I put my elbows on the table, leaning toward him. “Thanks for taking me out today,” I say. “I’m glad you suggested it.”
“Me too.”
The server returns with our drinks, and we ask for more time to look over the menu. Now that I’m here, I’m not very hungry. The girl leaves, and just then the sun dips behind the clouds. Isaac looks up at the sky, frowning.
“I hope it doesn’t rain,” he says. “I checked the forecast and it promised sunshine—at least until later in the day.”
“You checked the forecast?” I ask.
He licks his bottom lip. “Well, yeah,” he responds. “It’d be a mess to get caught in the rain somewhere—especially after last night. I wanted it to be perfect.”
My body warms at his consideration. “That’s sweet,” I say quietly. I almost ask him if he’s always this sweet to me, but I catch myself before I do. I steer us away from flirtation and toward safer topics.
“Remind me,” I say. “What are your plans for after graduation?”
Isaac sips from his soda, and then leans in. I note how much closer we’re sitting to each other now. “Scholarship to UCLA,” he says, trying to be humble but I can see how proud he is. “Right now I’m debating whether I want to major in business or photography.”
“Photography?” I say, honestly surprised. “And wow—those are two very different life plans.”
He laughs. “Yeah, well, one is my mother’s idea, and one . . .” He pauses a moment. “And one is your idea, actually.”
“Oh,” I say, looking down. I put my finger on my cold glass, tracing a line in the condensation. “Those are your pictures on my wall, aren’t they?” I ask softly. I meet Isaac’s gaze, and he nods.
“You liked to find things for me to shoot,” he says. “Those were all places and objects you picked out. I took them for you.”
He loves me so much. Every inch of him reaches for me, wants to wrap me up. It’s overwhelming.
The sun comes out again, and I close my eyes and lift my face toward it, letting it warm my cheeks. He took pictures for me, I think. I should have known he did that. I should have found the journal pages earlier. When I get back home, I’ll read everything. I want to know more about him. It’s important. For his recovery.
* * *
When the server returns, Isaac orders “my favorite.” Luckily, when the patchwork pizza arrives, it’s covered in cheese and vegetables, and it’s something I actually like. The breeze picks up, tickling my cheek with the short strands of my hair.
“I know I only asked you to lunch,” Isaac says between bites of food. “But do you want to go somewhere after this? To the river, or even a movie?” He pauses, scrunching his nose. “I know you hate the movies, but you like popcorn.” He smiles, adorable in his nervousness.
I’m about to tell him that I’d love to, when someone enters my peripheral vision and walks past us to take the table just behind Isaac. When the guy lifts his head, I gasp audibly. Aaron winks behind a pair of black hipster glasses, his face smooth and beard-free. How did he even find me?
Isaac turns around to glance at Aaron, but with ease my friend is examining his menu like he has no idea we even exist. Isaac looks at me, and I smile politely.
I pick up my drink, but my hand slips and the glass falls and hits the table. A wave of soda and small cubes of crushed ice splash across the white cloth. Both Isaac and I jump up, trying to dodge the river of liquid, but it’s already dribbled onto my lap.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, brushing the liquid off my jeans.
Isaac grabs his napkin and rounds the table. He uses the fabric as a dam at the edge of the table. “Here.” He shakes out my napkin and hands it to me. “I’ll get the waitress.”
He touches my arm as if assuring me it’s no big deal, but we both freeze at his touch. He doesn’t pull away immediately, and my stomach flutters as his fingers slide down my arm, touching my hand before letting go. He apologizes quietly, whether for touching me or for letting go, I’m not sure. Without another glance, he goes inside to get the server.
The minute the door closes behind him, I turn abruptly to Aaron. “What the hell?” I say.
Aaron laughs. “I have to admit, you’re freaking smooth, Quinlan. I almost believed that was an accident.”
“Har, har,” I say, walking over to pause at the end of his table. “How did you even find me here?”
“Tracking app on your phone,” he says, like it’s completely normal. My hand immediately goes to my pocket, but Aaron brushes off my concern.
“Don’t be paranoid,” he says. “We all have them. Standard issue. What I want to know,” he says, sitting back and crossing his ankle over his knee, “is what you’re doing on a date.”
“I’m on assignment,” I correct. “And he can’t see you here”—I look toward the door—“so this had better be good.”
Aaron smiles broadly. “Oh, it is. Remember Virginia?”
My body tenses. “Yeah?”
“I found out who she is, and you are not going to believe it.”
I take a worried look at the door, expecting Isaac any moment. “Spit it out,” I tell Aaron, putting my hand on my hip to show him my impatience.
“Her name is Virginia Pritchard,” Aaron says. “And Arthur Pritchard is her father. The same Arthur Pritchard who created the remedy. Now how the fuck do you explain that coincidence?”
I rock back on my heels. “His daughter?” I repeat. “That means . . . he’s involved in this case somehow. Why would he keep that a secret? Why—” I hear the door of the restaurant opening behind me, and Aaron flicks his glance in that direction. Without missing a beat, I snatch a napkin off his table.
“Thanks,” I call out to him, like he’s a stranger, and then turn to find Isaac walking toward me with the server. I hold up the napkin to prove why I was talking to the guy at the table. “I’m a walking disaster today,” I tell Isaac. “I’m sorry.”
Isaac laughs. “It’s fine.” We stand aside while the server moves us to a new table, beyond Aaron’s judgy stare, and the busser comes out to clean up my mess. I apologize profusely, but the server tells me not to worry about it. I don’t look at Aaron, and I compartmentalize what he told me about Virginia. I can’t think about that now. I store it away for later.
Isaac pulls out my chair, and I sit, watching him as he moves to take the spot next to me rather than across from me. “I think I like this table better anyway,” he says. His knee is close to mine, his energy radiating to my skin. We both look down at our plates, helplessly trying to avoid the awkwardness. After a minute or two, I feel him look at me.
“Is it okay?” he starts in a quiet voice. “Is it okay if I pretend you’re her? Does that make me a terrible human being?”
“No,” I say, looking straight at him. “Not at all. It’s part of the process.”
“It just . . .” His eyes drift over me. “It feels good, you know? Filling this emptiness.” He sniffles, and shakes his head like he’s angry for thinking this way. He’s made so much progress, though; I don’t want him to doubt himself now.
I reach out and put my hand over his, the movement making him take in a sharp breath. “Isaac,” I whisper, leaning in to get his attention. “Let me help you.”
He looks down at our hands, and he’s lost in his head, trying to decide if what we’re doing is wrong. Immoral. Slowly he turns his hand over, our palms pressed together. He slides his fingers between mine, sending a shiver down my spine. It’s intimate. Too intimate, and I have to pull away.
I dart a worried look at Aaron, but he’s pretending not to have seen. I know he has. Guilt rushes over me, the idea that I’m not only getting too attached, but that I’ve wronged Deacon in some way. Not technically—we’re not dating. Even if those lines are sometimes blurred.
Isaac apologizes for trying to hold my hand, but I quickly wave off the apology.
“It wasn’t that,” I lie. “I just remembered that I told my parents I�
�d come straight home after lunch.” Isaac bristles at “my parents.” That combined with my rejection reminds him that I’m not his real girlfriend. But he takes a moment, trying to push away his rational thoughts.
“Maybe another time, then,” he suggests, and takes a sip of his soda, preparing to leave. I hate seeing him so dejected. I don’t want him to think about the truth. He wants me to play this role. He asked me to.
“Maybe tomorrow,” I suggest quickly.
He turns to me, his knee brushing against my thigh. “What about tonight?” he asks. “A friend of mine, an old friend who doesn’t know about . . .” He trails off, not wanting to bring up my death. “Anyway, he’s having a party tonight. I could—you could—”
“Sneak out?” I ask with a flirtatious grin.
“You used to call your window the emergency exit,” he says. “You’d hide a plastic step in the bushes when you went out so you could get back in.”
That’s how I did it, I think, remembering the aerobic step I’d seen under my bed. Isaac shifts in his seat, and I’m suddenly aware of how close we are. I grow breathless.
“I’ll go,” I say, my heart starting to race. “What time?” I want to put my hand on his leg, move in closer, and brush my cheek against his. Smell his cologne, feel his touch. No one has touched me in that way since Deacon. And not before him either.
“Let’s say midnight,” Isaac offers, and I can see the desire in his expression.
Attraction can be a dangerous thing, I think. Makes people act in ways they normally wouldn’t. Clouds their judgment.
Before this moment goes on any longer, I jump up from the seat, clearing my throat and reaching into my pocket for money.
“It’s okay,” he says, standing. “I’ve got it, Catalina.” This time he doesn’t flinch at my name. In fact, he doesn’t even seem to notice that he said it. He tosses a few bills down on the table, looking content with our plan, and puts his hand on the small of my back to lead us to his truck.
I walk with him, hyperaware of Aaron watching us, but that fades when we get out onto the street. Instead I look sideways at Isaac, thinking again about our attraction. And how good it feels.
CHAPTER NINE
MY MOTHER’S SURPRISED TO SEE me when Isaac drops me off ten minutes later. She waves to him from where she’s in the front yard, gardening. When he drives off, I’m on a bit of a high—still tingling from the way his fingers felt next to mine.
“You’re back early,” my mother says. “Everything okay?”
“Isaac’s doing great,” I assure her. “Really great.”
She smiles broadly, looking relieved. “I’m so glad to hear that,” she responds, choking up slightly. She glances around the garden, and then turns to me eagerly. “I’m just cleaning up the rose beds. Would you like to help me?”
“Uh . . .” What I need to do is go inside and read the journal pages, try to figure how Virginia fits into this story. Find out more about Isaac so I can complete this therapy. But my mother stares at me with her wide, brown eyes, needing me to be with her. I smile. “Sure.”
She opens the plastic tub near the house and hands me a pair of gloves and some shears. We make our way around the side, where there are at least a dozen red rosebushes. They’re breathtaking.
My mother hands me a kneeling mat, and I take a place at a bush close to where she’s working. I watch how she trims, cutting back the branches that have grown too long. I mimic her, and at one point she looks over to tell me my roses are perfect. My entire demeanor brightens under her praise. We continue on down the row.
Twenty minutes later, I swipe my gloved hand across my forehead. My back aches from bending around the roses, and I remember now why my house in Corvallis is overgrown and untamed. Gardening is hard.
“These really are beautiful,” I tell her. She takes a look for herself as if seeing them for the first time, and nods.
“You know, I planted yellow once,” she says. “Lemon-yellow roses. They died after the first freeze of the year and wouldn’t grow again. I thought the color would be cheerful, but it had the opposite effect.”
“Weird.” I wince, pricking my finger on a thorn. “Ow.” I pull off the glove and shake out the sting in my skin. “It got me through the fabric.”
“Those little suckers are nasty,” she tells me, peeking over to make sure I’m not bleeding to death. She kneels down next to me and reaches into her gardening apron. She pulls out a Band-Aid, and I watch as she takes my finger and examines the small puncture. She tsks, and pulls off the wrapper on the bandage. Lovingly, she winds the adhesive tape around my finger, taking special care not to hurt me. When she’s done, she looks at me and smiles. “There,” she murmurs, and reaches to brush a strand of hair behind my ear.
My entire body aches with loss. I feel the tears gather in my eyes: This sense of being taken care of—it’s completely enveloping. It’s warmth and comfort. For a moment I’m sure it’s everything I’ve ever wanted.
She must read my expression, because she presses her lips into a smile and then goes to tidy up my rosebush. “You know,” she says quietly, considering her words before she continues, “if you wanted to stay, live here while you go to college, save some money—you can. You can stay as long as you want.”
My stomach sinks, but not because I hate the idea. I actually love the thought of sticking around longer. I love the idea of being part of this family. My training tells me I should redirect her, make it clear immediately that this is a temporary situation. There’s no way the department would let that happen, no matter how much I wanted to stay. I look over at her and smile—a moment passing between us without words. Without a no.
It’s enough for her to go back to gardening, humming a tune that sounds like a lullaby, one I’m sure I enjoyed when I was a baby. We dig in the dirt in front of a big white house, letting the sun warm our faces, happy in the idea of being together just a little longer.
* * *
I’ve forgotten most of my worries when we come back in the house, slightly achy but in that rewarding hard-work sort of way. My dad is in the kitchen, adding pieces of bread to the toaster. Sliced tomatoes and lettuce are on the table next to the leftover bacon from this morning.
“Thought we’d have some BLTs,” he says, smiling beneath his bushy mustache.
“Barrett,” my mother scolds, although it’s more playful than scoldy. “You’ll ruin dinner.”
“We’ll be hungry again in a few hours,” he says. When she sighs, he comes over and kisses her cheek as an apology. My mother laughs, shooing him away. I feel my cheeks blush; their flirting is a little embarrassing, but also completely adorable at the same time. I can honestly say that I don’t think any of my other parents liked each other this much.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, startling me. While my parents work together to make sandwiches for us, I glance down and see it’s a message from Deacon.
FOR ALL YOU KNOW I COULD HAVE DIED FROM EXPOSURE IN THE PARKING LOT OF THAT BAR LAST NIGHT. THIS IS TO ASSURE YOU THAT I DIDN’T.
I wince. I forgot to call him today and apologize. Before I can send a pathetic I’M SORRY, another message pops up.
AARON WANTED ME TO TELL YOU THAT HE WOULDN’T KNOW MORE ABOUT THE VIRGINIA SITUATION FOR A FEW DAYS, BUT TO HANG TIGHT. HE ALSO TOLD ME HE SAW YOU TODAY. HOPE IT WAS A NICE LUNCH.
I glance at my parents, and when I see they’re still busy, I quickly type out: I’M ON ASSIGNMENT. THAT’S IT.
He waits a painfully long time to answer. YOU’RE QUINLAN MCKEE, he writes simply. There’s a sting on my face, a cold slap of reality. I slip my phone back into my pocket and begin to gnaw on my lip.
I know who I am, Deacon, I think, unnerved by his text. I do still know that.
My parents are talking, laughing, occasionally looking back at me to grin out an Isn’t this fun? I nod encouragingly, a little rattled from Deacon’s message, but glad to hear that Aaron should have more information for me later this week.
/> The house phone rings, startling me. I have this irrational thought that it’s Deacon, and when my mother clicks the button and says hello, my heart is in my throat. She smiles, and touches my father’s arm to get his attention.
“Hi, Angie,” she says, tears gathering in her eyes. Both of my parents hover around the phone, turned away from me as they ask how she is, tell her they’re doing well and missing her. I’m cut out of the family circle then, a stranger in their house. Without a word I slip away, back to my bedroom, my heart feeling heavy and a bit left out.
When I get into my room, I lie on my stomach across the middle of my bed. I think about what my mother said, about how I could stay here while I go to college. Although I know that was only her grief talking, I imagine for a moment it could be true. What it would be like to have a family like this. To eat dinner together and laugh and even garden. To feel safe.
At this moment, if anyone asked me what I wanted . . . I think this would be it. I would want to be part of this family, this life. I close my eyes, feeling guilty for betraying my real father. I do love him; I would never abandon him. Besides, people like me aren’t meant to have normal lives. But . . . if I had started this way, I wouldn’t have ended up a closer.
I dwell a bit longer on the family, happy that my sister seems to be coming around. It may be caused by my presence, or maybe she always would have; either way, it’s good for the recovery. I get up and go to my desk, open up my laptop to write an e-mail. I get my sister’s address and type out a short message.
THANK YOU FOR CONTACTING YOUR PARENTS. YOU’VE MADE THEM VERY HAPPY.
I leave it short and sweet, not wanting to give her much to argue with if the message finds her when she’s feeling particularly murderous. I click around on the Internet for another minute when the e-mail pings back to me. My heart stops.
GO TO HELL.
I stare at the words until my eyes go blurry, and then shut the laptop without exiting the program. I’m tired—I’m tired of being feared, hated. Right now, all I want is some comfort, but I can’t find it with the strangers in the kitchen.
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