I turned my head, quickly enough that Ryan looked over. “You okay?” he whispered.
I nodded, feeling my face burn, and fixed my eyes on the prayer book, though it was impossible to focus on the words or the service. I’d been avoiding Zander at school in a passive-aggressive sort of way: forcing myself not to look toward his locker, but still walking past that hall. Purposely facing the other way at lunch, aware of him behind me the whole time. We hadn’t spoken since that night outside the theater and I knew I needed to concentrate on Demetria and figuring out the mark, but I was having a hard time erasing the memory of us standing inches apart, my hair tangled around his fingers the way he seemed twisted throughout my thoughts. He was everywhere I was, even when—as at Vauxhall—he really wasn’t. I didn’t want to want him. But I did. I couldn’t help it.
I was on edge the rest of the service, not allowing myself to look back at Zander and overly aware of Ryan beside me. I still didn’t know exactly what I thought of Ryan, but I knew I didn’t want to face Zander with him there.
We filed out of the church at the end way too slowly. I kept waiting for Zander’s approach, willing myself invisible. Ryan noticed.
“Why so jumpy?”
“I’m not jumpy,” I said, glancing to the left.
“No?”
When we reached the foyer, Ryan turned up his collar against the cold and decided to let it be. “C’mon,” he said, tugging gently on my sleeve, ready to weave through the final press of people. “We’ve gotta hurry or we’ll be stuck in this parking lot forever.”
Chapter 13
I finally got up the nerve to approach Nick Altos on Tuesday. After days of watching him slink through the halls, I walked into the library and saw him alone at one of the tables in back. It was kismet.
I pretended to look at the volumes shelved behind him, mostly on the human body, which I’d seen quite enough of at work. Nick was reading a magazine, something about electronics, pinching at his lips from time to time, deep in thought. His dark hair was shaggy, but his jeans and gray long-sleeved tee were clean and neat. I felt a small relief that he looked more or less normal, holding it together pretty well.
I grabbed a book and slid into the chair across from him. “Okay if I sit here?”
He looked up and his eyes showed what his clothes masked: a deep, hooded melancholy. Nick shrugged, returning to his magazine, but his concentration was broken. I decided not to let him get it back.
“Nick?”
He looked up, surprised.
“I just wanted to say I heard about your dad and I’m really sorry.”
He frowned. “What do you care? You didn’t know him, don’t know me.”
I nodded, trying not to be bruised by his anger. “My grandmother died last year,” I said. “I lived with her after my parents passed away when I was little. You’re right, I don’t know you, but I remember how hard it was for me right after.” Nick was looking down and I couldn’t tell at all how he was feeling. “Anyway, I just wanted to say I’m sorry. And I think you’re brave to be back here so soon.”
I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t freak out on me.
“Where else would I be?” he muttered. “Not much good sitting around the house.”
It was a small opening. “Yeah, that’s kind of the conclusion I came to also,” I said carefully.
His head still bent, Nick reached up and wiped angrily at his eyes.
“Were you close to him?” I all but whispered it. Partly because we were in the library, but more because I was afraid I was way overstepping my bounds. I wasn’t even sure Nick knew my name.
He didn’t respond. I was pretty sure he’d heard me, but when a minute passed and still nothing, I wondered if I was wrong. “Nick …”
His head snapped up and he glared at me. “I heard you.”
I winced. “Sorry, I just …” I had no idea what to say. I was afraid I’d blown it.
Nick’s eyes cut away from me as the librarian walked past, her arms loaded with books for reshelving. When he turned back, his expression was blank. “I hung up on him the last time he called,” he said bluntly.
I waited.
“I’m sure you’ve heard. He was a deadbeat. A druggie, thief, no-good bastard. That’s what my mom’s said for years.” Nick looked down, quiet for a few seconds, then quickly wiped a sleeve across his face.
“But he was still your dad,” I said.
He looked back at me, his eyes teary. “Yeah.” Nick took a ragged breath. “He was still my dad.”
“Someone said he’d gone through rehab …”
Nick snorted. “About seven times.”
“It never stuck?”
“Nope,” Nick said, adding softly, “never will now.” He paused, studying his hands as he said, “I used to daydream about what it would be like if he’d ever, you know, stayed clean.” He shook his head. “Not sure what the point of that was.”
“Maybe just thinking good things about him?”
Nick’s face smoothed a little. “Yeah.” He nodded. “Maybe.”
“What was he like?”
“When he was clean? Great. Fun. When he was off the wagon? Not so much,” Nick said flatly.
“Did you ever feel … I don’t know … like there was anything different this time? That the rehab might stick?” I asked it fast, hoping he wouldn’t think too hard about why I was probing the way no normal person would. But I could tell his thoughts were somewhere else.
Nick bit his lip self-consciously before answering. “My mom says I’m hopelessly hopeful about him. It’s okay, as long as I don’t kid myself about what he did to us.” I could almost hear his mom’s voice, harsh, no longer the sunny-faced woman in Jackson Kennit’s bedside photo. “But I don’t know. There was something different this time. He was working. Not just for a week or two, but for months. He had an apartment …” Nick trailed off.
I thought about that tidy apartment, the way Jackson Kennit had gone home, gone to bed, gone to work. A responsible, ordinary life. Probably not so ordinary for a former addict. I wanted to tell Nick that and how his dad had held the bus for the lady and her son coming across the street, maybe thinking about his own son. But, of course, I couldn’t.
“My mom was probably right,” he said dismissively.
I looked across the table, the pain so clear on Nick’s face, and had to blink to keep my own tears back. I had made him feel this way. I let his dad die. And for what? Some crazy idea that if I saved him a little boy might die in his place?