Burying Water by K. A. Tucker
She argued with me when I told her where I wanted to take her, but after I promised that it would be fine—that no one would see her like this—she relented, throwing together an overnight bag. I pulled her BMW into the garage and then I helped her into my car, a wary eye on the cameras. I didn’t want to bring it up but she must have read my mind, because she told me that she knows how to delete footage and Viktor never checks anyway.
So, just like that, I left Portland behind, with Alexandria Petrova in my passenger seat. I didn’t even go home to grab a change of clothes, because I wanted to get her as far away as I could, as fast as possible.
I round the house, passing the sheriff’s sedan that I hoped wouldn’t be there but knew probably would.
“There’s a police car in your driveway, Jesse,” she says slowly.
“I know. It’ll be fine, I promise. And it’s not a police car. My dad’s the sheriff.” I keep heading down the narrow path toward my garage. I call it “my garage” because my granddad used to own this property and he left that building to me. Sure, it’s on my parents’ land and they cover the electricity bills, but the space within—to work, to sleep, to be happy—is mine. No one’s going to go against a dead man’s wishes. Not even the sheriff.
An outdoor spotlight appears in my rearview mirror and a moment later, a figure steps out from the sliding door off the kitchen, flashlight in hand. It takes three minutes to walk from the house to the garage and he’s already on his way.
I hit the automatic button to the double door that I keep with me at all times and roll into my big, beautiful garage. Under other circumstances, I’d be floating on a euphoric high right now—pulling my dream car in here for the first time.
But right now, I have a beat-up girl in the passenger seat and if my father sees her looking like this, no one’s going to be happy. Hell, he’ll probably haul me in for questioning. It wouldn’t be the first time.
I unfasten her seat belt for her. “We’ve gotta move quick, okay?”
She nods and picks up her purse. I grab her bag from the backseat and then run around to the passenger side to help her out. Thank God the garage’s entrance is angled toward our neighbor’s house—an old hermit lady who’ll be locked up in her bed by now—or he’d see right in here.
In seconds I have the back door unlocked. I guide Alex up the narrow stairs and into the small attic apartment, the air cold and stale. “Here, just sit still. Or better yet—” I lead her to the stripped bed, the bedding sitting neatly folded. My mom must have been in here. “Lie down. I’ll come back soon.”
She eases herself back until she’s lying on my bed, staring up at me, her eyes wide with panic. “Please don’t tell him, Jesse. I don’t want to explain this to anyone.” I’m guessing that if she’d known my father was a sheriff, she never would have agreed to this.
“I won’t. Promise. Just don’t move, because this floor will creak.” I lean down to kiss her forehead, adding with a whisper, “And he doesn’t believe in ghosts.”
One side of her mouth—the good side, the one that’s not swollen—curves up in a smile. “Thank you, Jesse.”
I don’t want to leave her but I do, heading back downstairs to find my father—Sheriff Gabe Welles—scanning the interior of my car, an open bottle of beer in his hand and another one tucked under his arm. He doesn’t drink much and when he does, it’s only one or two. “Hey, Dad.”
He glances up at me. “Hey, Jesse. Your mom didn’t tell me you were coming home this weekend.”
“Last-minute decision.” I watch him as he quietly circles the car, his hand sliding over the body. Without a word, he holds out the extra beer and I take it. Neither of us is a big talker. “So you finally got it.”
“Drove it off the lot today.”
He smiles to himself. “So that sparked your last-minute decision.” A pause. “How much?”
“Just under sixteen.” That’s what the papers say. Do I think it’s accurate? Probably not. That, or Viktor’s a rich fool with more money than he knows what to do with. Rebuilding the engine on a car like the Aston Martin wouldn’t be cheap, but there’s no way it’s worth almost half a year’s net salary for me.
“You had that kind of money saved up?” I don’t miss the suspicion in his voice. It’s the same suspicion I’ve faced for the last ten years, since my friends and I got picked up for lifting a six-pack of beer from the local gas station. Of course, I’ve done plenty of regrettable things since then, too, in his eyes, but it seems that I also can’t do anything right anymore. I went to school and got a full-time job. I pay my bills on time. I stay away from the kind of idiots I hung out with in high school. I don’t think it’ll ever be enough.
Then again, considering I’m driving what may or may not be a stolen car, and I have another man’s wife hiding upstairs, maybe I’m still doing a lot wrong.
“I’ve been working hard. And I just rebuilt a DB5 engine for this rich asshole. He paid me well.” Not a lie.
“Huh . . .” He holds his hand up. No need to explain further. I toss my keys to him and, leaning into the open driver’s-side window, he cranks the engine. Even though that rumble is far from the smoothest I’ve ever heard, it still gets me excited. I hear the release on the hood pop and move to prop it up. We come together in front of the car, arms crossed. The Welles Men pose, my mom always calls it. There’s an old picture of my granddad, my dad, and me—at maybe ten years old—standing in a row right here in this garage, in front of my dad’s Mustang, our arms crossed in the same way.
“What does it need?”
“Dunno. I’ll find out this weekend.”
He nods slowly.
“Where’s Mom? Amber?”
“Hospital. Your mom’s there for a long stretch and Amber’s pulling nights with overtime.”
Perfect. “Amber’s still going to Europe?”
He sucks back on his beer bottle. “So she tells us. We’ll see.” If my twin sister actually goes ahead with this idea of hers—to travel the world for a year—I’ll probably be the most surprised. She’s always played the role of small-town sheriff’s daughter effortlessly, charming the right people, smiling for the cameras, weighing her decisions carefully to ensure she doesn’t make one that might look bad for my dad. She thrives on being the center of attention in our small universe, and in high school, she was just that—Rodeo Queen, class valedictorian, and the winner of several state championships in horseback riding. She could have applied to almost any program at almost any school, and yet she chose to stay close to home. A part of me thinks it’s because she doesn’t want to become a tadpole in the ocean.
Taking off and wandering around the world alone just isn’t something she’s cut out for.
I suck back the rest of my beer and then cut the engine. “I’m heading to bed, Dad.”
He frowns. “This early?” He glances at the clock on the wall, which somehow keeps working even though I don’t remember ever changing the battery. Granted, I’ve always been a night owl and it’s only ten thirty. Still, his cop radar is always on.
“I’ve been working nonstop. I’m beat.” I give my eyes a good rub, not just for effect but because I really am exhausted.
He nods to himself. “Right. Glad to see you doing well, Jesse. Make sure you check the damper on the woodstove.” He turns his flashlight back on and picks his path down the road, heading toward home. I watch him for a while. He’s in his mid-fifties, and he’ll be sheriff until he loses an election or is forced out. I think he was born to wear that badge. He’s good at it, too. Gabe Welles is revered as hard-nosed and righteous, the kind of man who wouldn’t balk at questioning his own son for attempted murder when two pieces of shit pointed their fingers his way.
Hitting the garage door—we’re four miles from the closest neighbor besides Ginny Fitzgerald next door and yet I always lock up—I leave the hood up and shut the lights, wanting to get back to Alex.
She’s exactly where I left her, hugging the edge of the mattress. Asleep.
On nothing more than a mattress cover, in a cold, dank attic, Alex curled up into a ball and fell asleep. She probably didn’t sleep a wink last night or today. If she’s like me, she hasn’t slept well since last Sunday.
I don’t want to wake her to make the bed, so I instead dig into the cedar chest in the corner to find my grandmother’s favorite blue-and-red checkered blanket. I was only eleven when my dad’s mother died. My granddad, in good shape until the day he succumbed to a massive heart attack, decided to turn the attic space into an apartment for himself. Previously, we had all lived together in the main house. Given my parents’ work schedules, the arrangement worked well for taking care of Amber and me when we were kids. But granddad wanted nothing to do with living in the house with teenagers.
I cover Alex with the blanket, hoping she doesn’t mind the wool texture. Then, after quickly washing up in the small bathroom in the corner, I start a fire in the woodstove, turn off the lights, and edge into the old brown Barcalounger, the only piece of living room furniture left in here and a rickety piece of shit that squeals in protest with my weight. I don’t want to assume that Alex would be okay with waking up next to me in bed.
Leaning back slowly, I get as comfortable as I possibly can. And then I close my eyes and listen to her low, shallow breaths.
“Jesse.”
My head springs up with a deep breath of panic. Alex’s face appears in my blurry vision. I guess I managed to fall asleep in this old chair after all. Now I feel worse than when I sat down.
“Come.” She takes my hand and tugs me until I get out of the chair, leading me to the bed. It’s still dark out, but the fire casts enough glow.
“Wait, let me get the—”
“No, this is perfect. Really.” She’s still whispering. The girl who drives a BMW Z8, and wears probably two years’ worth of my salary on her finger, curls up on an unmade bed with an old wool blanket and says it’s perfect.
I don’t think I’ll ever judge another person based on a first impression again, thanks to Alex.
Grabbing a pillow, I dump my keys and phone onto the nightstand and slide into the other side of the double bed. Alex stretches the blanket over my lower half and then presses up against my shoulder. I instinctually lift my arm and she doesn’t waste a second tucking herself up against my body, resting her head on my chest, her palm over my racing heart.
To say I’m turned on would be wrong, because Alex is hurt and all I want to do is hold her until she feels better. But I feel at ease. And I want her to be at ease too, here in my world, where there is plenty of room for her, where I won’t let Viktor hurt her.
I can’t say who drifts off first but when I do, it is with a sense of contentment that I don’t ever remember feeling before.
My ringing phone beside my head wakes me up. It takes me a second to recognize where I am, and another to notice Alex lying next to me, still asleep, her pale blond hair draping her face like a curtain. At some point she detached herself from my chest but she’s still molded to the side of my body, keeping me warm. The fire went out long ago, leaving us with the one electric baseboard heater and a chill in the air.
“Yup,” I croak, unable to manage a whisper, my deep voice too groggy first thing.
“What happened to you?” Boone’s voice asks at the other end.
Giving my eyes a good rub, I stare up at the pitched ceiling, gathering my wits. Morning light streams past the gauzy orange-and-yellow striped curtain, showing me the detailed webs of several spiders up in the ceiling beams. I should probably clear those out before Alex notices them. “What do you mean?”
“You left work early and I never heard from you again. What was in NoPo?”
I sigh. It’s hard not to jostle the bed when I get out but I do my best, tiptoeing over to the window, giving my body a good stretch. “My payment.”
“You serious?”
“Yup. Decent shape, too.” I’m torn. Three hours driving that car here and I know I’m never letting it go, though I probably should.
“Sweet! Why didn’t you bring it home, then?”
From my vantage point, I can see the Fitzgerald ranch next to me, the black iron grates in the first-floor windows that apparently I inspired. I used to spend a lot of time over there as a kid, running with the horses. Things changed in high school, though. Now I wouldn’t be surprised if the old bat has a gun loaded, ready to shoot me on sight. My relationship with Ginny is a lot like the one with my dad: no matter what I do, I’ll never get back in her good graces. And I didn’t even do anything to her. “Had some things to finish up at Viktor’s and then headed straight for my parents’. Gonna work on it all weekend.” Rustling behind me has me checking over my shoulder. Alex, changing positions, but from the looks of it, still out cold. Either way, I don’t want to wake her up. “Listen, I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
When I hang up with Boone, I make my way into the bathroom. Another cramped space, with poor lighting, a small tub, and a toilet that sometimes runs. The door doesn’t even close completely. All fine for an old man whose focus was on function versus style. Perfect for a young guy who doesn’t really care about much else besides a bed and a shower. Not nearly adequate for a woman like Alex and the kind of life she’s grown accustomed to living. I want her to leave Viktor, but why do I assume she’ll leave him for me? For this?
With a heavy exhale, I peel off my clothes and switch on the shower, waiting for the water raining down from the low-pressure head to get hot before climbing in. I know she says she’d trade all her money just to be happy, but would she really? Isn’t that a green-grass statement that only the rich make? She didn’t come from money, but she married for it; she admitted as much.
When I’m done, I dry off and cover my lower half with a towel before slipping out into the apartment. I’m halfway across the floor to my dresser for one of a few changes of clothes I left here when I hear her call out in a cute, sleepy voice, “You really wanted that car, didn’t you?”
I keep walking until I reach the dresser, while prickles run up my spine, knowing her eyes are on the tattoo of a ’69 Barracuda across my back. At least I can blame the cool November air for the goose bumps she’s giving me right now. “I don’t need much,” I murmur, fumbling through the drawers for a change of clothes.
“I’ve thought about getting a tattoo for years.”
“Why don’t you?”
She chuckles. “I could never decide what to get.”
I check the mirror above the dresser, which gives me a perfect view of the bed and her. “How are you feeling?”
She lifts her arms over her head and winces. The swelling on her lip has gone down, but the bruise across her cheek is darker, angrier. She pauses, arms resting above her head, simply staring at the ceiling above for a moment. “I think I may hurt more today than yesterday,” she mumbles, the grimace fading but not disappearing. “But I can’t remember the last time I slept this well.”
“It’s the fresh mountain air. You’re not used to it.”
Deciding that I probably shouldn’t simply drop my towel in front of her—though it’s nothing she hasn’t already seen—I pull a pair of boxer briefs up under the towel before tossing it to the rocking chair. Another glance in the mirror catches her watching me intently, her cheeks flushing. I quickly yank on some jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, knowing it’s going to be chilly out there.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t have you looked at? I can wake my sister up. She’s a nurse, remember?” That would go over well. She’d be phoning my dad in five minutes flat. Look what your son is involved with now!
She shakes her head. “I’ll be fine. I just need to take it easy.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to raid my parents’ fridge for breakfast before I run to get the parts I need. Anything you want? Besides blueberries, of course.”
She grins. “You remembered.”
“Of course I did. You got me to eat fruit. It’s a miracle.”
> A soft giggle escapes her lips. “I don’t think I’m very hungry right now.” She yawns. “Maybe coffee. Two-and-a-half milks and one sweetener, please.”
“Two-and-a-half milks and one sweetener.”
“Yes, please.”
“Right.” I repeat it twice before I give up and write it down on a scrap of paper, knowing I’ll screw it up. I doubt we even have sweetener in the cupboard.
On impulse, I cross the attic floor to the bed and lean down to lay a kiss on her forehead. Her fingers graze my throat as I pull away.
“Hey, Jesse?”
“Yeah?”
She smiles up at me. Even with a bashed-up face, she’s beautiful. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“I’ll be back soon.” I lay a second quick kiss, this time on her cheek, and then I leave.
My parents’ house is eerily quiet when I step through the sliding door. My dad’s already gone—not surprising. He’s normally at his desk at the main office in Bend by six a.m., even when he goes in on weekends. I know Amber’s asleep in her room, because her red Mini is parked in the driveway. She won’t be up until close to dinnertime.
I set the coffee to brew and start rifling through the cupboards and fridge, looking for something that can pass for breakfast. After my grandma died, we operated under very much a “fend for yourself” environment of packaged foods and order-in for a few years, my parents struggling to adjust without the extra help. Thanks to those days, I’ve grown partial to frozen pizza pockets for breakfast, a habit I haven’t been able to break.
My mom started making more of an effort around the house about the same time that I hit rock bottom, my bad choice in friends getting me detained for questioning, with attempted murder charges looming. I didn’t do it, of course. I tried to stop it. But for those twenty-four hours, while waiting for Tommy—a mouthy jock who didn’t deserve to get stabbed—to pull through, while my supposed friends were both pointing fingers at me, my mom sat in this very kitchen, a constant flow of tears streaming down her cheeks. Asking over and over again where she went wrong with her son.
So, just like that, I left Portland behind, with Alexandria Petrova in my passenger seat. I didn’t even go home to grab a change of clothes, because I wanted to get her as far away as I could, as fast as possible.
I round the house, passing the sheriff’s sedan that I hoped wouldn’t be there but knew probably would.
“There’s a police car in your driveway, Jesse,” she says slowly.
“I know. It’ll be fine, I promise. And it’s not a police car. My dad’s the sheriff.” I keep heading down the narrow path toward my garage. I call it “my garage” because my granddad used to own this property and he left that building to me. Sure, it’s on my parents’ land and they cover the electricity bills, but the space within—to work, to sleep, to be happy—is mine. No one’s going to go against a dead man’s wishes. Not even the sheriff.
An outdoor spotlight appears in my rearview mirror and a moment later, a figure steps out from the sliding door off the kitchen, flashlight in hand. It takes three minutes to walk from the house to the garage and he’s already on his way.
I hit the automatic button to the double door that I keep with me at all times and roll into my big, beautiful garage. Under other circumstances, I’d be floating on a euphoric high right now—pulling my dream car in here for the first time.
But right now, I have a beat-up girl in the passenger seat and if my father sees her looking like this, no one’s going to be happy. Hell, he’ll probably haul me in for questioning. It wouldn’t be the first time.
I unfasten her seat belt for her. “We’ve gotta move quick, okay?”
She nods and picks up her purse. I grab her bag from the backseat and then run around to the passenger side to help her out. Thank God the garage’s entrance is angled toward our neighbor’s house—an old hermit lady who’ll be locked up in her bed by now—or he’d see right in here.
In seconds I have the back door unlocked. I guide Alex up the narrow stairs and into the small attic apartment, the air cold and stale. “Here, just sit still. Or better yet—” I lead her to the stripped bed, the bedding sitting neatly folded. My mom must have been in here. “Lie down. I’ll come back soon.”
She eases herself back until she’s lying on my bed, staring up at me, her eyes wide with panic. “Please don’t tell him, Jesse. I don’t want to explain this to anyone.” I’m guessing that if she’d known my father was a sheriff, she never would have agreed to this.
“I won’t. Promise. Just don’t move, because this floor will creak.” I lean down to kiss her forehead, adding with a whisper, “And he doesn’t believe in ghosts.”
One side of her mouth—the good side, the one that’s not swollen—curves up in a smile. “Thank you, Jesse.”
I don’t want to leave her but I do, heading back downstairs to find my father—Sheriff Gabe Welles—scanning the interior of my car, an open bottle of beer in his hand and another one tucked under his arm. He doesn’t drink much and when he does, it’s only one or two. “Hey, Dad.”
He glances up at me. “Hey, Jesse. Your mom didn’t tell me you were coming home this weekend.”
“Last-minute decision.” I watch him as he quietly circles the car, his hand sliding over the body. Without a word, he holds out the extra beer and I take it. Neither of us is a big talker. “So you finally got it.”
“Drove it off the lot today.”
He smiles to himself. “So that sparked your last-minute decision.” A pause. “How much?”
“Just under sixteen.” That’s what the papers say. Do I think it’s accurate? Probably not. That, or Viktor’s a rich fool with more money than he knows what to do with. Rebuilding the engine on a car like the Aston Martin wouldn’t be cheap, but there’s no way it’s worth almost half a year’s net salary for me.
“You had that kind of money saved up?” I don’t miss the suspicion in his voice. It’s the same suspicion I’ve faced for the last ten years, since my friends and I got picked up for lifting a six-pack of beer from the local gas station. Of course, I’ve done plenty of regrettable things since then, too, in his eyes, but it seems that I also can’t do anything right anymore. I went to school and got a full-time job. I pay my bills on time. I stay away from the kind of idiots I hung out with in high school. I don’t think it’ll ever be enough.
Then again, considering I’m driving what may or may not be a stolen car, and I have another man’s wife hiding upstairs, maybe I’m still doing a lot wrong.
“I’ve been working hard. And I just rebuilt a DB5 engine for this rich asshole. He paid me well.” Not a lie.
“Huh . . .” He holds his hand up. No need to explain further. I toss my keys to him and, leaning into the open driver’s-side window, he cranks the engine. Even though that rumble is far from the smoothest I’ve ever heard, it still gets me excited. I hear the release on the hood pop and move to prop it up. We come together in front of the car, arms crossed. The Welles Men pose, my mom always calls it. There’s an old picture of my granddad, my dad, and me—at maybe ten years old—standing in a row right here in this garage, in front of my dad’s Mustang, our arms crossed in the same way.
“What does it need?”
“Dunno. I’ll find out this weekend.”
He nods slowly.
“Where’s Mom? Amber?”
“Hospital. Your mom’s there for a long stretch and Amber’s pulling nights with overtime.”
Perfect. “Amber’s still going to Europe?”
He sucks back on his beer bottle. “So she tells us. We’ll see.” If my twin sister actually goes ahead with this idea of hers—to travel the world for a year—I’ll probably be the most surprised. She’s always played the role of small-town sheriff’s daughter effortlessly, charming the right people, smiling for the cameras, weighing her decisions carefully to ensure she doesn’t make one that might look bad for my dad. She thrives on being the center of attention in our small universe, and in high school, she was just that—Rodeo Queen, class valedictorian, and the winner of several state championships in horseback riding. She could have applied to almost any program at almost any school, and yet she chose to stay close to home. A part of me thinks it’s because she doesn’t want to become a tadpole in the ocean.
Taking off and wandering around the world alone just isn’t something she’s cut out for.
I suck back the rest of my beer and then cut the engine. “I’m heading to bed, Dad.”
He frowns. “This early?” He glances at the clock on the wall, which somehow keeps working even though I don’t remember ever changing the battery. Granted, I’ve always been a night owl and it’s only ten thirty. Still, his cop radar is always on.
“I’ve been working nonstop. I’m beat.” I give my eyes a good rub, not just for effect but because I really am exhausted.
He nods to himself. “Right. Glad to see you doing well, Jesse. Make sure you check the damper on the woodstove.” He turns his flashlight back on and picks his path down the road, heading toward home. I watch him for a while. He’s in his mid-fifties, and he’ll be sheriff until he loses an election or is forced out. I think he was born to wear that badge. He’s good at it, too. Gabe Welles is revered as hard-nosed and righteous, the kind of man who wouldn’t balk at questioning his own son for attempted murder when two pieces of shit pointed their fingers his way.
Hitting the garage door—we’re four miles from the closest neighbor besides Ginny Fitzgerald next door and yet I always lock up—I leave the hood up and shut the lights, wanting to get back to Alex.
She’s exactly where I left her, hugging the edge of the mattress. Asleep.
On nothing more than a mattress cover, in a cold, dank attic, Alex curled up into a ball and fell asleep. She probably didn’t sleep a wink last night or today. If she’s like me, she hasn’t slept well since last Sunday.
I don’t want to wake her to make the bed, so I instead dig into the cedar chest in the corner to find my grandmother’s favorite blue-and-red checkered blanket. I was only eleven when my dad’s mother died. My granddad, in good shape until the day he succumbed to a massive heart attack, decided to turn the attic space into an apartment for himself. Previously, we had all lived together in the main house. Given my parents’ work schedules, the arrangement worked well for taking care of Amber and me when we were kids. But granddad wanted nothing to do with living in the house with teenagers.
I cover Alex with the blanket, hoping she doesn’t mind the wool texture. Then, after quickly washing up in the small bathroom in the corner, I start a fire in the woodstove, turn off the lights, and edge into the old brown Barcalounger, the only piece of living room furniture left in here and a rickety piece of shit that squeals in protest with my weight. I don’t want to assume that Alex would be okay with waking up next to me in bed.
Leaning back slowly, I get as comfortable as I possibly can. And then I close my eyes and listen to her low, shallow breaths.
“Jesse.”
My head springs up with a deep breath of panic. Alex’s face appears in my blurry vision. I guess I managed to fall asleep in this old chair after all. Now I feel worse than when I sat down.
“Come.” She takes my hand and tugs me until I get out of the chair, leading me to the bed. It’s still dark out, but the fire casts enough glow.
“Wait, let me get the—”
“No, this is perfect. Really.” She’s still whispering. The girl who drives a BMW Z8, and wears probably two years’ worth of my salary on her finger, curls up on an unmade bed with an old wool blanket and says it’s perfect.
I don’t think I’ll ever judge another person based on a first impression again, thanks to Alex.
Grabbing a pillow, I dump my keys and phone onto the nightstand and slide into the other side of the double bed. Alex stretches the blanket over my lower half and then presses up against my shoulder. I instinctually lift my arm and she doesn’t waste a second tucking herself up against my body, resting her head on my chest, her palm over my racing heart.
To say I’m turned on would be wrong, because Alex is hurt and all I want to do is hold her until she feels better. But I feel at ease. And I want her to be at ease too, here in my world, where there is plenty of room for her, where I won’t let Viktor hurt her.
I can’t say who drifts off first but when I do, it is with a sense of contentment that I don’t ever remember feeling before.
My ringing phone beside my head wakes me up. It takes me a second to recognize where I am, and another to notice Alex lying next to me, still asleep, her pale blond hair draping her face like a curtain. At some point she detached herself from my chest but she’s still molded to the side of my body, keeping me warm. The fire went out long ago, leaving us with the one electric baseboard heater and a chill in the air.
“Yup,” I croak, unable to manage a whisper, my deep voice too groggy first thing.
“What happened to you?” Boone’s voice asks at the other end.
Giving my eyes a good rub, I stare up at the pitched ceiling, gathering my wits. Morning light streams past the gauzy orange-and-yellow striped curtain, showing me the detailed webs of several spiders up in the ceiling beams. I should probably clear those out before Alex notices them. “What do you mean?”
“You left work early and I never heard from you again. What was in NoPo?”
I sigh. It’s hard not to jostle the bed when I get out but I do my best, tiptoeing over to the window, giving my body a good stretch. “My payment.”
“You serious?”
“Yup. Decent shape, too.” I’m torn. Three hours driving that car here and I know I’m never letting it go, though I probably should.
“Sweet! Why didn’t you bring it home, then?”
From my vantage point, I can see the Fitzgerald ranch next to me, the black iron grates in the first-floor windows that apparently I inspired. I used to spend a lot of time over there as a kid, running with the horses. Things changed in high school, though. Now I wouldn’t be surprised if the old bat has a gun loaded, ready to shoot me on sight. My relationship with Ginny is a lot like the one with my dad: no matter what I do, I’ll never get back in her good graces. And I didn’t even do anything to her. “Had some things to finish up at Viktor’s and then headed straight for my parents’. Gonna work on it all weekend.” Rustling behind me has me checking over my shoulder. Alex, changing positions, but from the looks of it, still out cold. Either way, I don’t want to wake her up. “Listen, I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
When I hang up with Boone, I make my way into the bathroom. Another cramped space, with poor lighting, a small tub, and a toilet that sometimes runs. The door doesn’t even close completely. All fine for an old man whose focus was on function versus style. Perfect for a young guy who doesn’t really care about much else besides a bed and a shower. Not nearly adequate for a woman like Alex and the kind of life she’s grown accustomed to living. I want her to leave Viktor, but why do I assume she’ll leave him for me? For this?
With a heavy exhale, I peel off my clothes and switch on the shower, waiting for the water raining down from the low-pressure head to get hot before climbing in. I know she says she’d trade all her money just to be happy, but would she really? Isn’t that a green-grass statement that only the rich make? She didn’t come from money, but she married for it; she admitted as much.
When I’m done, I dry off and cover my lower half with a towel before slipping out into the apartment. I’m halfway across the floor to my dresser for one of a few changes of clothes I left here when I hear her call out in a cute, sleepy voice, “You really wanted that car, didn’t you?”
I keep walking until I reach the dresser, while prickles run up my spine, knowing her eyes are on the tattoo of a ’69 Barracuda across my back. At least I can blame the cool November air for the goose bumps she’s giving me right now. “I don’t need much,” I murmur, fumbling through the drawers for a change of clothes.
“I’ve thought about getting a tattoo for years.”
“Why don’t you?”
She chuckles. “I could never decide what to get.”
I check the mirror above the dresser, which gives me a perfect view of the bed and her. “How are you feeling?”
She lifts her arms over her head and winces. The swelling on her lip has gone down, but the bruise across her cheek is darker, angrier. She pauses, arms resting above her head, simply staring at the ceiling above for a moment. “I think I may hurt more today than yesterday,” she mumbles, the grimace fading but not disappearing. “But I can’t remember the last time I slept this well.”
“It’s the fresh mountain air. You’re not used to it.”
Deciding that I probably shouldn’t simply drop my towel in front of her—though it’s nothing she hasn’t already seen—I pull a pair of boxer briefs up under the towel before tossing it to the rocking chair. Another glance in the mirror catches her watching me intently, her cheeks flushing. I quickly yank on some jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, knowing it’s going to be chilly out there.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t have you looked at? I can wake my sister up. She’s a nurse, remember?” That would go over well. She’d be phoning my dad in five minutes flat. Look what your son is involved with now!
She shakes her head. “I’ll be fine. I just need to take it easy.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to raid my parents’ fridge for breakfast before I run to get the parts I need. Anything you want? Besides blueberries, of course.”
She grins. “You remembered.”
“Of course I did. You got me to eat fruit. It’s a miracle.”
“Two-and-a-half milks and one sweetener.”
“Yes, please.”
“Right.” I repeat it twice before I give up and write it down on a scrap of paper, knowing I’ll screw it up. I doubt we even have sweetener in the cupboard.
On impulse, I cross the attic floor to the bed and lean down to lay a kiss on her forehead. Her fingers graze my throat as I pull away.
“Hey, Jesse?”
“Yeah?”
She smiles up at me. Even with a bashed-up face, she’s beautiful. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“I’ll be back soon.” I lay a second quick kiss, this time on her cheek, and then I leave.
My parents’ house is eerily quiet when I step through the sliding door. My dad’s already gone—not surprising. He’s normally at his desk at the main office in Bend by six a.m., even when he goes in on weekends. I know Amber’s asleep in her room, because her red Mini is parked in the driveway. She won’t be up until close to dinnertime.
I set the coffee to brew and start rifling through the cupboards and fridge, looking for something that can pass for breakfast. After my grandma died, we operated under very much a “fend for yourself” environment of packaged foods and order-in for a few years, my parents struggling to adjust without the extra help. Thanks to those days, I’ve grown partial to frozen pizza pockets for breakfast, a habit I haven’t been able to break.
My mom started making more of an effort around the house about the same time that I hit rock bottom, my bad choice in friends getting me detained for questioning, with attempted murder charges looming. I didn’t do it, of course. I tried to stop it. But for those twenty-four hours, while waiting for Tommy—a mouthy jock who didn’t deserve to get stabbed—to pull through, while my supposed friends were both pointing fingers at me, my mom sat in this very kitchen, a constant flow of tears streaming down her cheeks. Asking over and over again where she went wrong with her son.