Dodging Trains (17 page)

I shrug. “When Cugs and them left.” Sometimes it’s better to refer to my father as
them
. “I wish you hadn’t let go of Cugs.”

“Honey.” Mom’s eyes flicker over her clientele before they return to me. “Let’s not go there again, Paislee. If a person can’t adopt her spouse’s child, she has no say even if she raises him.” She lowers her voice, looking around us surreptitiously like we’re discussing news and secrets. “I was lucky your father didn’t dispute my sole custody of you.”

“But Cugs was a baby when he came to us. He was always with us,” I repeat myself like I do. Ivy’s isn’t a good place for the subject matter, and Mom and I have been over this too many times. The last thing she needs is another reminder of Dad’s infidelity. Of the loss of a son she’d taken in as hers.

“I wish you didn’t do the film clips,” Mom says, simply. “Can’t you turn them off?”

“My inner Netflix?” I joke. “You know I can’t, Mom. Deal with it.”

She leans over the counter, jutting her chin at me. “Honey, you’re the one who has to deal with it.” She swallows, quiet before she asks what she asks too often. This time there’s more hope in her voice than I like.

“Have you… Has he contacted you?”

I shake my head quickly so I can stifle her hope before it swells. The fall is harder when you start believing. Misunderstandings have taken a toll on both of us at different times, thinking the other had heard something.

I’d love to finally see my brother again, hug him, hold him like the little guy he still is to me. Cugs could be as tall as Dad for all I know, but he’s still the baby of the family.

They live somewhere in Florida, we’re pretty sure. Dad remarried to a much younger woman, the rule for middle-aged, divorced men, and his new wife tried to reach out to me. But that was four years ago. Though we received a real address for the first time, neither Dad nor Cugs ever responded to our attempts at connecting.

“I’m going to take a few vacay days while I’m there,” I say in a voice that’s clear and unhampered by pasts and sorrows. “Imma gonna check out the beach!”

She pulls in an excited breath, brushing her mind free of misgivings too. It’s what we do. It’s how we survive. “Really? They have a beach where you’re going?”

“It’s Florida. There are beaches everywhere.”

She laughs at that, not correcting me, and my face tugs back in a smile.

It’s three a.m.,
and I’m awake because I’m stupid. In a few hours, I’ll need to get up, get dressed, and go to the airport.

For the last five days, I’ve mulled over everything about this trip, from drinks on flights to my brother’s whereabouts. I located his high school through Internet searches, thankfully a daunting three-hour trip from where I’ll stay. What I haven’t done is allow myself to think of Keyon, which is probably the reason why I’ve been dreaming of him.

Tampa is only a thirty-five minute drive from Calceth, and in this last dream, I’d considered the pros and cons of grabbing the rent-a-car Old-Man set me up with and heading there. I ended up going to Keyon’s gym and stood outside for a minute, working up the courage to enter.

Night anxiety overwhelms me; thank goodness it was only a dream, because I’d done it—I’d entered the place. From behind a counter, the receptionist girl glanced up from rubbing some fighter’s shoulders, and just by her look, I knew how undesirable my presence was. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here for Keyon. I’m his friend,” I said, sensing how she saw straight through to the real me, the town slut from some random place up north.

“Oh really?” Disdain tightened her features. “I don’t think he keeps friends like you, but I can certainly ask.”

I wanted to backtrack, say that I’d changed my mind, but the words got stuck in my mouth. She sauntered off before I could stop her, leaving her fighter-pet to flex muscles and smear body oil on his chest.

He grabbed his junk and thrust in my direction. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you what you came for. The bathroom’s over there, yonder, if you’re of the private kind.”

I wish I hadn’t remained asleep long enough to witness Keyon cross his arms in the doorway. He stood there, stare void of emotion as he watched me, and it’s funny how dreams can offer perfectly realistic reactions; I took two steps back, covered my mouth in shame, and fled out the door.

I glimpse my egg on the nightstand. Switch the light on so I can take comfort in shimmering crystals over midnight blue enamel. As always, it does something to my chest. My lungs, maybe my heart, feel big beneath my ribs as I recall how Keyon spoke of my worth.

I tickle it open, shell for shell. Peel out one exquisite piece of non-wearable jewelry after the other and line them up on top of the covers. My eyes aren’t all the way open yet, but I see enough to feel a shift in my mood.

That little one, the tiny red heart, gives me the most comfort. Founded in Keyon’s opinion of me, and in the utopia of him being right, it makes my happy-feels brim over, like now when I blink liquid from an eye and lift this piece of perfection to my lips for a gentle peck.

Wrapping the heart back into its egg-shaped mothers has become a ritual that’s as soothing to me as watching it. I love how each layer provides another shelter of bulletproof, tucking it away from the world and from the possibility of shattering.

In the shower, I decide I’m not going to Tampa.

On the plane, it dawns on me that it’s common courtesy to tell your friends that you’ll be in their neck of the woods. The more I think about it, the more anxious I get.

With nerves come wayward thoughts; I’ll be down south for five whole days. That is a long time when you’re not used to traveling, when you know no one, and have no plans besides measuring a room.

The lighting
, I remind myself. I have to return at different times of the day to measure the amount of light streaming in through the windows on site. The light will decide how much gold we put in our solution.

Old-Man pays me for three work days. We’re hoping for different types of weather so I can measure the light not only morning and night, but also in overcast, in rain, and in bright sunshine too. Next, Old-Man will wield his magic on the chemicals to create the perfect surfaces for Markeston’s conditions.

I order a Bloody Mary from the stewardess as soon as we take off. The seats are cramped. The plane has a strange smell that’s gluing itself to the walls of my nostrils, but I have a window seat and the YouTube videos hadn’t done the clouds justice at all. I am in awe of nature.

I order a second Bloody Mary. Soon I’m buzzed and relaxed. The trip is long, I remind myself. I’ll be okay by the time I land, which is good, because my rent-a-car will be waiting.

On impulse, I pay for Internet access from my seat and send Keyon a text. I tell him where I’ll be landing and how long I’m staying. I tell him I know he’s busy—totally fine—I just want him to know where I’ll be.

I shoot off the message once it’s positively rambling, and then I freak out because it’s needy and missy and insecure and everything I’ve felt since he left. So I decide to not reread the message. I shut my cell off and stuff it in my purse.

KEYON

T
he Calceth airport
is the dwarf of airports. There are open parking spots so close to
Arrivals
I could get there on my hands and knees. Not that I’d consider it. It takes me half a minute to shoulder in the revolving door and I’m there, right where passengers meet greeters.

I canceled my Stripes outing with Zeke and the guys after a strange message from Paislee. She was chattering in it, not sounding like herself. Who fucking
chatters
in texts?

She’s coming to Florida for work, she said, something about measuring some dude’s house. It got me thinking, because with the way she deals with guys, he better have a wife close by. If not, Paislee will be the easiest lay he’s ever had. So here I am, just making sure.

A quick scouring of the board shows that her plane landed ten minutes ago. I stuff my hands into my pockets while I wait for her at the escalators, two tall ones starting way up there, next to a single, regular staircase on the right.

Colorful paintings of what Calceth has to offer are splattered over enormous, ceramic tiles on the walls. My guess is the artwork is courtesy of the Calceth Art Institute. I hung with a girl from there for a minute. Literally.

I straighten as people start pouring out from a corridor to the left. They pile in slowly and start descending one by one, none using the regular stairs. They stare in front of them, bored, as if they’ve had it with traveling for the day.

Only men for now. I wonder if Paislee sat next to any of them. Then I think they probably asked for her number. Does she give it out, or does she usually just give herself?

Miniature red dots appear before my eyes, and I inhale slowly, what I do when I’m in pre-fight mode. It helps sustain the right amount of fire without letting the rage build so high it overpowers me. I wheeze air out slowly between my teeth.

There she is. I have no doubt it’s her even from a distance. She’s small at the top of the stairs, but her presence claims a man’s attention in ways it didn’t when we were sixteen.

I see businessmen step to a side and gesture for her to go first. She nods, mouthing,
Thank you
. They’re respectful, as they should be. Interested, as they shouldn’t be.

My hands slip out of my pockets. Clench when I cross my arms over my chest. I don’t need to get up on the balls of my feet to become taller, but I find myself doing it anyway.

The curves of her body, the locks of hair snaking down over a breast—it’s what makes me do weird things. That, and the fact that she is Paislee.

PAISLEE

Is that Keyon
at the bottom of the escalator?

Jesus!

Is he…? Oh my God, he looks mad.

Dammit, he doesn’t have to babysit me while I’m here. I told him as much—I believe?—that I didn’t want to butt into his schedule.

How do I delete iPhone messages?

I do not want to read mine again.

I converse politely with some actual business dude on our descent. He mentions inherited money and a successful career, being single, well read, and the like. I’m so concerned about Keyon it’s hard to concentrate, so I smile and nod. Do an automatic flutter of eyelashes and purse my lips in the right places.

My mind does crazy loops when I’m nervous. At the corner of my eye, Keyon tightens his arms over his chest. It causes his arms to bulge, and I wonder if he knows what that does to girls like me.

His jeans look expensive and cut to his body. God, his thighs. I remember how they felt. I—re
ally would hate it if he were mad at me. I have to stop thinking.

One more step and we’re down. Real Business Dude turns to shake my hand, but Keyon is faster. Suddenly he’s there, grabs me by the waist, and all signs of him being mad have disappeared. He swings me into the air, defying gravity because I’m not feather-light, and his eyes are bright with happiness over seeing me.

He swirls me around, ignoring the guy I was talking to, and exclaims, “There you are, baby!”

I melt. Goodness, I have no idea what’s happening, but it’s so sweet, and I cannot believe how good it feels to hear him say
Baby.

When he sets me down, he doesn’t let me go far. It’s like he’s pushing me under his arm, fitting us together like jigsaw pieces. “You,” he says, kissing my temple. I have the impulse to swing into him so those lips fall on mine.

“I hope you have a great visit,” Real Business Dude offers with a polite bob of his head.

“Thank you, sir,” I say, more formal than I was with him on the plane. “It was great to meet you. Go kill that, um, merging,” I suggest. I must be onto something, because his smile becomes more genuine.

“Thanks.” He nods curtly at Keyon. I follow his gaze and find eyes that have frosted over. Oh. Is Keyon jealous? I want to
squee
at the thought.

I slink my arms around Keyon’s waist and pull myself closer. “Thanks for meeting me here,” I murmur, nudging my nose in against his chest. He’s warm, the way I remember him in my film clips. So nice.

He doesn’t reply until Real Business Dude has meandered off and we’re on our own. “After the message you sent me, I couldn’t take any chances,” he replies then. “Seriously, Paislee, what were you on when you wrote that?”

“Mmm, maybe a couple of Bloody Marys?” I mumble.

The few times we’ve talked on the phone since he left, Keyon has sounded aloof, short, and to the point. In text messages he’s been even less communicative. But now his arms are around me, keeping me safe and guiding me off to luggage claim, and his change is a lot to take in.

“Cute,” he says to my Bloody Mary confession, which sounds funny coming from someone so masculine. When I look up, his eyes are soft, and God, God—

I shut my eyes, worried.

“What?” he asks. It was uncomplicated in Rigita, knowing he’d leave in a few days. We probably both felt that way. Maybe it’s even less complicated in Florida. He’s the one living here, not me, our parents, and my entire freaking town. Would he want us to have what we had in Rigita for the days I’m here?

Would I?

Heck yes, I would. To have something more for once, something that lasted days, isn’t a step in the wrong direction.

“Nothing,” I say. “I’m just surprised to see you here. I won’t be staying in your city—you know that, right? Why I landed in Calceth, not Tampa,” I babble.

“I’m aware.” The hood of Keyon’s fleece leaves the hint of a shadow over his eyes. He blinks slowly, waiting for me to keep going, and I wish I had the confidence he radiates.

“I have a rent-a-car waiting for me,” I say.

“You do, huh?” He shakes his head a little without breaking eye contact. My neck is getting tired from staring up at him, but I can’t interrupt our connection. It feels like I’ve missed him even more these two weeks than when he first left Rigita.

“Do you have a hotel here?” he asks.

“Yeah, the Admiral Inn.”

“How about we do this.” He twists his wrist above my shoulder and checks his watch. “It’s eight p.m. now. I’ll lead the way, we’ll get you checked into the hotel, and you can drop off the car. Then we have a bite to eat. Sound good?”

My cheeks hurt. That’s funny, because I thought I’d really just started smiling. I guess it’s more of a grin though, which my face isn’t accustomed to. Keyon’s gaze travels over my features, and his own mouth slips into a slow smile. “That a yes?”

“Yes, uh-huh,” I manage. Keyon pulls the unimaginable out of me; I’m never awkward with guys. I pucker my lips quickly, knowing I have fresh lipstick on, and draw the corners of my mouth down into my more reserved, seductive smile.

Keyon laughs softly. I can’t tell if he understands that I’m acting for him. He looks happy at least when he loosens his hold to grasp my hand and guide me toward the conveyor belt. My new, red suitcase hobbles toward us, precariously balanced between a giant, black one and a beat-up, green duffel bag. I just point. Watch Keyon’s eyes dart from my finger to the correct suitcase. Then he tips it over his shoulder with his free hand and walks me toward the exit.

“So the Admiral first and then pizza?”

I titter, tired, excited, happy. “Done deal.”