He sat up and looked for Delaney, then realized she was gone, too. And in a hurry—she’d left her laptop.
Hmmm.
Thirty-six
She was reaching for the door handle to their room
(My room, dammit!)
when it opened and Rake filled the doorway. And boy, did he … those shoulders.
(Oh, Christ, stop drooling like a besotted teenager, please!)
“Come for a walk?” he said by way of greeting.
“Uh…” She looked at him the way she’d watched adults when she was a kid. You could keep an eye on them without them tumbling to what you were doing; peripheral vision was about 150 degrees. “Okay. How’d—how’d it go?”
“He wasn’t kidding about being cut off by our mother, and he’s tattling on her by activating the nuclear option.” When she didn’t say anything, he added, “He’s calling our grandma.”
“That’s bad,” she guessed. (Knew.)
“Atlantis disappearing into the sea bad,” he confirmed. “Come on.”
She fell into step beside him, irrationally glad to see him wearing the tacky sweatshirt she’d gotten him yesterday.
(“I can’t afford it!”
“Yes you can, it’s unbelievably cheap. Don’t wear it near an open flame.”
“I hate the color!”
“I know. Shut up and put it on, it gets chilly at night.”)
“So, the other girls—women—they’re off doing whatever it is they do when they’re not helping you be mysterious?”
“Uh. Yes.” She was trying to put a name to his mood, and failing. He didn’t seem angry, or sad, or afraid. Just quiet.
Yes. That was what was creeping her out: He was being calm and thoughtful and quiet. It was more alarming than if he’d burst into flames.
“And Lillith?”
“She’s with Elena. What’s wrong?” she asked, knowing exactly what the problem was and, even now, too chickenshit to say anything.
He still doesn’t know everything.
So tell him, idiot!
I can’t. I gave my word.
And to that, her inner voice said what it always did: not a goddamned thing. Because when she was nothing and had nothing, that was the one thing that had value: her word. If she said she would do something, or wouldn’t, she’d stick to it. Every time. She’d gone to sleep with a black eye more than once, and her favorite consolation was always the same: I told them if they tried anything, I’d make them pay. And I did.
“Rake? What’s the matter?”
“Oh, everything. I still can’t believe she cut him off like that. Me, I could understand—my mom loves me but essentially thinks I’m useless. But Blake? The golden child? Cutting him off is just odd.”
“So”—she paused, increasing her stride to match his—“you really don’t have any money?” You know he doesn’t. Could you sound more insipid? “Blake can’t help you?” Jesus Christ. What are you doing?
“Blake can’t help me,” he agreed, and it still seemed like a brisk stroll between friends, but it wasn’t.
“And he thinks your grandma…” The nuclear option. Because things weren’t bad enough. Another lesson from her childhood: Surprise! Everything’s worse.
“I think Blake isn’t thinking straight. He might even be sick, or at least exhausted from working too hard.* I don’t think he’s thought it through. Because there’s very little chance our mom orchestrated this without Nonna Tarbell’s approval. They respect the hell out of each other. Always have.”
“You never talk about them. Just Blake.”
“You mean during the course of our long, affectionate friendship?”
She said nothing, and he shrugged.
“Yeah, well. It’s annoying, having a genetic double who’s your evil opposite. So he comes up a lot in my conversations. Though Blake would tell you I’m his evil opposite.” They were through the lobby now, stepping out into the Venice sunshine. Lunchtime and, for once, not a lot of tourists.
“Do they spend much time together? Your mom and grandma?” She never got tired of hacks, hits, or stories about other people’s loving families. In that order, which was proof, if any were needed, that there was something wrong with her.
He laughed, a short, humorless bark. “God no. They almost never see each other. Which suits my mom. And Blake and me, of course. We never even met her until we were teenagers, when our dad died. Christ, that was a day.”
“Will you tell me?” Please tell me. I like hearing about your family. Okay, anyone’s family. But especially yours.
“Why not?” And he still hadn’t shaken that odd, quiet mood. But perhaps reminiscing would put him in a better frame of mind.
Thirty-seven
“Dead?” Oh, what the holy hell? He and Blake had just gotten home—no detention for once, and better than that, he’d sprinted past Blake and gotten to the door first—and there was Mom, home between two of her three jobs, and some strange old lady who was looking at them with a hopeful smile.
“Our father’s dead?” Blake asked, sounding as numb as Rake felt. It was like walking in the door and getting whapped with a pillow full of popcorn. Not painful, but disorienting.
“I’m afraid so, boy.” Mom let go of the back of the kitchen chair and gestured to the old lady. “This is your grandmother, Ruth Tarbell. Ruth, this is—”
“My son’s seed!”
Rake flinched. “Oh, man. Please don’t call us that.” Before he could ask her not to call them anything, really, the old woman had moved
(like a basketball forward! quick, with fast hands)
and pulled him
(ack!)
and Blake
(ack!)
into a hug that smelled like lemon tea.
“Thank God,” she was babbling, and her lipstick was perfect, which was kind of amazing. “Oh thank God. Look at you, so handsome. I haven’t seen you since you were babies, when I made your idiot father— When I was at the wedding.”
Blake was gently trying to get free of her lemony embrace. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“I’m missing b-ball practice for this,” Rake reminded everyone.
After a decade, their fuzzy
(what’s that sweater made of? wool? very soft steel wool?)
grandmother let them go, observing, “You’re surprised.”
“People aren’t usually this happy to meet us,” Blake said. Rake rolled his eyes, because he knew what was coming. “Rake is terrible.”
He flipped him off, low and quick, so the other two wouldn’t see. “Blow it out your butt sideways, Blake. Um, Mom, are you…” Then he took another look and went over and put his arm around her. “Um, I know you guys were technically married, and it’s okay to be sad. And it’s okay not to be sad. Right, Blake? That’s okay?” Blake was way better with the whole “this is socially acceptable, that is not” thing.
“Of course.”
“See, Mom? Blake’s all ‘it’s cool.’ So if you’re sad—”