by Kelly Creagh
The two men clasped hands, shaking fiercely.
Poe turned to go then. But Reynolds, pausing, glanced back at Isobel.
He touched the brim of his own hat, giving her the signal.
The salute of the one true Poe Toaster.
The real deal indeed.
49
Only This and Nothing More
Isobel’s eyes opened on their own. Above, her bedroom light blazed bright, stinging her eyes.
She breathed in fast and deep, her chest rising quickly as the final images of her dream flipped through her head. Desperately, her mind groped for them before they could turn to vapor, sorting them and storing them in an effort to preserve every last detail, every shared word. Poe standing beyond the gate, nodding to her as if she were an old acquaintance. As if she and he had somehow known each other the whole time . . .
Isobel shifted to get out of bed but stopped when she saw her father.
Seated in a chair at her bedside, Isobel’s dad watched her with folded arms, his gaze steady. His eyes red-rimmed and tired.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” Isobel replied, her voice raspy with sleep. She started to sit up but paused again when she heard a soft clink and felt something hard in her palm.
Glancing down, Isobel opened her hand to find Reynolds’s watch.
“Oh,” she said, sitting up quickly.
“You . . . you were talking in your sleep,” her dad said.
“Um. ” Isobel wrapped the watch tight in her fist again. “Just . . . weird dreams. ”
“Bad?” he asked, eyebrows arching.
Isobel shook her head. “Good. ”
He nodded. Then, after a beat, he gestured to the watch. “What’s that?”
“Uh . . . it’s a pocket watch . . . thingie. ”
“Oh yeah?” her dad said through a small chuckle. “Mind if I have a look?”
“Sure,” she said, offering him the timepiece.
“Humph,” her dad murmured as he turned the watch over and over between his fingers. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one like this. Where’d you get it?”
“Friend gave it to me,” Isobel murmured, scooting back to prop herself against her headboard in a movement that felt eerily like déjà vu.
Her dad clicked open the watch’s little door. “Who’s Augustus?” he asked.
“I’m . . . still not sure. ”
“Well, this is nice, but it looks ancient,” her dad observed. “Hard to believe it still works. ”
Glancing over her shoulder, Isobel checked her digital clock.
The numbers 6:45 blared in neon blue. But the strong smell of garlic and simmering tomato sauce wafting from the hall, combined with her father’s presence in her room and his mostly calm demeanor, told Isobel it wasn’t morning and she wasn’t running late for school.
Then she remembered that after getting home from her first day back at cheer practice, she’d come upstairs and, thinking she would just rest her eyes for a moment, curled up in bed.
Something about going back into that gym, about rejoining the ranks of the squad and reconnecting with Nikki and Stevie—not to mention picking up the slack after her short hiatus—had sapped Isobel’s energy far more than she’d anticipated. And maybe she’d fallen asleep so easily because, for the first time in a long time, she’d felt safe in letting go, in allowing herself to fall under and dream. . . .
“Dinner’s just about ready,” her dad said, interrupting her thoughts. “Spaghetti and garlic bread. ”
She nodded. “That sounds good. ”
“Dooo . . . you wanna go out for ice cream afterward?” he asked.
Isobel pursed her lips. “Depends,” she said as she drew her knees to her chest. Resting her chin on them, she wrapped her arms around her legs. “Is . . . Mom coming?”
Her dad’s smile came tight, but genuine. He nodded. “Danny, too. ”
“Then . . . yeah,” Isobel said. “Count me in. ”
“Great. ” Isobel’s dad stood and set her pocket watch gently on the open Poe book.
“Doing some light reading?” he asked, tilting his head at its pages.
Isobel shrugged. “Just flipping through. ”
“Okay,” he said. “Then I’ll see you downstairs in about five?”
“Yeah, I’ll . . . be right there. ”
Isobel’s dad tucked his hands into his pockets. Without saying anything else, he went to the door. He paused there, though, and after several seconds turned to face her again.
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“Hey,” he said, withdrawing something pink from his pocket—Isobel’s cell. “Want to invite your friend?”
She gave him a small smile, marveling at how Gwen had been able to do it again.
Never in her life would Isobel understand that girl’s odd way with people, her crazy ability to weasel into favor just as easily as she fell out of it—if not more so.
“He likes ice cream, doesn’t he?” her dad asked as he tossed the phone onto her bed.
Isobel’s mouth popped open wide.
Seconds flew by as she tried to catch up with what he’d just said, to wrap her mind around his meaning. Then she scrambled for her cell, finding her wits and her voice in the same instant.
“Yeah,” she said. “Actually, he does. ”
Epilogue
Boston, Massachusetts
Sweet Surrender Dessert Café
December 21
Two Years Later
“How do you know she’ll be home?” Isobel asked.
Breaking her stare on the condominium complex across the street from where they sat, Isobel clutched her oversize coffee mug between both hands.
“I don’t,” Varen replied, before taking another bite of the slice of German chocolate cake that he and Isobel (mostly Isobel) had all but destroyed.
A small, sad smile touched Isobel’s lips, and, lifting her mug, she watched Varen from over its rim. Then, deciding she didn’t want the last sips of her mocha, she set the cup down again.
“Are you worried?” she asked.
“No,” Varen said, his voice carrying that low monotone drone that coated his words whenever he wanted to sound like he didn’t care. “She probably won’t know who I am anyway. ”
“It’s your birthday,” Isobel said. Reaching across the table, she placed a hand over his. “Who else would you be?”
His fingers caught hers, and his jade eyes flicked up. “You tell me, cheerleader. ”
An infinitesimal smirk teased one corner of his mouth.
That sly half smile, combined with the faint scar that still marred his cheek, caused her heart to stammer a beat.
Every so often, he had moments like these. Flashes when that other side—that other self—showed through. Though they often caught her off guard, they no longer scared her.
Quite the opposite . . .
“I know we’re here now,” Isobel said, giving his hand a squeeze. “But . . . you can still change your mind if you want to. Whatever you decide, I’m right there with you. You know that, don’t you?”
Varen leaned back in his chair. He peered out the window toward the condo complex.
“I do,” he said. “And whatever happens next, this is all extra, you know. The part after the ending. ”
“After the happy ending,” Isobel corrected. “The afterword!” she added, perking up in her seat.
“Epilogue,” Varen said.
“Wait,” she said, suppressing a smile, “I thought that’s what the talking was called. ”
“Dialogue,” Varen replied, affecting a stern glower as he played along. Folding his green-jacketed arms on the table, he hooked the handle of his mug with a finger and lifted his coffee—black—to his lips.
Isobel tried hard not to laugh. The moment felt like one relived from the past, a throwback to those first days. But when Varen lost
his seriousness before he could take a sip, smiling in spite of his efforts to keep a straight face, Isobel grinned too.
When the bells on the café door rang, Isobel’s gaze strayed over Varen’s safety-pin-studded shoulder. But her smile fell fast when she took in the pair who had just entered from the street.
Varen’s expression sobered with hers. Setting his coffee cup in its saucer, he twisted to look at the young girl and her mother.
Varen’s mother.
“Here to pick up the German chocolate,” Madeline said after approaching the counter. “You’re holding it under the name Alexander. ”
Isobel drew in a sharp breath, recognizing Varen’s middle name.
As if sensing Varen’s penetrating gaze, the girl, who couldn’t have been much younger than Danny, turned her head to stare at him, blond braids flying.
“Veronica,” Madeline said, nudging the girl as the clerk disappeared into the back room. “It’s not polite to stare. ”
Quickly Varen turned toward Isobel again, his face white.
Tense in her seat, Isobel switched her focus between the woman—who after accepting a white cake box from the returning clerk, took her receipt—and Varen, who, mouth slightly agape, lip ring glinting in the late-afternoon sun, gripped the edge of the table.
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“Do you want me to—” Isobel asked in a small whisper, but she stopped when, shutting his eyes, Varen shook his head once.
“Thank you,” Madeline said then, ushering the girl ahead of her and leading her through the door.
The bells jangled a second time as the pair left, heading across the street.
Varen reopened his eyes and watched them the entire way, until they disappeared behind the tall brick walls girdling the condominiums.
Isobel sat silent, watching Varen intently, bracing herself for whatever his reaction would be.
“We could still catch them,” she whispered.
Varen looked away from the window and back to his mug. His brow knitted. He blinked slowly, jaw flexing. Then, at last, he spoke.
“There’s a beach,” he said, his voice half breath, “about an hour away. A cape, actually. Probably more rock than sand. And I know it’s cold, but do you want to go? Just to walk. ” He nodded to the cake before finally looking up at her. “I’m finished. If . . . if you are. ”
She tilted her head at him. “You mean you want to—”
“Make out at sunset?” he interrupted. “Yeah. I kind of do. ”
Varen’s smile returned, though different from before. Sadder now, but . . . peaceful, as well. Satisfied, maybe.
“Weeell,” Isobel said. “In that case, yes, I do. And . . . yeah. I’m finished too. ”