he left on the couch, smelling chlorine and the couch fabric and Spencer. It’s the best sleep I can remember in a long time.
Spencer
Monday, November 20, 6:19 a.m.
Mom buys the sick business easily enough. She was always a pushover with that sort of thing, but I was always smart enough not to play the card too often.
She brushes a hand over my forehead and pushes a cup of tea across the counter. “You sick enough to miss the tournament tomorrow?”
Shit. Is it Thanksgiving week already? Of course it is, but I forgot all about the tournament. “Not if I kick this headache.”
She nods and collects her keys and briefcase. “I’ve got some showings in the afternoon. Should be home by five, though.”
“I can make a can of chicken soup.”
“Are you sure? I can bring you lunch.”
“Yeah. I just want to go back to bed.”
Mom kisses me on the forehead and heads out. When the door closes behind her, Allison puts down her phone. “You’re a lousy actor, little brother.”
“Who’s talking? You tried to get Mom to call you in sick with leprosy in the third grade.”
“Well, I learned my lesson early,” she says, fussing with her hair.
“Where are you going today?” I ask.
“Internship at the financial advisor firm. I told you about this. Did you sign up for the tours we talked about?”
“Not yet.”
“Fine.” She turns, annoyed. “I’m not doing this for you. You end up in a school you don’t
like, and you only have yourself to blame.”
“I’m not getting in to some fancy, private school. It’s pointless.”
“I already told you. Mom and Dad have plenty of—”
“Connections,” I finish for her, pushing the tea away. “Yeah, I got that.”
“You know, you have got to start taking this seriously.”
“Yeah, you keep telling me. And telling me.”
“I don’t get your attitude. We are so fortunate to have these opportunities, Spencer. Most people would do anything to have your options. How can you not see that?”
“How can I see anything else?”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “What does that mean?”
“All those people who wish they were us. Just a roll of the dice, Allison. It could have been me.”
“But it’s not!” she says. “It’s not you, and you’re wasting your opportunity.”
“Fine, I’m wasting it. I’m here, with my golden ticket to the whole freaking universe, but why should I take it?” I stand up, feeling too antsy to sit. “So I can end up here? Why would I want that?”
“Would you rather blow it all off and sabotage your future, screwing yourself and our parents and everything they’ve worked to give us? Is that what you want?”
“Yes, Allison, all I want in the world is to hurt Mom and Dad. You got it in one guess.”
I walk away before I go any further. Part of me expects her to throw a parting jab up the stairs, but she doesn’t. She walks away, saying we can talk later.
There’s nothing to talk about, though. There’s no part of this that doesn’t result in my disappointing my parents. I don’t need any advice. What I should do is crystal clear. I should ride this silver platter for the rest of my life: elite school, big money job, perfect house, shiny car. My parents would be happy; my potential would be met.
And none of it would mean a damn thing.
I take the quickest shower of my life, barely drying off before I put on my jeans and shirt, my whole body drawn to the southwest window in my room. The window that overlooks the pool house. A magnetic pull stretches from the pit of my stomach to the girl in that building, and I’m powerless to resist it.
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