So, yeah, Bob, I was letting myself obsess. I‘d even had flashes of thinking about Mr. Anderson that way. When he kneaded my calf and then slipped his arm around my waist to help me back to his car, his touch was electric, his fingers fiery. My heart thumped harder; this wonderful zing buzzed in my chest. I understood why his food tasted so wonderful, why sharing the preparation was so intimate. Why I watched his hands as he washed the dishes, thinking how those hands might feel on me.
You getting off, Bobby? Think it‘s going to get all graphic? Like I‘m going to make it fun for you? Hah. Keep dreaming. But thoughts like that? Yeah, I had them and they felt good. Mr. Anderson was a nice person; he had a great house; everyone liked him . . . and he wanted to spend time with me. Me. Yes, I knew this was partly some campaign to make sure I joined the team. Danielle said Mr. Anderson picked up strays, and I qualified. For all I knew, he had kids over to his house all the time.
But what if I wasn‘t just a stray? The way he‘d rescued me from Dr. Kirby; that moment when our eyes met ... What if the emotion I saw in his face wasn‘t simply a reflection of my own?
What if...what if...what if...round and around and around. Push me, pull you.
I didn‘t care. I liked how I felt because longing made me normal.
Even if I felt kind of pathetic at the same time.
29: a
Hello, honey. Your father and I have decided to stay up here until the end of the week. We’re having such a relaxing time and it’s been forever since I went kayaking and hiking....
There‘d been seven calls, three from Mom but she‘d left only one message. Her voice was so bubbly, I almost didn‘t believe it was her.
Anyway, you don’t have school, so you don’t really need us there, right? If you want to reach us, you can call my cell, or Dad’s....
Someone in the background now: my father, sounding as petulant and whiny as a little kid. Mom‘s voice suddenly muffled as she put her hand over the phone, but her laugh was flirty and buoyant as a girl‘s: Aren’t you tired out yet?
Okay, too much information. After a sec, Mom came back: Anyway, hope everything’s okay and you’re keeping busy. How’s that report coming? Love you. Bye.
Click.
The ID for the other four calls was blocked. No messages at all.
b
It was still early, only a little past eight. I picked up Alexis‘s book but couldn‘t concentrate, my thoughts winging back to Mr. Anderson‘s run-in with that shark. I could never be that brave. The only person I knew who came close was Matt the night he rescued me from the fire.
Oh, Matt. I hadn‘t written for the longest time and wondered what was wrong with me. Writing to Matt had always been a priority. It didn‘t matter that Matt‘s letters never changed. What mattered was the lifeline my e-mails provided. Maybe Matt could treat himself as if he was already dead, but I couldn‘t allow myself to think that. One of us had to believe he was still alive. I just couldn‘t face the alternative.
So I was sitting there, staring at the list of Matt‘s e-mails in their special folder. My e-mail account was open, my laptop softly humming to itself—and I couldn‘t think of a thing to say. There was no way I could really talk about Mr. Anderson and I‘d already written the same boring stuff to Matt a million times before. I was suddenly so tired of playing this stupid game....
The phone rang, making me jump. The caller ID said no data sent. Normally, I wouldn‘t have picked up, but this time I grabbed the handset, thinking: Maybe he’s . . .
―Hello?‖
―Emily?‖ A man, not Mr. Anderson, and he sounded pissed. ―Emily, damn it, why the hell haven‘t you picked up?‖
―My mom‘s not here.‖ (Idiot. What was the first thing they taught little kids? Never admit you‘re alone in the house?) ―May I take a message?‖
―Oh.‖ Pause. ―This isn‘t a cell? Is this Jenna?‖
―Who‘s calling, please?‖
―It‘s Nate Bartholomew. We met a few nights ago at your mom‘s . . . your parents‘
party.‖
―Yes, I remember,‖ I said, thinking: yes, I remember Mom touched your hand, and I remember how you whispered in her ear and the way she looked at you. ―My mom‘s away and won‘t be back for another couple of days.‖
―Oh.‖ Another pause. ―I thought this was her cell. Well, uh, look, do you have that number?‖
―Sure.‖ I gave him the number and then put in, ―My dad‘s with her.‖ (I know: mean.) ―I can take a message and have her call if she‘s got a minute.‖
Bartholomew hemmed and hawed over that one, and then gave me some bogus story about how Mom was supposed to arrange a signing only his publicist didn‘t think the date would work . . . something stupid like that. He was lying; Evan always arranged signings. But I let him tell his story and said I‘d have Mom call. ―Or you can try her cell.‖
―No, no, that‘s okay. Just the message, thanks.‖ He hung up fast, probably worried I‘d make another suggestion.
Replacing the handset, I toyed with the idea of saying something to my mother and gauging her reaction. Then, I thought, you know, mind your own business. What did they say about sleeping dogs?
c
In the end, I called Evan. The store was closed, so I helpfully left a voice mail all about poor Nate Bartholomew.
And try explaining that, Mom.
Really, Bob, I never could take my own advice.
30: a
Tuesday dawned colder but still cloudless. We ran on Mr. Anderson‘s property, a counterclockwise loop from his house skirting the lake and then west into the woods and toward Faring Park. As Mr. Anderson promised, we did a tempo run: fifteen minutes of an easy pace, then twenty of pushing to peak, and then a fifteen minute cooldown. We didn‘t talk. Mr. Anderson said that distracted me from paying attention to how my body felt close to peak, something he said I needed to recognize: ―You have to understand when you still have more to give. Winning is a combination of ability, determination, and strategy. You won‘t win unless you know when to pull the trigger.‖
Whatever. I was just happy being outside. The run was better than the day before; the stinging air smelled of juniper and fir. My body felt sleek and powerful. I was a panther gliding over the earth, racing through the forest.
Our return route had us going southeast and then north around the top hump of his lake. By then it was past nine and I could see the lake through the trees, the surface of the water mica-bright now that the morning mist had burned away. That‘s when I noticed a meandering side trail, hemmed with balsam and tamarack, leading down to the lake. Bolts of sunlight speared through gaps in the trees, and I thought I saw a sparkle of glass. I remembered the images I‘d pulled up on Google Earth, that small cabin nestled in the woods.