Drowning Instinct (15 page)

By the time we made it back to Faring Park, the sun was nearly gone and the woods were black. Mine was the only car in the lot. As Mr. Anderson pulled up alongside, I unbuckled my seatbelt. ―Thanks for lunch and . . . for helping me.‖ Then I blurted, ―I had a really good time.‖

―Me, too.‖ In the failing light, I couldn‘t make out his expression, but he sounded sincere. ―So are we running tomorrow?‖

My heart surged. ―Sure.‖

―Great. Nothing huge, though. We‘ll save huge for a couple days from now. How many tempo runs you done in the last month?‖

―None? I do mainly distance.‖

―That‘s not good. Endurance is great, but you ought to be doing tempo runs to improve your speed. How about we do that tomorrow? Say, forty-five minutes?‖

Ah. The magic words:
endurance, speed, tempo
. I knew where he was going. Never too late to join the team, especially when your lead runner‘s having the crappiest season of her life. Well, why not? The season was two-thirds over; I needed the exercise; Danielle could suck it up. ―Okay.‖

―Excellent. I want to clock you at peak for a 5K. You do well with that, we‘ll go to an interval run day after. Of course, when school starts back up . . .‖

―I join the team for workouts.‖

―That‘s the idea. We‘ll move indoors when the really bad weather hits, but I run outside most days unless it‘s downright dangerous. If you want . . .‖ He hesitated then continued, ―You could keep running with me.‖

Was it my imagination, or did I hear a note of worry, that I might refuse? ―Okay.‖

―Good.‖ He sounded the tiniest bit relieved. ―So, how about tomorrow morning?

Early, like eight? I‘ll pick you up and we can have breakfast after. Promise, I won‘t cook.

We‘ll go to a café I know. The pancakes are to die for.‖

―That would be great.‖ I popped the door. The dome light flicked on, washing the interior of the Prius with light. Scooting out, I turned back to lift my pack from the footwell, except Mr. Anderson had bent and was already handing it up. Our gazes met. I don‘t know why, but we both went still. Neither of us looked away, and there was something there. I know he felt it because I saw some emotion chase across his face. My mouth had gone so dry, I had to slick my lips. ―Thanks again. Really.‖

―No.‖ He let go of my pack. ―Thank
you
.‖

He waited until I had my car started and then he followed, not turning off at his house the way I expected but staying with me all the way to the main road, like he wanted to be sure I got out okay, or that nothing happened. We met no other cars on the road and I went slowly, mindful of deer which would start moving around once the sun went down and the temperature fell. By the time I saw the sign for the interstate, it was full dark and the deer were out, their eyes bright as green coins in my headlights. Mr. Anderson honked once and then I watched in my rearview as his Prius swung around and headed back for his house. I slowed, watching the twin red eyes of his taillights until they were out of sight.

Then, I got mad at myself. Like, okay, obsess much? Even so, as dumb as I felt, I kept glancing into my rearview, half-hoping he might magically appear.

He didn‘t.

But I kept hoping anyway.

Okay, sidebar.

Yes, I knew what was happening to me. I had no idea what was in Mr. Anderson‘s head, but I‘m not completely clueless, Bob. I‘d been fighting against the feeling since that moment I saw Mr. Anderson bathed in sunlight, a demigod in khaki pants and Ralph Lauren. I might be weird, but I‘m not stupid. I knew—and I let it happen.

And why?

Because.

Just ...because.

Okay, fine. Because I felt
bad
. Okay, Bob? My mother was a self-involved drunk, my father was a psycho-asshole used to getting his way and Matt . . . Matt was gone.

I was alone. I was sweet sixteen, the age when a mermaid finds her prince. I believed in magic and love at first sight and fate. I was every girl who ever lived. So now I had an adventure all my own, a deliciously agonizing secret.

Want to know how girls think, Bobby-o? Well, here‘s the inside scoop. It‘s the torture of
not
knowing that fuels a romance and that kind of pain is sweet, so sweet. It‘s the
longing
, stupid. Unrequited love is the best of all. Look at Shakespeare. He tells you, right up front, that Romeo and Juliet are star-crossed lovers. (You really want to get down to it, Romeo‘s first lines are all about getting into Juliet‘s panties. The boy has his priorities.) You know it‘s not going to work out, but you root for those crazy kids anyway. They kiss, a
lot
, and she‘s
fourteen
. They
finally
get each other into bed and then, by nightfall of the following day? They‘re history. No morning breath for them or kids in diapers or Romeo dragging home after a hard day dueling. They get a taste of heaven and
when
they die, what you think is that, for them, one night of bliss was worth it.

Here‘s what Will and Jane and Charlotte and all those writers knew, what every person who‘s ever fallen in love gets, Bob: nothing‘s ever as good as the build up to that first kiss. Obsession is an engine all its own, a torment of the most pleasant kind. The rest is just . . . a real letdown.

Come to think of it, obsession—
anticipation
—is the glint of a razor, the wink of a knife poised above unblemished skin. The moment when you‘ve reached that proverbial fork in the road: cut, or not. Bleed. Or not.

So, yeah, Bob, I was letting myself obsess. I‘d even had flashes of thinking about Mr. Anderson
that way
. When he kneaded my calf and then slipped his arm around my waist to help me back to his car, his touch was electric, his fingers fiery. My heart thumped harder; this wonderful zing buzzed in my chest. I understood
why
his food tasted so wonderful, why sharing the preparation was so intimate. Why I watched his hands as he washed the dishes, thinking how those hands might feel on me.

You getting off, Bobby? Think it‘s going to get all
graphic
? Like I‘m going to make it
fun
for you? Hah. Keep dreaming. But thoughts like that? Yeah, I had them and they felt good. Mr. Anderson was a nice person; he had a great house; everyone liked him . . . and he wanted to spend time with me.
Me
. Yes, I knew this was partly some campaign to make sure I joined the team. Danielle said Mr. Anderson picked up strays, and I qualified. For all I knew, he had kids over to his house all the time.

But what if I wasn‘t
just
a stray? The way he‘d rescued me from Dr. Kirby; that moment when our eyes met ... What if the emotion I saw in his face wasn‘t simply a reflection of my own?

What if...what if...what if...round and around and around. Push me, pull you.

I didn‘t care. I liked how I felt because longing made me normal.

Even if I felt kind of pathetic at the same time.

29: a

Hello, honey. Your father and I have decided to stay up here until the end of the
week. We’re having such a relaxing time and it’s been forever since I went kayaking and
hiking....

There‘d been seven calls, three from Mom but she‘d left only one message. Her voice was so bubbly, I almost didn‘t believe it was her.

Anyway, you don’t have school, so you don’t really need us there, right? If you want
to reach us, you can call my cell, or Dad’s....

Someone in the background now: my father, sounding as petulant and whiny as a little kid. Mom‘s voice suddenly muffled as she put her hand over the phone, but her laugh was flirty and buoyant as a girl‘s:
Aren’t you tired out yet?

Okay, too much information. After a sec, Mom came back:
Anyway, hope
everything’s okay and you’re keeping busy. How’s that report coming? Love you. Bye.

Click.

The ID for the other four calls was blocked. No messages at all.

It was still early, only a little past eight. I picked up Alexis‘s book but couldn‘t concentrate, my thoughts winging back to Mr. Anderson‘s run-in with that shark. I could never be that brave. The only person I knew who came close was Matt the night he rescued me from the fire.

Oh, Matt
. I hadn‘t written for the longest time and wondered what was wrong with me. Writing to Matt had always been a priority. It didn‘t matter that Matt‘s letters never changed. What mattered was the lifeline
my
e-mails provided. Maybe Matt could treat himself as if he was already dead, but I couldn‘t allow myself to think that. One of us had to believe he was still alive. I just couldn‘t face the alternative.

So I was sitting there, staring at the list of Matt‘s e-mails in their special folder. My e-mail account was open, my laptop softly humming to itself—and I couldn‘t think of a thing to say. There was no way I could really talk about Mr. Anderson and I‘d already written the same boring stuff to Matt a million times before. I was suddenly so
tired
of playing this stupid game....

The phone rang, making me jump. The caller ID said
no data sent
. Normally, I wouldn‘t have picked up, but this time I grabbed the handset, thinking:
Maybe he’s .
. .

―Hello?‖

―Emily?‖ A man, not Mr. Anderson, and he sounded pissed. ―Emily, damn it, why the hell haven‘t you picked up?‖

―My mom‘s not here.‖ (Idiot. What was the first thing they taught little kids? Never admit you‘re alone in the house?) ―May I take a message?‖

―Oh.‖ Pause. ―This isn‘t a cell? Is this Jenna?‖

―Who‘s calling, please?‖

―It‘s Nate Bartholomew. We met a few nights ago at your mom‘s . . . your parents‘

party.‖

―Yes, I remember,‖ I said, thinking:
yes, I remember Mom touched your hand, and I
remember how you whispered in her ear and the way she looked at you.
―My mom‘s away and won‘t be back for another couple of days.‖

―Oh.‖ Another pause. ―I thought this was her cell. Well, uh, look, do you have that number?‖

―Sure.‖ I gave him the number and then put in, ―My dad‘s with her.‖ (I know: mean.) ―I can take a message and have her call if she‘s got a minute.‖

Bartholomew hemmed and hawed over that one, and then gave me some bogus story about how Mom was supposed to arrange a signing only his publicist didn‘t think the date would work . . . something stupid like that. He was lying; Evan always arranged signings. But I let him tell his story and said I‘d have Mom call. ―Or you can try her cell.‖

―No, no, that‘s okay. Just the message, thanks.‖ He hung up fast, probably worried I‘d make another suggestion.

Replacing the handset, I toyed with the idea of saying something to my mother and gauging her reaction. Then, I thought, you know, mind your own business. What did they say about sleeping dogs?

In the end, I called Evan. The store was closed, so I helpfully left a voice mail all about poor Nate Bartholomew.

And try explaining
that,
Mom
.

Really, Bob, I never could take my own advice.

30: a

Tuesday dawned colder but still cloudless. We ran on Mr. Anderson‘s property, a counterclockwise loop from his house skirting the lake and then west into the woods and toward Faring Park. As Mr. Anderson promised, we did a tempo run: fifteen minutes of an easy pace, then twenty of pushing to peak, and then a fifteen minute cooldown. We didn‘t talk. Mr. Anderson said that distracted me from paying attention to how my body felt close to peak, something he said I needed to recognize: ―You have to understand when you still have more to give. Winning is a combination of ability, determination, and strategy. You won‘t win unless you know when to pull the trigger.‖

Whatever. I was just happy being outside. The run was better than the day before; the stinging air smelled of juniper and fir. My body felt sleek and powerful. I was a panther gliding over the earth, racing through the forest.

Our return route had us going southeast and then north around the top hump of his lake. By then it was past nine and I could see the lake through the trees, the surface of the water mica-bright now that the morning mist had burned away. That‘s when I noticed a meandering side trail, hemmed with balsam and tamarack, leading down to the lake. Bolts of sunlight speared through gaps in the trees, and I thought I saw a sparkle of glass. I remembered the images I‘d pulled up on Google Earth, that small cabin nestled in the woods.

Back at the house, there were fresh towels in the guest bathroom and orange juice in the kitchen. Afterward, we went to a farmhouse ten minutes past Faring Park that had been converted into a bistro, with a tinkly little bell above the door, a display case of homemade bread and buns, and a small kitchen. The lady behind the counter looked up as we came in.

―Mitch,‖ she said, and then her gray eyes slid to me. ―One of your girls?‖

The way she said
girls
made me squirm. Mr. Anderson only chuckled and put a proprietary hand on my shoulder, just like a coach. ―What‘s the matter, Adelaide? Jealous?‖

Adelaide snorted. ―Twenty years too late for that. Isn‘t this a little late in the season?‖

―Never too late to add a great runner to the team. Adelaide, Jenna. Jenna, this is Adelaide, best short-order cook in the county and a notorious gossip.‖

―Hello,‖ I said. ―Nice to meet you.‖

―I doubt that very much. On the other hand, Mitch is right. I
am
the best short-order cook in the county.‖ Adelaide showed Mr. Anderson a thin smile. ―And how‘s Kathy?‖

―She‘s fine. Visiting her dad in Minneapolis again,‖ said Mr. Anderson and then that got Adelaide talking about the time her father got the cancer and how long he‘d taken to die. Then we ordered, filled thick white mugs with coffee and wandered into a small dining room. A cheery fire snapped and popped in a stone fireplace. Other than two older guys in coveralls at a far table near the window, we were the only customers. We took our coffee to a table right in front of the fireplace.

For a few awkward moments, we didn‘t say anything and I think it struck me then how strange this was, like I‘d slipped into an alternative universe or something, a place where people called Mr. Anderson by his first name and knew what he liked to eat (pancakes with strawberries and link sausage) without having to ask. I bet there was a bartender somewhere who knew just exactly how Mr. Anderson liked his martinis, if he drank them. As I thought about that—about the sly way Adelaide had brought up Mrs.

Anderson—a tiny nip of jealousy bit the back of my neck. One of Mr. Anderson‘s
girls
?

That made me sound like a, well, a prostitute or something.

―I‘m sorry about that.‖

I blinked away from my thoughts. Mr. Anderson was watching me. ―I‘m okay,‖ I said and then took a sip of my coffee. It wasn‘t as good as Mr. Anderson‘s.

―Yes, but it bugs you.‖

―A little.‖

He sighed. ―I should‘ve known Adelaide couldn‘t keep it buttoned. Summers especially, I sometimes get the team together for a run and then bring them here for breakfast.‖

―You don‘t need to tell me this,‖ I lied.

―Yes, I do. I don‘t like the way Adelaide treated you. I don‘t like what she implied and when I come back,
alone
, I think she and I will have a little talk.‖

―I don‘t want to get her into trouble.‖

―Adelaide makes her own—‖ He broke off as another woman brought our food. We thanked her, waited until she‘d refilled our mugs and gone, and then Mr. Anderson began buttering his pancakes. ―Kathy‘s been gone an awful lot. At this point, you might say she‘s moved back to Minneapolis for the duration. Her dad‘s pretty bad, and her mom‘s dead and she‘s the only kid, so . . .‖ He doused his pancakes with syrup, forked out a bite, and chewed. He smiled and said, ―Adelaide may be a bit tough to take, but she
does
make one helluva pancake.‖ He thumbed his plate toward me. ―Want a bite?‖

Yes. The pancakes smelled warm and strawberry-sweet. Saliva puddled under my tongue. ―No, thanks.‖

―Don‘t know what you‘re missing. Besides, a runner needs her carbs.‖

―About that . . .‖ I salted my eggs, over easy, wishing they were pancakes. ―I haven‘t decided to join the team.‖

―Look, I think you‘d be an asset, but I‘m not going to pressure you. There are five races left. If you don‘t run for me this fall, maybe you will in the spring. Spring comes and you don‘t want to join up, it‘s fine. That won‘t change anything. I‘ll be running for most of the winter and if you‘d like to keep running together, that would be great. If not, that‘s okay, too.‖

―I‘d like to keep running. It‘s nice to run with—‖ I chickened out at the last second.

―Someone else,‖ I said, and hated how lame I sounded.

Mr. Anderson‘s smile seemed genuine. ―I like running with you, too. Now, eat before your food gets cold.‖

Adelaide was a jerk, but her food was terrific and I vacuumed up my eggs, sausage, and hash browns in record time. Mr. Anderson watched as I cut a slice of buttered whole-wheat toast into long strips. ―Soldiers,‖ I said, sopping up egg yolk with one. ―Meryl says that‘s how they eat runny yolk in England.‖

―Yeah?‖ and then Mr. Anderson reached across, fingered up a soldier, swirled it in yellow goo, popped the drippy bread into his mouth, gave a meditative chew. ―Not bad,‖ he said around bread. He swallowed, then licked a dribble from his right pinky. ―Trade you a couple soldiers for some pancake.‖

―That would be nice,‖ I said.