Bladed Wings (23 page)

Again he sped. Timothy got to Howe, saw a patrol car, and tried to ignore the adrenaline surging through every drop of blood. He needed to calm down and control like his professors tried to teach him for the last year and a half.
Calm down,
he ordered.
She’s fine,
he promised himself. He couldn’t know that, but he doubted Roman would know where Timothy lived or how to find Jenny.

Timothy planned.

He’d go see her, make sure she’s safe, make sure they didn’t rush her. After that, he’d go back, talk to Cordinox and find some way to keep her safe. That’s what the bandleader wanted, Timothy reminded himself. Erzu wanted to keep that position so he couldn’t let Maria Despada get to Jenny, just like he couldn’t let her get killed so there had to be some way to protect her.

Right?

Timothy didn’t have an answer to his question.

All the luck of combat and fighting melted away as he started hitting every red light. Traffic crawled along the streets, past Fair Oaks, past the office parks that bordered Sac State, past the river, then closer and closer to The Verge as Timothy drove past strip malls and fast food places. He hit the radio and found commercials. Every station told him to buy something, and he would’ve emptied his wallet right then if he could just know she was okay. He had to see her, had to know she’d be safe.

Or he’d get there, find a swarm of demons, and get ripped apart failing to protect her.

He would take either answer, because he didn’t have a choice. He’d never run from her.

Past the front gates to The Verge and Timothy sped past the Student Center, the pool no one used, the volleyball courts, and the laundry room. Then he kicked his breaks, pulled the parking brake, slid out, and ran up the stairs to the second floor. Timothy sprinted to Jenny’s door.

Then he stopped. Everything looked okay. The door was shut; the window wasn’t broken. A glance down at the parking lot and Timothy didn’t see any one else. There weren’t any residents or potheads, let alone demons.

He knocked on her door, and it opened moments later. “Hey,” Jenny said, one hand braced against the doorframe. If Jenny wanted to look cute and sexy, she definitely succeeded, probably a lot better than she ever guessed. “How’s it going?” It took him those words to hear the scratch in her voice.

“Are you okay?”

“I caught a cold. I’m pretty sure you gave it to me.”

“I’m never sick,” Timothy lied.

“Liar. You got me sick with all of your boy germs.”

“Right.”

“Do you want to come in?” she asked.

“You’re sure you’re up for a visit?”

“It’s a cold,” she said as she tugged him in by the wrist. “I just need to rest.”

“No class?”

“Looked like a good day to cut. I’ve been sleeping through most of it.”

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

“Not yet,” she said and then yawned. Whatever jolt came from seeing Timothy had started to fade. “I was sleeping.”

“And I woke you?” that was one of the more solemn questions he’d ever asked.

“I was dreaming. The real thing’s better,” and she squeezed his hand again. Timothy watched her walk back to her couch.

“Do you have any soup?”

“What? No, we’re not good with food.”

“You don’t have any chicken soup?” he asked. “Really? How’s that one possible?”

“I don’t cook, and neither does Jessica, so hey, we don’t worry so much about groceries.”

“Sit down,” he said, pointing at the couch.

“Why?” Jenny had her hands on her hips. Of course she would have sat down on her own, but now that he asked her to, she had to stand there and challenge him. He liked that about her because it made him smile. Timothy never knew someone who could do something like that.

“You need to rest.”

“I can rest standing.”

“Are you always this stubborn?”

“Only if I don’t get a good reason.”

“Fine,” he said, shutting the cupboards. She’d been right. All he found was half a jar of peanut butter, an unopened box of crackers, and some stale Oreos. “You’re going to sit down and rest. I’m going to go back to my apartment, get some soup, come back, heat it, and then you’re going to eat it.”

“Fine,” she said and that could’ve been annoyance except for the smile she hid, the one that managed to creep up her cheeks and crinkle her eyes.

With a quick shake of his head, Timothy headed back to his apartment. She was safe. That’s what counted, and he wanted to run back, to see her. It shouldn’t have been like that. Being away from her shouldn’t have felt strange. Or maybe it was the energy, the little factoid of knowledge he’d go back and see her again. Fifth grade was probably the last time Timothy felt something like this. There was that game he wanted, the one everyone else was playing. And he remembered holding the shrink wrapped box of plastic, almost shivering as he thought about the worlds he’d explore, the connections he’d make, all of those pounding experiences. That’s when he ran back to his mom’s car, almost desperate to get home and start.

Soup can in hand, Timothy jogged back to Jenny’s apartment. He saw her at the door with a garbage bag. “What are you doing?” he demanded, mock serious.

“I have to throw this out.”

“Here,” Timothy held out his hand.

“No, I can do it.”

“It’s cold out there.”

“So?”

“You don’t have a coat.”

“I can take a few seconds of cold.”

“But you’re sick and I’m here, and I’m going to take care of you whether you like it or not. Understand?”

“Well, aren’t we big and mighty?”

“Right now, yeah.”

“Okay, okay,” Jenny faced her apartment again. Timothy set down the soup and ran back through the cold. He found the big rectangle for trash behind the Student Center and swung the black bag over his shoulder to hear it crash into everything else no one wanted. As he clapped the dust from his hands, Timothy checked to see if anyone spied on him. When he didn’t find any observers, he turned and ran, sprinting back up the steps and almost laughing because he wanted to see Jenny again.

Huddled in the nook of the couch, she didn’t open her eyes as he came in. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Of course I do.”

“You really don’t.”

Instead of arguing, Timothy grabbed one of their apparently never-before-used pots, got some water, and poured the soup. As it cooked on their stove, he went back to the living room. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were red, and he could hear her breathing.

“You’re looking at me, aren’t you?” Jenny asked, her eyes still shut.

“Maybe.”

“Stop it.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not dolled up and purdy.”

“I disagree,” he said.

Jenny smiled, her eyes still closed.

A few minutes later he came back with the bowl of soup.

He sat across from her while she ate. Between spoonfuls, she told him thank you.

“For the soup?”

“For stopping by.”

“Always a pleasure,” he said with half a bow.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“Want to hear something crazy?” Timothy asked. When she nodded, he said, “I still need your number.”

“That’s how you ask a girl for her number?”

“Maybe I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. We go out on Friday, and it’s Monday, and I still don’t have it.”

“So you come up to me and say, ‘I still need your number’? That’s not gonna work. You have to be smooth, sly, you know, chat me up a bit. That’s a pretty privileged piece of information you want. A lot of guys would kill for these digits.”

“That’s probably true,” he laughed and asked. “So what should I say? What are the right words so you’ll decide I’m worth the seven magic numbers that let me talk to you across vast distances?”

“That’s your puzzle to solve.”

“You’re mean.”

“Hey, you’re the guy just demanding I tell you.”

“True.” Timothy stopped for a second, leaning forward. He stared down at her coffee table without really seeing it. Instead, he thought and planned. He scanned through different chances, different options and words. He put his hands on his knees, stretched forward and said, “You should trust me because I’m the guy who brought you soup. I’m the guy who’s had feelings for you for a long time.” Jeremiah would’ve told him to never, ever, ever, admit something like that. “I have fun with you, and I care about you, and I feel like a better person when I’m with you. I feel like everything is right if we’re together. So you should give me your phone number.”

“Wow.” Shock rang in that word. Timothy felt his stomach drop, the same way it did when he dueled Despada’s creatures.

“Too much?” Timothy asked, his voice low. He was glad it didn’t crack, that he managed those two syllables because he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life thinking about how he screwed up this great relationship by being too honest. Timothy imagined Jeremiah at some party laughing without knowing why.

Jenny’s answer came out as little more than a whisper, “No.”

“You’re sure?” stupid question, but he wasn’t smart, not then.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” she said. “I feel the same. I’m happy you’re here. Like scary happy you’re here.”

“So does that mean I can have your phone number?”

Laughing, Jenny chucked a pillow at him and winged Timothy in the head. Rubbing his head because she could throw a lot harder than she probably realized, Timothy talked about other stuff until Jenny asked, “What are you afraid of?” The first answer was obvious: he feared losing her, feared it in a special way that felt like a punch to the stomach, the kind of fear that came with hearing a crack and knowing it’s a broken bone.

He went with a second answer, “Burning. I’ve got a thing about getting burned alive. What about you?”

“I used to be scared of the dark. Not just the whole thing where every kid’s afraid of the dark. It was like I really freaked out.”

“Were your parents understanding?”

“Pretty much. They knew I’d grow out of it so they got me a nightlight in the meantime.”

“How long?”

“How long did it take to grow out of it?” she asked and thought, “Maybe I was ten? But there are times, like when I’m alone and the windows are black and I start thinking about all of the bad things that could happen. Then I get a little nervous.”

“I’m here,” Timothy said.

“True. If there’s a monster, it’ll eat you first, giving me time to escape.”

“Why would it eat me first?”

“You’re bigger, and a gentleman, right? So you’d have to stay behind to fight.”

“Great being a guy,” Timothy mumbled.

When Jenny finished her soup, she put the tray aside, took the remote and asked, “Want to sit with me?” Timothy took his spot a few inches away. He didn’t want to her to feel uncomfortable, crowded. Still, he couldn’t deny the jolt of excitement when she scooted closer. Jenny flicked through different shows until she stopped at a cartoon. “Great stuff,” she said when the theme song started.

“I’m pretty sure my English teachers would disagree.”

“So they’re wrong.”

“What makes this great?” Timothy asked.

“It’s a show about an idiot, but he lives like there aren’t any consequences to his actions. It’s Carpe Diem all over the place.”

“And that’s good?”

“That’s great. You need someone who can say anything if you want to see anything.”

“Deep.”

“Not much for philosophy?”

“A little,” he said. “I’m just not very good at it.”

“Practice.”

“I hope so,” Timothy said because she could be the one to teach him. She got comfortable, her legs pulled up onto the couch, her head on his lap, and they settled into the show. Half way through the next sitcom, Timothy glanced down and saw she was asleep.

Sitting there in the dark, Timothy didn’t really like this show. The sitcom about two guys and the kid they adopted couldn’t make him laugh. In fact, he got more interested in the commercials, there would be some good movies in March. But getting the remote meant moving and that might have woken Jenny. Instead, he sat there, his fingers silent as he ran his fingers along her hair. When she shifted he went stiff, afraid he woke her, but she just readjusted herself, snuggling deeper into the crook between Timothy and the couch. A comic book hero would have complained about the pain and stress of keeping something from her. And he would’ve liked to tell her. Sure, it might have been nice if someone knew, but Timothy wouldn’t put that on her. He just wanted to know she was there and safe and that was plenty. Sitting there with her, keeping her company in the shadowed glow of terrible TV, Timothy didn’t know what else he could want.

“You’re still here,” she mumbled hours later.

Timothy’s eyes flittered open as he remembered where he was and why his thighs were so hot. “I am.”