I flipped open the phone. “Hello?” I wasn’t sure what I expected.
“I knew it,” Cole said. “I knew you’d pick up the phone if you thought it was Sam.”
“Oh my God. Are you for real?”
“I am for very real. Can I come inside?”
I jumped off my bed and went to the window, peering around. I could just see the edge of a rather ugly station wagon at the end of the driveway.
“Is that you in that perv-mobile?”
“It smells,” Cole said. “I would invite you to come out here and talk to me in the privacy of the car, but it’s pretty powerful stuff, whatever is making it smell.”
“What do you want, Cole?”
“Your credit card. I need to order a fishing net, some hardware, and a couple of tranquilizers that I swear are totally over-the-counter. Also, I need them overnighted.”
“Tell me you’re just trying to be funny.”
“I told Sam I could catch Beck. I’m going to build a pit trap using the pit Grace helpfully found by falling into it and bait it with Beck’s favorite food, which he helpfully recorded in his journal while telling an anecdote about a kitchen fire.”
“You are trying to be funny. Because otherwise, this sounds like an insane person on the telephone.”
“Scent is the strongest tie to memory.”
I sighed and lay back down on my bed, phone still at my ear. “What does this have to do with keeping you all from being killed by my father?”
There was a pause. “Beck moved the wolves once before. I want to ask him about it.”
“And a fishing net, some hardware, and drugs will help you to do that?”
“If not, it’s all the makings of a very good time.”
I stared at the ceiling. Long ago, Jack had thrown Silly Putty at the place where the ceiling tipped to meet the roof-slanted wall, and it still stuck there.
I sighed. “Fine, Cole, fine. I’ll meet you at the side door, by the little stairs you went up before. Park that thing someplace my parents won’t see when they wake up. And don’t be loud.”
“I’m never loud,” Cole said, and the phone went silent in my hand at the same time my bedroom door opened.
Still lying on my back, I looked upside down to the door and was unsurprised to see Cole letting himself in. He shut the door carefully behind him. He was wearing cargo pants and a plain black T-shirt. He looked famous, but I was beginning to realize that was a function of the way he stood, not of what he wore. In my room, which was all floating, light fabrics and pillows that shone and mirrors that smiled back at you, Cole looked out of place, but I was beginning to figure out that that, too, was a function of how he was, not where he was.
“So today you’re Cross-Country Barbie,” he said. I remembered I was in my running shoes and shorts. He walked to my dresser and sprayed a puff of my perfume into the air. A Cole in the dresser mirror waved his hand through the mist.
“Today I’m Humor-Free Barbie,” I replied. Cole picked up my rosary from the dresser, his thumb over one of the beads. The way he held it made it look like a familiar gesture, though it was hard to imagine Cole St. Clair entering a church without catching fire. “I thought that side door was locked.”
“Not so much.”
I closed my eyes. Looking at him was making me feel … tired. I felt the same weight inside me that I’d felt at Il Pomodoro. I thought, possibly, that what I really needed was to go where nobody knew me and start over again, with none of my previous decisions, conversations, or expectations coming with me.
The bed sighed as Cole climbed onto it and lay on his back beside me. He smelled clean, like shaving cream and the beach, and I realized he must have taken special care before he came over here today. That made me feel weird, too.
I closed my eyes again. “How is Grace doing? About Olivia?”
“I wouldn’t know. She shifted last night so we locked her in the bathroom.”
“I wasn’t friends with Olivia,” I said. It seemed important for him to know. “I didn’t know her, really.”
“Me neither.” Cole paused. He said, in a different voice, “I like Grace.”
He said it like it were a very serious thing, and for a moment, I thought he meant it as “I like Grace” which I couldn’t even properly comprehend. But then he clarified. “I like how she is with Sam. I don’t think I ever believed in love, not really. Just thought it was something James Bond made up, a long time ago, to get laid.”
We lay there, not speaking, for a few more minutes. Outside, birds were waking up. The house was silent; the morning was not cold enough to trip the heater. It was hard to not think about Cole lying right there beside me, even if he was quiet, especially since he smelled good and I could remember exactly what it felt like to kiss him. I could remember, too, exactly the last time I’d seen Sam kiss Grace, and I remembered, more than anything, the way Sam’s hand looked, pressing against her as they kissed. I didn’t think that was what it looked like when Cole and I had kissed. Thinking about it was making it get all loud and crowded inside me again, the wanting Cole and the doubting that it was the right thing to want him. I felt guilty, dirty, euphoric, as if I had already given in.
“Cole, I’m tired,” I said. As soon as I said it, I had no idea why I had.
He didn’t reply. He just lay there, quieter than I thought he could be.
Irritated by his silence, I battled whether or not I should ask him if he’d heard me.
Finally, in a quiet so deep that I heard his lips part before he spoke, he said, “Sometimes, I think about calling home.”
I was used to Cole being self-centered, but this, I felt, was a new low in our relationship, him hijacking my confession with one of his own.
He said, “I think that I’ll just call home and tell my mom that I’m not dead. I think I’ll call my dad and ask him if he’d like to have a little chat about what meningitis does to you on a cellular level. Or I think I’ll call Jeremy — he was my bassist — and I’ll tell him that I’m not dead, but I don’t want to be looked for anymore. To tell my parents that I’m not dead but I’m never coming home.” He was quiet for such a long time then that I thought he was done. He was quiet long enough that I could see the morning light in my airy, pastel room get a little brighter as the mist began to burn off.
Then he said, “But it just makes me tired even thinking about it. It reminds me of that feeling I had before I left. Like my lungs were made of lead. Like I can’t even think about starting to care about anything. Like I either wish that they were all dead, or I was, because I can’t stand the pull of all that history between us. That’s before I even pick up the phone. I’m so tired I never want to wake up again. But I’ve figured out now that it was never them that made me feel that way. It was just me, all along.”
I didn’t reply. I was thinking again about that revelation in the bathroom in Il Pomodoro. That wanting to just be done, for once, to feel done, to not want anything. Thinking of how precisely Cole had described the fatigue inside me.
“I’m part of what you hate about yourself,” Cole said. It wasn’t a question.
Of course he was part of what I hated about myself. Everything was part of what I hated about myself. It wasn’t really personal.