The grave look on his face slips, and for a second I see something else—something vulnerable in his beautiful features. It's gone the next second, replaced by something stoic and untouchable.
I back away a little more and he lifts his hand, like he wants to touch me. Instead he just holds it there, palm out: the classic symbol meaning ‘stop’.
That's what you should do, dummy. Just stop this. You're living in a fantasy.
Evan seems to be searching for something to say. His eyes, on me, burn. I swallow and he tilts his head a little, looking unhappily perplexed. “I didn't deserve what you did for me, but I appreciate it.” He looks me over, head to toe. “You're a good person, Meredith Kinsey.”
Before I can respond, he lowers his hand and turns to go back to the table. He glances at me over his shoulder as he moves, and when he sits down, he bites into a piece of sausage. I move back behind the island and force myself to be calm, the way I would be if one of my children got hurt and I didn't want to alarm them. I force myself to behave calmly as I eat my own breakfast, but internally, I'm going a million miles an hour.
I feel mortified. Desperate. Hungry. The feeling is familiar, and from long ago: It reminds me of the way I felt about Sam, the assistant band director. My first full-on crush.
I pour myself a glass of water and sigh, because how typical is that? Will I always be the blushing girl with the inappropriate crush?
Well, I guess I’m not blushing anymore, that’s for sure, but this guy is still very much off limits. Not because of all the many obvious things, but because of my secret. The one he doesn't know—and I won't tell him. The one that’s the likeliest of all my baggage to reach across time and distance to end me.
What I should tell him is that I'm not the kind of person he thinks. I probably never was, but I'm definitely not now. “That's not even my name,” I murmur.
His eyebrows shoot up. “What's your name?”
I shake my head. “Kinsey wasn't ever really mine. It was the name I took on when I was adopted.”
Silence spreads its roots between us and I think about everything Evan doesn't know about me. I wonder if he'll find out when I get into the States. If his colleagues already know the most sordid part of my story. What Evan would think if he knew, too.
He doesn't seem to care about my past, but that's probably because he only knows me as a victim.
“When do you want to get on the road?” he asks. The low rumble of his voice makes me jump.
I push my hair out of my face and try to look less spazzy. I shrug. “Tomorrow maybe? Like really early in the morning. They tend not to be out then.”
“Sure.” He stands up. All traces of his earlier moodiness are gone, and I get a pleasant vibe again—the kind of vibe that says we might be friends. “And you’re sure no one knows about this place?”
I shook my head. “Jesus was really good at tech stuff. This place is completely self-sufficient and off the grid.”
He nods. “I guess tonight we’ll just hang out? We could watch some TV…well, I guess no cable—”
“Jesus set up satellite somehow. It’s illegal,” I shrug, “but apparently no one can tell.”
“Satellite it is.” He smiles, a smile that looks real and gentle and handsome enough to bruise my heart. “I could use a night of relaxing and I have a feeling you could, too.”
He doesn't know how right he is.
I SPEND THE next two hours soaking in my room's tub, drying my hair, trying to assemble an outfit from the clothes I find in my drawers, and pacing around the room trying to remind myself that Evan No Last Name is no one to me. We're not friends. We're not even acquaintances. The pull I feel is because I spent the last day and a half taking care of him. And...okay, also because he's extremely attractive. And nice.
And I'm lonely. I'll admit it. I'm lonely and pathetic. I feel like a spinster and I'm still not even through my 20s. I know I won't ever walk down the aisle or shop for a new house with double vanities and his and hers closets. I won't have a family or kids. At this point, I'll be lucky if I can get into the witness protection program and befriend my neighbors without worrying that one of them will kill me on behalf of the Cientos Cartel.
I took a nice life and screwed it up because I was foolish. I messed around with a married man for money.
I remind myself that even if I allowed myself to have feelings for a man again, it wouldn’t be fair to him. I would always have to end things before they went too far.
I end up wearing men's purple work-out shorts and a V-neck white undershirt. I find some of my old mascara in the bathroom and can't resist putting it on, if only to feel a little human. It's been a long time since I wore makeup, and I'm surprised by how long my eyelashes look.
As I study my reflection, from my mother's striking green eyes to my Maw-Maw’s rose-cheeked, heart-shaped face, to my father's strawberry hair, I think about my aunt and uncle. I feel a crushing wave of remorse for what I know I put them through. Granted, I didn't plan to run away from Atlanta, but I still did. My intentions don't change the sleepless nights I know my aunt endured and probably still does. My uncle and my cousin...surely their lives were changed knowing that someone raised in their house just vanished like I did.
I was selfish. Maybe I've changed—I like to think I have—but it doesn't matter really. My bad deeds are going to follow me forever.
This is my mood when I step out into the hallway and start to look for Evan.
I find him in the kitchen, and my first glimpse of his outfit has me snickering.
He's wearing a pair of Jesus's jeans, which he's cut off at the knee, probably because he’s a good five inches taller than Jesus. There's no fixing the crotch area, though, which is T.I.G.H.T. My eyes run over him, and I know my face is red, because you can see a lot of...well, him. Look up, look up, I tell my pervy self. His shirt is a light blue and white button-up which he has rolled up to the sleeves. It makes his blue eyes glow, and I laugh a little because I'm pretty sure if he moves the wrong way, he'll make the buttons pop.
“I didn’t know you were dressing up.” I grin, and Evan flips me off.
“This is the best I could do.” He grimaces, and I giggle.
“Look at you, Mia Hamm.” He nods at me, and I swing my foot, like I’m kicking a soccer ball.
He snickers, and I flip him off. “Whatever, George Michael.”
Evan winces, and I saunter past him and start searching the cabinets for something to eat. I find a bag of popcorn. It's a brand you don't see so much in the States, and Evan takes it from me, reading the Spanish popping information under his breath.
“You speak good Spanish,” I tell him. “Did you learn it in school?”
He nods. He looks like he might say something else, but then he steps over to the microwave and starts the popping. As I lean against the counter watching him, I feel weird being here. Like Jesus and David never existed and this is our hotel or something. It's...inappropriate.
I've been struggling for a day or so now with the feeling that I should be mourning their deaths, but there's no way I can. Living with Jesus was like living with a performing tiger. I survived okay for a while, but eventually he bit me. Not for any reason other than he's a tiger, and that's what tigers do.