“Thought maybe you’d want to hang out before work,” he says as if that’s a completely normal reason for him to have tracked me down at the house of the town psychic.
“How did you know I was here?” I ask, stepping off the patio to make my way toward him. The air is heating up as the afternoon quickly approaches.
“Was it a secret?” he asks.
“No.” I’m embarrassed as I answer, knowing that I was hoping to hide it from him. It makes me think of the memory I had in Marceline’s living room about lying to someone I loved. Fresh hurt opens in my chest.
Abe’s eyes check me over when I reach him. He brushes the back of his finger over my cheek. “You were crying,” he says, shooting an alarmed look behind me. “Did she hurt you again?”
“Nothing like that,” I say, afraid to tell him why I’m really here. Afraid to tell him about the stories, especially since I refuse to believe them myself. “I just wanted to ask her why she attacked me.”
“And?”
“It was an accident.” I shrug. “Case closed, I guess.”
Abe watches me, a small smile crossing his lips. “You are a terrible liar, Elise. But if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. Just know that you can.”
“Thanks.” I rub my face, trying to get my bearings now that I’m outside.
“She gave you a mint?” Abe asks, sounding amused. I turn quickly to him.
“You know about that?”
He grins. “She gives everyone a mint. How else will they believe the garbage she tells them? I just hope you didn’t eat the whole thing.”
I shake my head. “No, I didn’t. But I am a little foggy.”
“Here.” He offers his hand to me. I catch his gaze for a second, his expression sweet. Inviting. I let him take my palm and feel instantly better.
When we get to the car, I’m back to myself—or a slightly calmer version. Marceline’s stories are pushed away, almost silly now. What was I thinking, listening to a psychic? I’m embarrassed for myself.
I turn the ignition of Lucy’s car, but there is only a series of metallic clicks. “Not now,” I say, and groan. I try it again. This time I get nothing.
I glance over to Abe. “You don’t happen to be a skilled mechanic?” I ask.
“See this face, Elise,” he says, using his finger to circle his features. “Do I look like the kind of guy who can fix cars?”
“No,” I say, sounding disappointed. “You’re way too pretty to get dirty.”
“Exactly. You should call home.”
I fish out my phone and dial the house, but it rings without anyone picking up. I try Lucy’s cell, but she doesn’t answer that either. It’s still too early to call my father, so I’ll have to wait until his services are over. Great. What am I supposed to do until then?
“No answer?” Abe asks.
“Nope.”
“Huh. Well, I live close. You can come to my house, at least until your dad can pick you up.” He raises his eyebrow as he looks over, and I have to smile.
“Is this just a clever ruse to get me to come home with you?”
“You think I tampered with your spark plugs and unhooked your home phone line? That’s at least two steps further than I would go for a girl. So what’s it gonna be, Elise? Hang out in front of Madame Marceline’s house for all to see, or come check out where I live?”
“When you put it that way . . .”
I grab my purse, locking the car door before pulling my hair into a low knot to keep it out of my face. But as we start to walk, Abe reaches over to undo it, letting the strands cascade down my back.
“I like your hair better like this,” he says, running his fingers over it. And then he smiles to himself and we walk toward his house.
As we tread the cracked cement pavers to Abe’s front door, a sudden nervousness starts to twist in my stomach. This is the first time I’ve gone home with a guy—technically. But I have other worries. Lots of them. Marceline’s story tries to come back into my consciousness, but I push it away. It’s ridiculous.
“Welcome home,” Abe says as he opens his front door. I meet his eyes, feeling a bit uncertain. His gaze is steady and intense. And after a long moment, I walk inside.
The living room is small, dark even in the afternoon light. It smells mildly of smoke, not cigarette, but campfire or wood stove. The furniture is old, the carpet is worn, but the house is tidy and well kept.
But I do notice one thing: There are no pictures—a complete contrast to Marceline’s cluttered living room. Abe’s walls are naked, even though there are rectangular outlines where I believe frames used to hang. Goose bumps rise on my arms as a chill runs over me. I’m about to ask Abe about the spaces when he tosses his house keys on a table next to the door, making a loud clang. “Drink?” he asks.
Abe’s demeanor is different, almost angry. Bitter.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, setting my purse on his couch. Abe pauses in the archway between his living room and kitchen, hanging his head.
“You don’t like it,” he says quietly. “You don’t want to be here.”
I’m a little taken aback by his statement. “What do you mean? I like it. I’m glad you asked me over.”
Abe doesn’t move at first, but then he straightens and leaves the room. I hate that he’s suddenly insecure, and I wonder if I’ve done something to cause it. The light of the refrigerator illuminates the small space in the kitchen, and then Abe comes back with two sodas.
He hands me one, and then motions to the couch. When we’re next to each other, Abe lounges back, stretching his legs under the coffee table. He sips from his drink, the silence going on too long.
“I grew up in this house,” he says finally. “Have been here all my life.”
I look sideways at him, the darkness in the room playing across his features, shading his eyes. “Does your dad live with you?” I ask.
“No. No, querida. It’s just me. And now you?” He turns to smile at me. “You’re welcome to spend the night.”
“That is very gracious.”
Abe sets his drink down, pausing as if lost in thought. “Elise,” he says. “You know I like you. I think you like me. Why are you dragging this out?”
I laugh nervously. “I’m not dragging anything out. We just met. I’m a cautious girl, I guess. Maybe you haven’t wooed me properly.”