The Escape Collection: (The Escape Collection) (16 page)

“I’m not a writer.”

“Do you write words in there?” He gestured with his head to the book in her arms. “Do you write them to create a feeling? When you read them back, do they tell you a story about a moment in time? Or do you write them to get the story, the feeling, out of your head?”
 

Whitney nodded. “That’s it exactly,” she whispered. “The words just pour out of me. Sometimes they don’t make any sense. But sometimes…” she drifted off.
 

He watched her for a second, waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t, Reid said, “You can talk about it if you want.” Her head snapped up and she shot him a look. “I mean, I can tell you have something to talk about,” he said before she could protest.

“Why would you think that?”

Reid tried not to smile, but his lips curled up anyway. He leaned in and whispered, “I don’t know if you’re aware of this,” he whispered. “But your feelings are written all over your face. Ever since we met, you’re pretty much an open book.”
 

HIs words had the desired effect, and she smiled. “I am not,” she said.

“Okay, maybe not an open book,” he relented. “But I have to tell you, your face gives your feelings away every time.”

The smile slipped away and her brow creased as she thought of something. A tear slid down her cheek.

“Hey,” he said gently. “I wasn’t trying to upset you.”

“You didn’t.” She shook her head. “It’s just—” She lifted her notebook in way of an answer.
 

“The writing?”

Whitney wiped at her cheek and busied herself folding up the blanket, tucking it away into a plastic tote. She kept the notebook out.

“I mean,” he continued quickly, “I know writing can be emotional and even the littlest thing can spark strong feelings.”

The look on her face and her red-rimmed eyes, spilling over with fresh tears, answered the question for him.
 

He reached out, this time not hesitating to bridge the gap between them. His hand covered her knee and squeezed gently. “Hey,” he said. “It’s okay.” She sniffed and wiped at her face again.
 

“I’m sorry. I don’t cry. I mean, I do cry. Obviously.” She attempted a smile, but dissolved into tears again. “You probably think I’m being a silly little girl.” Whitney reached up to wipe at her tears again, but before she could Reid grabbed her hand and held it in his own.
 

“No,” he said. “I don’t think that.” With his other hand, he gently lifted her chin with two fingers. “Hey, look at me. It’s okay.” When she shook her head, he added, “I have the feeling that if you’re upset about it, it’s definitely worth spilling tears over.”

She shook her head and the tears started falling faster.
 

“I’m wrong?” Reid asked.
 

“No.” Whitney shook her head again. “I mean, yes. You’re not wrong.”

“Want to talk about it? Because I’ll listen.” Reid tried his best to smile. He’d had plenty of experience listening to female problems with his sister. At least before she thought her problems were too big to talk about and she’d turned to idiot boyfriends and drugs instead. He pushed the thought aside and focused on Whitney. “Even if you don’t want to talk, feel free to let it out. I get it.”

She looked at me, a question in her eyes. “Let it out?”
 

“Yup.” He nodded. “Like totally lose it. Sometimes when you totally lose yourself, and just let all the pent-up emotion go, it’s the most cleansing thing you can do. And it kind of looks like you either need to talk about it, or lose it.” He held tightly to her hand, not sure if it was helping to calm her or not, but he was enjoying the closeness between them too much to let go.

Whitney stared at him for a moment before bursting into a strange combination of laughing and crying. It only lasted seconds, though, before she pulled her hands away and ran them through her messy ponytail. “You know what? I think I’ve lost it enough for one night and I probably should talk about it, but right now I kind of want to forget. Does that make sense?”

He nodded. “Perfect sense. And I know the best way to forget about it.” He offered her a hand. “How do you feel about chicken fettuccine, garlic bread, and Caesar salad?”

Whitney took it and said, “Drowning my troubles in carbs and creamy sauces?” She nodded and smiled. “Sounds perfect.”

 
Reid fought the urge to wipe a stray tear from her cheek. Instead, he squeezed her hand quickly before releasing it and sliding over to the hole in the treehouse floor. “Well, I’m glad you agree,” he said. “Because that’s exactly what’s on the menu.”

Whitney followed him down the ladder, the notebook in her hand. “I can smell the garlic from here. It smells amazing,” she said, as they walked across the yard together and neared the house. The light in the kitchen was glowing in the dimming evening sky, and combined with the delicious aroma emanating from it, Reid couldn’t imagine a more inviting sight.

“Just a little something I whipped up.” He glanced over at her and was rewarded by seeing a smile on her face. Her eyes still looked sad, but it was good to see her smiling.
 

“Careful,” she said, catching his eye. “I could get used to this.”

Reid swallowed hard, his throat thick. So could I, he thought. So could I.

***

I couldn’t remember the last time I tasted anything so rich, creamy, and downright delicious that hadn’t come from a restaurant with white tablecloths and a hefty price tag.

“There’s no way you made that,” I said for what was probably the fourth time.

“I did.” Reid laughed and grabbed my empty plate. “Did you want more?”

“Thirds? I don’t think so.” I rubbed my stomach. “I couldn’t eat another bite. I’m going to gain twenty pounds if you keep cooking like that.”

Reid turned around and gave me a strange look. I realized my mistake at once. “I mean, you don’t have to cook for me.” I tripped over my tongue. “And I didn’t mean to imply that you were going to be making me dinner all the time. I appreciate it and everything. I mean, all your cooking and—”

“Whitney. It’s okay.” Reid at least tried to smother his laughter. Even if he didn’t do a very good job of it. “I like cooking,” he said. “And honestly, it’s nice to have someone besides myself to cook for. Besides, you have a way better appetite than my sister ever did.”

His face changed the way it had before at the mention of his sister. “Will you tell me about her?” I asked tentatively.

“Lizzy?” He nodded and added, “She’s five years younger than me.”
 

I knew it was a touchy subject. But he had the look of a man who wanted to talk about something but didn’t know how. “And you used to cook for her?” I prodded.

“Every day when we were younger. My mom left when we were young and my dad worked all the time. So I guess I started cooking when I was about thirteen. You can only take so much of cardboard frozen dinners, you know?”

I didn’t know. Grams had always made sure I was well fed with homemade meals and fresh baking on the table every night promptly at six. Routine was important to her. I nodded anyway. “And what about now? You don’t cook for her anymore? You could have her over sometime if you wanted.” And just like that, I realized that it didn’t matter what William thought about it, I wouldn’t ask Reid to move out. The more time I spent with him, the more time I wanted to spend with him and surely there could be no moral issue with the school about having a friend.

Reid didn’t answer my question right away, so I asked another, “I heard you on the phone earlier. Is everything okay?”

I knew I was prying. And Reid knew it, too. He dropped our plates in the sink and turned to look at me, one eyebrow raised in question.
 

“Are you going to tell me why you were upset earlier?” he asked, expertly turning things around on me.

I shook my head. I wasn’t about to rip off that bandage again. It wouldn’t hurt so much to think about Grams’ decision after I’d had time to process it myself. At least that’s what I kept telling myself. It wouldn’t change anything, but—

“Does it have anything to do with your mother?”

My thoughts came screeching to a halt and the meal I’d just eaten threatened to make a reappearance. I swallowed hard and stared open mouthed at Reid. “My mother?” I asked the question tentatively, trying to gauge how much he knew. Something in his voice and the way he was looking at me, waiting for a response, told me he knew more than he was letting on.

“Yes,” he said. “Your mother.” He sounded so damned innocent, like he had no idea he was edging towards the single most volatile thing in my life at that moment.
 

I did my best to look nonchalant. It wasn’t a skill I was particularly good at. “Why would it have anything to do with my mother?” I batted my eyelashes and tried to distract him with my femininity. Which was stupid, because I’d never once before tried that particular skill.

He had the decency to look confused. I don’t know if it was my eyelash batting that threw him off or something else, but I’d take any distraction I could. “Well,” he said. He looked down at the dishes as if they held the answer to whatever it was he wanted to know. “I just thought since she called the other night and you said she’d been dead for years…there might be an issue there that would make you upset.” He looked up and met my eyes.
 

I fought the urge to laugh. And not in the ha-ha funny way, but in the, you-must-be-out-of-your-mind way. Poor Reid, he had no idea how seriously dysfunctional my life was.
 

“She’s not dead,” I said. It may have been the stupidest thing I could have said, but I couldn’t think of anything else.

“I figured.”

“She’s never been dead.”

“I kind of figured that, too.”

“It’s complicated.”
 

“Of course it is.”

He didn’t move. His eyes held mine, as if he was waiting for me to tell him the truth. But he didn’t ask and he didn’t pry, which I was thankful for. “She’s a stripper.”
 

I said the words and waited like I always did for the reaction. But he didn’t gasp, or hold his hands over his mouth. His eyes didn’t twinkle in delight or excitement and he didn’t immediately want to know all the gory details. Instead he asked, “And?”
 

I shook my head and stared at him. “And, we’re not really close. Well, we are…but…you said she called? What did she want?”

He turned to fill the sink with water. I watched as he added soap before answering me. “Nothing,” he said. “She told me not to bother you with the call, which judging by your reaction…” I shot him a look and he smiled apologetically before continuing. “Sorry. But honestly, Whitney, she said it wasn’t important and that she’d call again another time.”

I dropped my head in my hands and tried to think. Something was up with her. It wasn’t like her to call in the middle of the day just to chat and Stan said she’d been saving her tips, but I’d been too wrapped up in myself to bother asking what she was saving for. It probably wasn’t a big deal, but still. I knew I only had a few choices. I could wait for her to call again, or worse, show up unexpectedly. Or I could find a moment to squeeze in a visit.
 

“Whitney?” I could feel Reid standing next to me. “Is everything okay?”

Of course it wasn’t okay. Grams was dying but my mother had no idea and she probably wanted to see me about something totally trivial and then I’d have to tell her about Grams. But if she came for a visit, William might find out the truth and I wasn’t ready for him to know because, well, I just wasn’t. Never mind the fact that if there really was a lifestyle questionnaire at Glenmore Academy, I didn’t really think they’d look very favorably on having a stripper in the family. I could lose the job before I even got it. So no, nothing was okay.
 

I lifted my head and forced a smile. “Everything’s fine.”

***

I didn’t even bother hitting my snooze alarm when the horn sounds blasted through my room. It seemed harsh, but when I was a teenager it was the only way I could wake up. When I was fifteen, Grams went to the store and asked them for the loudest, most obnoxious alarm in the store. She found one, and I’d been waking up to it ever since. But for the last few weeks, there were no problems getting out of bed. In fact, I had the opposite problem. I couldn’t exactly call it insomnia, but tossing and turning in bed while a million thoughts of how my life was spinning out of control had to be some sort of sleep disorder.
 

I took a minute to listen for Reid before pushing back the covers. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had such a comfortable evening, just hanging out watching television after we finished dinner. It was exactly what I needed. Especially after my emotional outburst. Things were so easy with Reid, I’d actually given him my journal to read. There was a warmth about him when I explained my writing. It’s like he understood what writing was to me. What it meant. He got it, and he’s the only one who ever had. It felt natural to hand it over the night before, but in the light of day, things were feeling a bit different. A bit scarier.

I slipped into my adjoining bathroom and hurried through the morning routine. I couldn’t honestly say if it was the thought of spending my day subbing for a fun class of grade two students or the hot cup of coffee and the man who made it that I was looking forward to the most. Both held a certain, albeit very different, appeal.

By the time I finished up and tamed my hair into some semblance of order, only one of those things was waiting for me. Next to my mug, Reid had left a note, which was thoughtful of him, mostly because I didn’t presume that we had that type of relationship. Reid’s note said he was with Duncan at a client meeting and he’d be making pork chops for dinner.

I loved pork chops. But it wasn’t only Reid’s cooking that I was enjoying more and more every day. He was fun to be around and he made me smile. But he was also a freelance songwriter living in my spare room. Not exactly the picture of stability, I reminded myself. And if there was one thing Grams had drilled into my head over the years, it was how important it was to have a stable future. Besides, it wasn’t fair to William to be having dinner with another man while we were still dating. And we were still dating. I let the thought filter through my mind. Kat wouldn’t leave me alone about breaking up with him, and I’d never admit it to her, but the thought had crossed my mind more than once. Sure, William wasn’t exciting and spontaneous but he was reliable and steady. With him, I’d never have to worry about the future because careful planning and forethought was so important to him.