There was a fountain pen on his desk, fat and black, one of those fancy Montblanc jobs in a black glass holder. I teased the pen out. The nib was silvery metal edged with gold or brass. I touched one index finger to the tip and came away with a small dot of blue ink. I imagined him sitting here, admiring the view, carefully forming letters with this pen.
Yes, I could see how he might spend hours, days here curled up on the window seat or at this desk, cozy and safe, in his own little world. I would never want to leave.
His desk had only one drawer, locked, which was strange. I looked around for the place where he might hide a key but saw nothing obvious. I looked at his laptop for a long moment and then reached for the touchpad....
Above, the sound of the shower gurgled and then cut out.
My hand hovered over the touchpad. I was itching to see what he‘d been looking at.
Just a touch and then I would know because I wanted to know everything about him.
But then I felt bad. Mr. Anderson trusted me. What would he think if he caught me snooping?
Best to let sleeping dogs lie.
And yet: at the door, I stole a last look back over my shoulder. Let my gaze brush over the shelves, those books, that desk. The view from that window.
There was something missing. Something that should be here but wasn‘t. I just didn‘t know what.
Not then, anyway.
33: a
―You look comfortable.‖ Mr. Anderson stood on the stairs, scrubbing his hair dry with a towel.
―Mmmm.‖ The tea had been hot and strong and sweet. I‘d gotten as close to the fire as I could without singeing my eyebrows. Outside, the rain continued its ceaseless drumming. I was as drowsy as a lizard on a hot rock and happier than I‘d been in years.
He laughed. ―There‘s that bed upstairs, if you want to nap. We‘re not going anywhere for a while, not until this stops.‖
―Too cold upstairs. I‘ll be fine.‖
―Yeah, I‘ve heard that from you before. Well, sleep here, if you want. I won‘t bother you.‖ Mr. Anderson slid down next to me on the rug. He eyed the ravaged platters of cheese and dried fruit. ―Someone was hungry.‖
―Hey, you said we had to refuel. Just doing what the coach said,‖ and then I yawned.
―Jenna, honestly, go to sleep. It‘s okay.‖
―I don‘t want to sleep,‖ I murmured, but I let my head fall back against the couch. ―I don‘t ever want to sleep again.‖
―Why not?‖
So I told him the truth. It just came out. I don‘t know why. Maybe it was because I didn‘t think there was anything to lose and . . . well, so much of my life was constructed of lies of one sort or another. But this was Mr. Anderson‘s private place, and I thought it might be big and safe enough to hold my secrets, too.
So I said to the ceiling, ―Because this is our last day and I don‘t want to waste it.
There will be plenty of time to sleep when I‘m not with you. There‘ll be the rest of my life.‖
b
The fire cracked and sputtered. Rain slashed at the windows. Mr. Anderson said nothing. It was so quiet that when I swallowed, I heard thunder.
I couldn‘t look at him. What had I done? Why couldn‘t I keep my mouth shut? I‘d ruined everything. Would he even want me on the team now? Who wanted a little girl making googly eyes every time he walked by? He was probably trying to figure out what to say so the little dorkette wouldn‘t go all suicidal on him. God, I should leave. Maybe I‘d catch pneumonia and die and save him the trouble of getting rid of me.
But I couldn‘t move. Couldn‘t breathe. Didn‘t dare to.
Then Mr. Anderson let go of a small, slow breath that wasn‘t quite a sigh—more like something was coming undone in his chest. ―Oh hell,‖ he said.
The way he said that . . . it was like the world was a bell jar that had exploded, suddenly, in a shower of razor-sharp glass. I thought of my scissors, the kissing knife. I would cut and cut and cut right down to the bone and bleed, the way my heart was at that very moment.
I had to get out of there.
―I‘m sorry.‖ My voice came out raw and ragged and bloody. Hurriedly, I straightened, the blanket falling from my shoulders as I struggled to stand, but my feet tangled and I nearly crashed into the coffee table.
―Whoa, whoa.‖ Mr. Anderson snatched my wrist and then he was standing, and I was looking everywhere—the floor, the fire, the door—everywhere but at his face.
―Jenna—‖
I pulled, but he wouldn‘t let go. ―I‘m sorry. I shouldn‘t have said that. I should go.
Please.‖
―No.‖ He didn‘t sound angry. His hand was still around my wrist. I guess I could‘ve pulled harder, but I didn‘t. He said, ―I‘m the one who‘s sorry. I didn‘t mean what I said. It came out all wrong. We should . . . we should talk about this, how you . . . how you feel.‖
How I felt. Yeah, let‘s discuss how the crazy, pathetic little psychopath feels. It would be just so psychiatric. ―What‘s to talk about?‖ I heard the note of desperation in my voice and, to my horror, the sob welling up from somewhere deep in my chest. My eyes brimmed. ―I‘m sorry; I should go.‖
―Jenna.‖ I remember his voice was husky and low, and then his hands were gripping my shoulders. ―Jenna, please. Please, look at me.‖
I did—and that‘s when I realized that eyes really are windows to the soul.
―Don‘t go,‖ he whispered.
c
Okay, time-out.
I know what you‘re thinking, Bobby. You‘re thinking I made this one up, too. I mean, it‘s too perfect, right? The rain, the fire, the cabin that just happened to be where we needed it, the tea and cheese and blankets and blah, blah, blah. Only happens in fairy tales, that‘s what you‘re thinking.
But this happened, Bob. This is exactly the way it went down.
I know something else, too. I‘m doing it again, buzzing around the moment, flitting away like a startled moth. Protecting myself from the memory, I guess.
Because if I could just stop the flow of time there or anywhere before that afternoon, the rest couldn‘t, wouldn‘t spin out.
And then I wouldn‘t be here, in this emergency room—and neither, Bob, would you.
d
―Don‘t go,‖ he whispered again. ―I don‘t want you to. Please.‖
When he touched me—held me like that—something unraveled inside, like my heart was the knot of a flower and all the petals had suddenly unfurled. My knees went watery and weak and wobbly, the way they did when I ran hard and fast and for a very long time. I felt like I had been running forever and ever and ever and then I was falling, so fast and . . .