“No, he’s not allowed in that room, he wouldn’t have. No one has been in there.”
Then it hits me—the memory creeping down my arms in a physical sensation like I’m being watched. This bedroom door was open. It was open, the day of the break-in. I’d never seen it open before. Deena always keeps it closed. “This room is the first room in the hall,” I say, my voice soft. “Maybe it was the intruder.”
“Why would someone take it?” she asks, bewildered and hurt.
I have no answers.
I wake up with a gasping start from the nap I’d only just fallen into. Every noise the house makes sounds suspect. Hopefully the thing with the folder really is just a misunderstanding and we’ll find it in some weird place later, but I feel like eyes are watching me. And I can’t quit thinking about that driver being attacked and poisoned. Somehow that scares me far more than him being shot would have. Shooting is impersonal; it only happens in movies.
Poison is something my family understands intimately.
The dark corners of the house seem alive, sinister, and I can feel myself starting to lose it. I don’t want to be alone. I want to be with someone who always makes me feel lighter. I walk out to the porch and pull out my phone.
“I knew you’d call,” Tyler says without saying hello.
“I didn’t get my daily dose of Tyler at the museum today.”
“Tyler deficiencies can be fatal, you know. I’ll come get you right now.”
“Thanks.” I’m so grateful I don’t even know how to express it. However, when it’s not Tyler’s small Toyota that pulls up but rather Ry’s beautiful truck, I’m torn between that gratitude and annoyance.
“Hey,” he says, climbing out of the truck and walking up the short, cracked sidewalk to where I’m sitting on the porch. “Tyler told me to come pick you up.”
“Of course she did.” I ignore his extended hand and push myself to standing. Ry manages to be a couple inches taller than me even in my heels. Huh. I’d hoped I would be taller than him. I really like being taller than people.
I follow him to the truck. “Did you hurt your leg?” I ask. He has a slight limp I’d never noticed. Not that I was noticing things about him now, like the way his dark hair somehow reflected gold bits in the sun, or how his shoulders created a straight, strong line across his back. Or the pronounced bump of a callus on his middle right finger.
“No, I’ve always had a limp. It runs in my family.”
So he isn’t perfect. Physically, I mean. I don’t mean that. He’s not perfect at all.
I hate Tyler.
Ry tries to beat me to my side, but I manage to slide in before he can open the door. He gets in, and the truck engine turns over much too quietly. I wish it’d roar. I wish it’d growl so loud I wouldn’t be able to hear my own thoughts. I hate that I’m scared in a place I should feel safe. I hate that it’s spread to my work. I hate that I’m so self-centered that I think it somehow revolves around me.
I want to call my mom.
I won’t.
Ry drives confidently, eyes on the road, and I watch him shift gears to see how it’s done. I should probably learn how to drive. “You never did tell me what you like to do for fun,” he says.
“Interior design.” If he laughs, I will disembowel him. And I won’t even put his guts into ceremonial jars for embalmment—I’ll scatter them across the dirt. I’ll toss them into the garbage disposal.
“So you’re an artist.”
Oh. Well, that was unexpected. “I guess.”
“That’s really cool. I’d love to see your designs sometime.”
I’m caught off guard again. I don’t know how to respond, so I change the subject. “Where are we going?”
“My house. Tyler and Scott are there already.”
I try to tamp down my intrigue. People’s homes say so much about them, and even though it will really only say stuff about Ry’s parents, I’m still interested.
“How do you and Tyler and Scott know each other? Do you all go to the same school?”
“I actually met Tyler at Balboa Park last summer. We don’t go to the same school. But I like them. Neither of them cares that I have a tendency toward being antisocial, and Tyler never tries to flirt with me. Scott doesn’t, either.”
I roll my eyes. “So that’s your main requirement for friendship? They don’t hit on you? Is that like a regular problem in your life?”
He shrugs noncommittally. “Isn’t it in yours?”
I frown, thinking of all of the guys I interact with. I do get hit on a lot at the museum. I just don’t care because I’d as soon be left alone.
When I don’t answer, he smiles. “It’s hard to be friends with girls most of the time.”
Oh, shut up. He is not saying that he’s too good-looking to be friends with girls. But then again, yesterday at the beach, there were a high percentage of beach beauties sitting very close to us and/or sauntering repeatedly past. And he never looked up once. I snort. “You poor handsome thing. If only you were ugly, then girls wouldn’t have to throw themselves at you all the time. I could break your perfect nose for you, if it’d make your life easier.”
He raises his eyebrows as if he’s considering it, then shakes his head. “I think my mom would be upset,” he says finally, a genuine note of regret in his voice.
“Maybe next time, then.” What if he had really asked me to? I laugh. I can see it, me trying and failing to break his nose. I’m not actually a violent person, in spite of being raised on bedtime stories of war and conquest and murder. I was also raised on stories of sex, and I’m not interested in that, either.
We leave the main road and wind through neighborhoods that are familiar, though I don’t remember why. I can see glints of the ocean from here, and then we pull up into a driveway.
A driveway I already know.
Oh, floods. My mockery from yesterday echoes perfectly in my ears. Of course. Of course it’s his house we parked at when we went to the beach.
“Yours?” I ask, my voice coming out as a pathetic squeak.
He nods, a smile pulling apart his full lips. I fight back the shame burning in my face. Yes, my comments were rude. But Ry could have told me it was his house, instead of letting me look like a jerk.
We get out of the truck and climb the broad steps. Ry pushes one of the massive, carved white double doors open. It’s like we’ve stepped into a museum of Greek antiquities. The floor is polished marble, with black tiles scrolling a pattern around the borders of the entry.
A bust of a woman, the pure definition of beautiful, is on a pedestal front and center, and various other sculptures line the room. Almost laughably out of place is a single humongous framed photo of a chubby, cherubic little boy, face smeared with cake as he laughs at the camera.
“My parents take our heritage very seriously,” he says, his voice solemn but his eyes twinkling as he looks at me to judge my reaction.
“Really? I dunno, it’s kind of understated.”
He laughs appreciatively, and I’m relieved that at least he has a sense of humor about the whole thing.
“The tile work is amazing,” I say, wanting to make up for my earlier mockery, and because it’s true. This floor is gorgeous.
Tyler pokes her head out of a side hall. “There you are! You okay, Isadora? Your call seemed panicked.”
I wave my hand dismissively. “I’m fine.” There are no bogeymen. I need to get over this.
“Good! I’m glad you came. Come on,” she says. We follow her through a hallway with dark wood paneling and the same marble floor, but covered in a plush, ornate rug.
I approve of the TV room we go into as Tyler runs off to use the bathroom. Someone seems to have abandoned the formality of the rest of the house—framed movie posters dominate the walls, and the biggest television I’ve ever seen in my life takes up the entirety of one wall. A full bar lines the back of the room.
I wouldn’t change a lot. The movie-poster thing is really cute. I’d use shadow-box frames and backlighting though. Switch out the L-shaped sectional for one long couch and a few movie-theater-style armchairs. Heavy drapes to block out the light better—the white shutter blinds are totally out of place. Redo the beige walls a pale gold, keep the baseboards their rich cherry color, and, ooh, put in maroon velvet drapes covering not just the wide window but the entire wall. Taking the fun atmosphere of the room up a notch or two. Also, a popcorn machine on top of the bar so the whole place smells right.
But no one’s asking me.
A hugely fat white Persian cat skulks into the room. Still planning my changes, I reach down and scratch her ears absently as she twines her way around my legs, purring like a street bike.
“Whoa.”
“Whoa what?” I ask. Ry is staring in amazement at the cat.
“Hera doesn’t like anyone.”
“Oh.” I look down. Her sharp, intelligent eyes regard me with something bordering on playful worship, like we’re in on the same eternal joke. There’s a reason cats were near deity in ancient Egypt. Dogs may be loyal, but cats are smart. This one must recognize our bond. You can take the cat out of Egypt, but you can’t take Egypt out of the cat.
Wow, I should have that embroidered on a pillow or something.
With a pang I’m reminded of Ubesti. I never let my parents get me another pet after her. Just another thing to love and lose. I gently shoo Ry’s cat away with my foot. She mews reproachfully and saunters out of the room.
Ry watches her go, eyes narrowed, then shakes his head. “Want anything?” he asks Scott, who’s engrossed in a video game. It’s so big on the television that I don’t know how he can keep track of anything going on.
“Nah, I’m good.”
“Coke, Isadora?”
“Yes, please.”
He pulls a cold can out of a hidden fridge in the bar and hands it to me. “So.”
“So?”
“The entryway is off-limits, but what would you do with this room?”
“What makes you think I’d do anything with it?”
His dimple shows up. “You glared at the blinds.”
“It’s a great room! Really. But . . .” My mouth twists into a reluctant smile. I detail my plans, and Ry nods, following my finger as I point out what would go and what could stay.
“. . . And the overhead lighting is pretty, but wrong for this room. There shouldn’t be any fixture, just recessed lights along the edges of the room, with a dimmer so you could control the level.”
“I should have you talk to my mom,” he says, thoughtfully staring at where the popcorn machine would go.
“Is she here?” Scott sits up straight, suddenly engaged in the conversation.
“Don’t think so.”
“Ah, crap.”
“Plans for hitting on DeeDee thwarted?” Tyler asks as she walks into the room and sits next to Scott.
“Sadly, yes.”
“Wait—you want to—his mom?” Eww. Just, eww. People suck. “You’re okay with that, Tyler?”
Tyler shrugs, her sharp shoulders lifting the corners of her mouth at the same time. “Yeah. But only because I’d probably make out with her if I got the chance, too. You should see her.”
I look at Ry in horror, embarrassed for his sake, but he shakes his head. “Used to it.”
“Really, you need to see her,” Tyler insists.
“Really, I can promise you that I’ll have no desire whatsoever to hit on Ry’s mom if and when I see her. Ever.”
Tyler and Scott snort their private laughter. “Sure. If you think Ry’s gorgeous, just wait.”
“Who says I think Ry’s gorgeous?” I say, raising an eyebrow.
“Nature pretty much demands it. Unless—are you a robot?” Scott slaps his forehead. “Of course!”
Tyler nods solemnly. “We should have seen it sooner. That long, elegant neck, those eyes, the hips, the perpetual good-hair days. Totally a robot.”
“The only question that remains is whether she’s a good robot, or an evil one.”
“Well, Hera liking you might indicate you’re evil,” Ry says. “But then again, nothing evil could appreciate my truck as much as you do. Speaking of, can I offer you rides anywhere you want for the rest of the summer in return for redesigning my bedroom?”
“Time for us to go!” Tyler says, standing up so fast she dumps Scott, who had his legs across her lap, on the ground. “Just remembered we have a thing! I’ll call you later!” She practically skips out of the room, dragging her grinning boyfriend by the hand.
That blonde? Evil. I’m going to make her take every Children’s Discovery Room shift for a month.
“So,” Ry says, turning toward me, his face a picture of innocence but his eyes doing that thing where they erase the rest of the world. “You think they want us to get together?”
I choke on my mouthful of Coke, narrowly avoiding spewing it all down my front, then focus on Ry, glaring. If he thinks I’m going to be coy about this, he’s wrong. I refuse to flirt. “Yeah, actually, I do think she’s trying to set us up.”
He nods. “Tyler tends to go into mother-hen mode. She thinks I’m by myself too often, and obviously thinks the same of you, which in her mind turns into making us a couple.”
“I’m not going to date you.”
He has the nerve to look puzzled, and—oh floods, are you kidding me—sad. “Have I done something to you?”