Angel Eyes (16 page)

I eat lunch with Kaylee and allow her to drag me to the parking lot to show off her new seat covers.

I’m sure it has something to do with the strange little cuff buried under my sleeve, but I feel more and more like my old self today. I feel almost right again. For that, and for this borrowed gift, I owe Jake more than I’ll ever be able to repay.

The afternoon rolls by, slowly for the most part. Photo arrives, and I hide out in the darkroom sorting through film. We have a critique tomorrow, and I’ve done absolutely nothing to prepare. Eventually I settle on a shot of a maple leaf—the last one left on the tree. In the background, out of focus, is the dilapidated mess of boards in which Jake and I weathered the storm.

I expose and process the picture and mount it on a golden-yellow backdrop. Using photo oils and a cotton swab, I paint the leaf burnt orange. As the final minutes of class tick by, I lay it out to dry next to several other pictures already in place for the critique.

Maybe Jake will be back by tomorrow.

But Tuesday arrives, and then Wednesday. Still Jake hasn’t returned to school. His house, which I glance at more often than strictly necessary, looks the same as it did when I left it on Sunday night. I work hard to focus in my classes and spend both lunch and my after-school hours with Kaylee.

She’s different from Ali, to be sure, but her friendship, I’m realizing anew, is something I need.

Ali forced me to think. Forced me to consider. Turned me into a better person because I had discussed life, discussed change, debated my thoughts and abilities. Whenever I was with her, I was always challenged to excel, to move forward, to make a decision. Not because she required it, but because her very presence drew it out of me. Certainly, we had fun, but it wasn’t without growth, without change.

With Kaylee, I can just be. I don’t have to consider anything other than the present. She doesn’t challenge me academically or philosophically, and she is far too clumsy to be my physical equal, but she reminds me of the person I used to be—the person I was before some ballet shoes and a talent scout changed my world forever. She reminds me that I don’t have to be so composed, so prodigious all the time.

And I’ve never slept better. This I can only attribute to Jake’s gift. Each night I pull it off my wrist and watch as it transforms exquisitely into the ring. With it tucked safely under my pillow, my dreams persist just as they had that first night: colors and colors, over and over. Each morning I wake in the same position I’d curled up in, and when I reach under my pillow, the cuff is there, warm and waiting.

It’s weird that it knows what I need. Strange that it transforms. It gets heavy at night, when it’s time to remove it from my wrist. Light as air when it’s where it’s supposed to be. Like it’s nudging me, reminding me to sleep, to rest.

I feel mothered.

What a strange, strange thing.

15
Brielle

S
omehow Eddie got my number,” Kaylee says. We’re sitting across from one another at Jelly’s. Cheese fries and hot chocolate between us.

“Eddie?”

“You
so
don’t pay attention to me,” she says, scowling. “Eddie. The guy from the Auto Body.”

“Oh, Dimples.”

“That is the worst nickname ever,” she says. “Anyway, he asked me to a movie Friday night.”

“You going?”

“I don’t think so,” she says, adding a handful of marshmallows to her mug. “You’ve inspired me. I’m not settling till I find my Jake.”

“Kay . . .”

She waves me off. “You heard from him?”

I stab a cheese fry with my fork.

“And he didn’t say when he’d be back?”

“Nope. Maybe today.”

“Maybe,” she says, showing me her crossed fingers.

We leave the diner and climb into her Honda. She launches into a story about her gym teacher and a ketchup-covered doorknob while I stare out the window and think about what she said.
I’m not settling until I find my Jake
. I remember feeling that way about Ali and Marco: jealous, in a you’re-still-my-best-friend sort of way.

She was so adorably in love with him. I remember her disappearing behind that leather journal of hers after their first date. I remember how she smiled through their eternal phone conversations. How she repeated his name in her sleep. How she did his laundry in our tiny dorm washer when his broke. How she panicked when he ran the slightest bit late. She’d named their future children, for crying out loud.

Yeah, Ali loved him. Absolutely loved him.

Right up until he killed her.

It’s something I still can’t wrap my mind around: Marco killing Ali. If it weren’t for the bruises . . . but there were bruises. Lots of them. Maybe if she hadn’t trusted him so blindly, she would have seen the violence coming.

I shiver, and like a true friend, Kaylee turns up the heat.

She drops me at the top of my driveway, and I let her talk me into the movies with her and Dimples tomorrow night. Third wheel. Should be fun.

We did our homework at the diner, and Dad’s out of town— he and his crew are logging in the mountains a couple hours away—so I have nothing to fill my evening. Maybe I’ll upload my digital pics to the computer and mess around in Photoshop for a few hours. Dad won’t be back till Sunday night. I bet I can get a collage together of the property before he returns. Kind of an early Christmas present.

Habit pulls my attention through the trees to the old Miller place. My breath hitches. Every window is full of light.

“Brielle? You okay?”

My head whips around. It takes my eyes a second to find him, but there he sits. On our porch swing, in the shade of the awning.

“You’re home.”

“I am.” He laughs.

I tell my legs not to skip toward him, but they only sort of get the message.

“Finally,” I mock, fumbling for a slice of pride.

“Sit,” he says, sliding over so I can sit next to him on the porch swing. My arm presses against his, and I note with relief that he’s still very, very warm.

“You missed the critique,” I say. “In photo.” I try to be nonchalant but fail miserably.

“What was your picture of?”

“A maple leaf.”

“You win?”

“No,” I say, forcing my gaze to the street and kicking my legs to get the swing moving. “Grace had a time-lapse photo of the storm hitting Main Street.”

“Was it good?”

“It got my vote. I blame you for the loss, though.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. I lost by one vote.”

“Oh, and you assume I would have . . .” He stands and raises his right hand, like he’s swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. “I shall never be absent again.”

“At least not on critique Tuesdays. I don’t take losing well.”

“Understandable,” he says, turning back to me. He leans against the rail, his expression soft. “You got the box I left you?”

I slide my sleeve up and show him. “I did. Thank you so much, by the way. I have no idea how, but it really helps.”

“What do you think of it?” he asks.

There’s something about the way he says it, like it’s the most important question he’ll ever ask. I have no idea what I think but can’t imagine that answer being adequate.

“It’s beautiful,” I say. There are just far too many adjectives to describe the thing. “Can you tell me what it is exactly?”

“Absolutely, but I’d like you to meet Canaan first, if that’s okay?” He takes my hands and pulls me to my feet. “Your dad’s not home?”

“Na. He’s working.”

A grin stretches his face like taffy, and I smile with him. It’s impossible not to.

“What are you smiling at?”

He releases my hands and starts down the porch stairs. “Come on,” he says, pushing through the trees toward his house. I follow him, the smell of wet pine and damp grass everywhere.

“You’re awful at answering questions.”

“It’s a sickness. I’m working on it.”

“You do that.” Eleven steps later I ask, “So where have you been? I mean, I know you like to cut class, but three days?”

“Canaan got called away for work. Didn’t want to leave me behind.”

“Wow, he
is
overprotective.”

“You have no idea,” he says.

“Dad’s left me behind for years.”

“By yourself?”

“When I was younger I stayed with Kaylee and her aunt, but that’s just a whole lotta chaos. I’m sure Canaan will loosen up eventually.”

“Doubtful. But it’s okay. He hasn’t yanked me out of school since Spain. He was due.”

“You lived in Spain?” Surprise after surprise. Puzzle piece after puzzle piece. Will I ever capture the entire picture?

“And Vienna. London for a few months.” He doesn’t seem enamored by this information. In fact, it seems to bore him. “For the past two years or so, we’ve been back in the U.S. I prefer it that way.”

“Do you? I’ve only been on the one European tour, but we were shuffled around so much we didn’t get to do much sightseeing. I saw the Eiffel Tower from a bus. How lame is that? I’d really like to go back.”

“I’ll take you, then. One day. I’m a great tour guide,” he says easily. So easily I’m lost again in the comfort and warmth of everything about him.

“I have to warn you, though, I hate flying.”

“Really? That’s funny.”

His lips curve in that mischievous way, and he laughs. I love it. Could never hear enough of it.

“Bet you’d feel different if you had wings,” he says.

“Well, who wouldn’t?”

We’re just steps from his front door now, and the fact that I have no idea how to do this smacks me in the face.

I’ve never been introduced to a guy’s parents in a formal way. We all just sort of know each other here in Stratus. And Austen is an all-girls prep school—a place most parents ship their kids to without making much of an appearance. Jake, on the other hand, has apparently moved quite a lot and lived in some pretty exotic places. Surely he could give me some advice. But he doesn’t stop as we climb the stairs.

He opens the door and pulls me through like he’s done it a thousand times before.

The room has changed. The weathered cherry-wood table is still in the same place, as is the monstrosity of an entertainment center, but that’s about it. The boxes have been cleared, evidently unpacked. An oversized armchair, couch, and love seat are positioned around the table, pointed at the entertainment center. Nothing is new, but it all looks well cared for. Past the living room is the kitchen, open and bright, with a small table and four chairs. To the right of the kitchen is a hallway, which I can only speculate leads to the bedrooms.

“Wow. Unpacked already?”

“Yeah, Canaan can’t stand a mess. He worked all morning,” Jake says. “Speaking of Canaan.” He nods at the back door, visible through the kitchen. A man enters—the same man I saw on Main Street last week. He’s even taller than I remember, his arms laden with boxes. His silhouette takes up nearly every inch of the door frame, leaving the gray light of December’s first week to fill in the meager gaps.

“Canaan,” Jake says, tugging me into the kitchen by my sleeve, “this is Brielle.”

Canaan sets the stack of boxes down, spreading them evenly across the kitchen table to prevent it from tipping. As he draws closer, his large hand extended, another piece of the puzzle slides into place.

Waves of heat roll off his arms and chest—hotter even than Jake’s skin. Hotter than the cuff latched on to my wrist. With the increase in temperature comes that remarkable peace, and for a fleeting moment my legs feel weak. His mitt of a hand, larger than Dad’s even, swallows mine whole, and I regain my strength. His silver hair matches his eyes precisely, offset by a vibrant tawny complexion. Without being feminine in the slightest, he is striking.

Once, in Portland, I was introduced to a Nobel Prize winner. He was small and mousy, stank of sauerkraut, and had sweat stains in the armpits of his dress shirt. Still, something intangible made me very aware I was in the presence of genius. I felt lucky, special. Surely not many could claim they’d had the honor.

I have that same feeling now, minus the gag reflex.

“Brielle,” Canaan says. “So happy to meet you. Jake can’t stop talking about you. I hear you’re quite the dancer.”

My face warms, and I elbow Jake in the ribs.

“Thank you,” I say. “It’s great to meet you too.”

Jake chuckles and pulls out a kitchen chair for me. I sit. He takes the chair next to mine as Canaan crosses to the sink to rinse his hands.

“I hope you’re available for dinner,” Canaan says. “Lasagna and baked apples.”

Homemade dinner with Jake? Beats string cheese and a cup of yogurt any day.

“I’d like that. Thank you.”

“Jake tells me you teach dance as well?”

Payback.

“Mm-hmm. Jake’s asked for lessons,” I say.