you scream” crossed my mind.
But I wanted to do it so badly. Trying not to sound too eager, I said, “I don’t even know your name.”
The right corner of his mouth ebbed into a lopsided smile. “I’m Robin,” he said. “And you’re Alice.” His face widened into a full grin. “Now we’ve been properly introduced.”
In the months that followed, I replayed that afternoon over and over again in my mind, trying to rationalize the decision I made next. It could have ended so badly.
“Okay,” I told him, “I’ll give you a ride. Where do you need to go?”
And once I’d driven him home, taking him into the worst part of town and delivering him to a run-down duplex, I accepted his invitation to come inside and look at some of his other paintings. I stayed for two hours and drank four beers as we talked into the evening.
It wasn’t until much later that night, as I lay in bed, giddy at the thought of him, that I realized he’d never told me his last name.
Chapter Seven
As I’m driving home, I try to concentrate, attempting to get some sense of where Rachel might have gone, but my thoughts are too jumbled. In the past, we’ve both snuck off to our grandma’s house without telling our aunt and uncle, but that’s only because they don’t like us to visit her by ourselves. Depending on the day, her mood, and what medications she’s been taking, her illness manifests itself in any number of unpleasant ways. My aunt calls her “emotionally toxic.”
Despite Aunt Sharon’s efforts to distance us from our grandmother, Rachel and I have managed to remain close to her over the years. It’s not impossible that my sister could be at her house for some reason, but it’s unlikely. Why would she sneak off without telling me? And why would she be in any danger? My grandma might be insane, but she would never dream of hurting either one of us.
It’s late morning on a Sunday, so traffic is light as I drive, but there’s construction on the highway, narrowing the road down to one lane a few miles before my exit. The cars move slowly in a messy, single-file procession. The Porsche is a stick shift. I’m okay at driving it, but not great; I know I could accidentally stall out.
Once while I’m stopped, I glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My bruises haven’t gotten any worse, but they’re definitely noticeable. How am I supposed to explain this to my aunt and uncle? To the police?
As soon as I get off the highway, I dig through my backpack for my makeup bag. I spend a good ten minutes applying foundation and concealer, followed by blush and powder. I have to be careful not to put it on too heavily, and I certainly can’t wear eyeliner—Rachel never does. But the makeup looks good enough. I stare hard at my reflection. The bruises are all but invisible.
There is an odd, almost slow-motion quality to my street. Two police cars are parked outside my house, their blue-and-red lights flashing silently, making them seem innocuous somehow. My house looks so calm from the outside, so normal and wholly small-town America. The shrubs surrounding the front porch have been trimmed recently. The porch swing drifts gently back and forth, as though someone has just gotten up to go inside, leaving it to sway in the breeze.
Across the street, TJ is still working on his car, vacuuming the trunk with a hand-held Dirt Devil. He’s shirtless, asusual. As he leans over, his muscles flex beneath his tan skin. There’s a tattoo on his upper back that he must have gotten recently—I don’t remember ever seeing it before. It’s a phrase of some kind, but I can’t make out what it says.
TJ and I have never talked much at all, but as I drive past, he stares at me, his gaze long and deliberate. He mouths something. I think he asks, “Where were you?”
The fact that he probably assumes I’m Rachel is not lost on me. What would he want with my sister?
His parents are sitting on their front porch. Mrs.
But I wanted to do it so badly. Trying not to sound too eager, I said, “I don’t even know your name.”
The right corner of his mouth ebbed into a lopsided smile. “I’m Robin,” he said. “And you’re Alice.” His face widened into a full grin. “Now we’ve been properly introduced.”
In the months that followed, I replayed that afternoon over and over again in my mind, trying to rationalize the decision I made next. It could have ended so badly.
“Okay,” I told him, “I’ll give you a ride. Where do you need to go?”
And once I’d driven him home, taking him into the worst part of town and delivering him to a run-down duplex, I accepted his invitation to come inside and look at some of his other paintings. I stayed for two hours and drank four beers as we talked into the evening.
It wasn’t until much later that night, as I lay in bed, giddy at the thought of him, that I realized he’d never told me his last name.
Chapter Seven
As I’m driving home, I try to concentrate, attempting to get some sense of where Rachel might have gone, but my thoughts are too jumbled. In the past, we’ve both snuck off to our grandma’s house without telling our aunt and uncle, but that’s only because they don’t like us to visit her by ourselves. Depending on the day, her mood, and what medications she’s been taking, her illness manifests itself in any number of unpleasant ways. My aunt calls her “emotionally toxic.”
Despite Aunt Sharon’s efforts to distance us from our grandmother, Rachel and I have managed to remain close to her over the years. It’s not impossible that my sister could be at her house for some reason, but it’s unlikely. Why would she sneak off without telling me? And why would she be in any danger? My grandma might be insane, but she would never dream of hurting either one of us.
It’s late morning on a Sunday, so traffic is light as I drive, but there’s construction on the highway, narrowing the road down to one lane a few miles before my exit. The cars move slowly in a messy, single-file procession. The Porsche is a stick shift. I’m okay at driving it, but not great; I know I could accidentally stall out.
Once while I’m stopped, I glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My bruises haven’t gotten any worse, but they’re definitely noticeable. How am I supposed to explain this to my aunt and uncle? To the police?
As soon as I get off the highway, I dig through my backpack for my makeup bag. I spend a good ten minutes applying foundation and concealer, followed by blush and powder. I have to be careful not to put it on too heavily, and I certainly can’t wear eyeliner—Rachel never does. But the makeup looks good enough. I stare hard at my reflection. The bruises are all but invisible.
There is an odd, almost slow-motion quality to my street. Two police cars are parked outside my house, their blue-and-red lights flashing silently, making them seem innocuous somehow. My house looks so calm from the outside, so normal and wholly small-town America. The shrubs surrounding the front porch have been trimmed recently. The porch swing drifts gently back and forth, as though someone has just gotten up to go inside, leaving it to sway in the breeze.
Across the street, TJ is still working on his car, vacuuming the trunk with a hand-held Dirt Devil. He’s shirtless, asusual. As he leans over, his muscles flex beneath his tan skin. There’s a tattoo on his upper back that he must have gotten recently—I don’t remember ever seeing it before. It’s a phrase of some kind, but I can’t make out what it says.
TJ and I have never talked much at all, but as I drive past, he stares at me, his gaze long and deliberate. He mouths something. I think he asks, “Where were you?”
The fact that he probably assumes I’m Rachel is not lost on me. What would he want with my sister?
His parents are sitting on their front porch. Mrs.
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