We were both silent while I sketched her. I knew she was watching me, though she couldn’t see what I was drawing. I felt her gaze but didn’t return it. Minutes later, her eyes drifted closed and she went very still. I finished the sketch and wasn’t sure what to do. On my knees again, I approached the bed, sat back on my heels, and watched her for several minutes. Her breathing was deep and even. I put the pad and pencil aside and struggled not to touch her.
‘Falling asleep?’ I whispered finally, and her eyes opened.
‘No,’ she said, though I knew she was mistaken.
I didn’t correct her. She asked if I was done and I heard myself tell her that I wanted to do another. When she agreed, I asked her to turn on to her back. She obeyed. I told her I wanted to arrange her, and she consented. My heart drove life through my veins as if I was waking up from a years-long coma. Everything was bright and detailed. Raw and sensitive. I wanted her so badly it hurt.
At first, I thought to arrange her as though she’d tumbled from the sky and landed on her back – an angel dragged to earth by her broken heart. But as I took her wrist and angled her arm over her head, I pictured her in my bed. Heart pounding, I moved her opposite arm – first to her stomach, and then above her head, with the other. I crossed her wrists and imagined her laughing and daring me to tie her up, clear as a memory. Goddammit.
I had to stop touching her or I was going to lose my mind, so I sketched her as she was, concentrating on lines and angles, shadows and reflections. My pulse subsided to a steady rhythm. My breathing returned to normal.
My gaze moved to her face. To her eyes. Which were wide open, watching me.
Her small hands, still obediently crossed at the wrists above her head, clenched into fists and then relaxed. The pulse at her throat thrummed. Her chest rose and fell faster. I was lost in the endless blue of her eyes. She seemed almost afraid, which made me angry – though not at her.
‘Jacqueline?’
‘Yes?’
‘The night we met –’ I’m not him. I’m not him. ‘I’m not like that guy.’
‘I know tha–’
I put my finger to her soft, full mouth, stilling her words. ‘I don’t want you to feel pressured. Or overpowered.’ Even in the midst of my duplicity, I meant the words, needing her to trust me. I also wanted to kiss her more than I wanted the next breath.
‘I do, absolutely, want to kiss you right now. Badly.’
I was the more fearful one, because I knew she’d say no. I would prove to her that I could be trusted by leaving. I trailed one finger from her lips to her throat, down the centre of her chest, and waited for her no.
But she didn’t say it.
Her voice was little more than a sigh. ‘Okay.’
14
Landon
The first time I drove solo wasn’t what I’d ever dreamed it would be. I’d imagined cruising with Boyce on a Saturday night. Picking up some faceless girl to see a movie or get a burger. Grandpa sending me to the store to get milk.
Instead, I drove to the dock and caught the ferry that ran twenty-four/seven, as Grandpa and I had done many times – but I’d never been the one to steer the truck on to the ramp. I drove to the cemetery, blanking on bringing flowers and realizing when I arrived that I only had a vague notion where, exactly, he was buried. Seventy-two hours ago. That day had been a blur. It didn’t feel real.
I found my grandmother’s headstone and the mound of new dirt next to it.
A week ago, I was driving on a back road not far from here, with Grandpa in the passenger seat. He was telling me how he’d learned to drive at fourteen, when he quit school to work with his father and older brother. ‘I damn near stripped the gears offa that old Dodge afore I learned to manage it,’ he’d said, chuckling at the memory.
I tried to remember the last thing we said to each other, but I couldn’t. Probably something to do with dinner, or chores, or the weather.
Now that I was standing at the foot of that mound of dirt, I didn’t know what to do. Was I supposed to talk to him? Cry? He wasn’t there. He wouldn’t hear me. So these things seemed beyond pointless, unless I wanted to hear myself talk – and I didn’t.
The cemetery was dotted with a few lone visitors, like me, and one large funeral service gathering. Under a big tent housing a load of massive floral arrangements, people huddled, paying their respects while seated on padded folding chairs. Whoever died had been money. I glanced at the cars lining the road near the gathering, recognizing the insignias – Cadillac, Mercedes, Audi, even a Jag … and Clark Richards’s shiny white Jeep.
What the hell.
Scanning the mourners, I found him easily – on the front row. His dark blond hair was slicked back and he wore a black suit, white shirt and a dark red tie. Melody sat on his left, wearing black and leaning into him. His arm was hooked round her shoulder, his face impassive. Even with the distance, Melody’s miserable, crumpled posture was obvious. Her shoulders vibrated, and though I couldn’t see her face or her tears, I felt her grief like a punch to the gut.
Her older brother Evan was on her right. I recognized their mother, next to Evan. The man next to Mrs Dover was probably her husband. Immediate family accounted for, but they were all on the front row. They’d lost someone closely related.
I considered the dirt at my feet. Dust to dust. My throat tightened. ‘Goodbye, Grandpa. Thanks for the truck.’
Later that night, lying in bed, I texted Melody: Are you okay? I was at the cemetery and saw you today.
She texted right back: My grandmother died Friday. Her funeral was today. I hate my family. All they care about is her money.