Ephemeral (The Countenance) (51 page)

“I’ll be fine.” He shoots a quick look to Wes.

“Let’s get you to the hospital,” Wesley says it curt, as if the hospital were simply a means of getting rid of Coop.

Wes reels me in. He warms the back of my neck with his hot hand.

“No, thanks.” Cooper looks from me to Wes, slow and methodical. “I’ll be okay. I’m a quick healer. Good genes.” He twitches his brows. It makes me wonder if Wesley knows about Cooper and his genes.

The creature sizzles and snaps like oil on a hot iron skillet. It evaporates in a plume of smoke until all that’s left is a pile of ashes.

“What the hell just happened?” I shout, wild from the trauma.

Wes and Coop exchange glances.

“I don’t know,” Wes says. “But I don’t think we should hang out and wait for a reprisal.”

We head back to the parking lot, and Coop calls Jackson to let him know we’re taking off.

“I’ll hang out and wait for them. You guys go ahead.” Coop is resigned to the fact I’m not going home with him.

“All right, man.” Wes clasps his hand in a mock high-five. “Call if you need me.”

“Night.” Cooper looks right at me and inadvertently spears me with his sadness.

“Night, Coop.” I lock eyes with him—for a brief moment I consider going home with Cooper.

Wes helps me into his glossy, brand new SUV that cuts into my lungs with its fresh-from-the-factory scent.

Cooper hops in his truck and raises his hand with a brief wave. I watch him darken to a silhouette, solid and stable before evaporating to pitch. Everything in my body cries out for Cooper Flanders. 

Wes and I take off onto the highway, and my heart breaks with every passing mile.

Wes drives us past Ephemeral to a row of brick houses that glow from the inside like jack-o-lanterns. He texted his mother to let her know we’d be dropping by.

“So this where you live,” I say.

Other than Wes grilling me on what might have occurred to inspire those Fems to try and tear our heads off, I’ve pretty much given Wes the cold shoulder all the way back.

“It’s just my mom for now.” He parks in the driveway of what appears to be a relatively modest home. “She’s worked at the school for so long they gave her a place off campus.” He kills the ignition and winces into me. “It’s weird having to explain all this to you. You’ve been here before.”

“No I haven’t,” I say it under my breath as we get out of the car.

Wes takes me up by the hand as we climb a long flat porch. A set of teak chairs sit out front, grey and thirsty for oil.

He walks us right inside.

It’s cozy with a large U-shaped sofa, bloated throw pillows lining the back. The heavenly scent of cinnamon and sugar lights up my senses.

“I’m home,” he calls.

It sounds so normal, so disturbingly believable.

Wes shoots a quick glance over to me.
What the heck is so hard to believe about reality?

I suck in a quick breath and take back my hand.

“Here you are.” Ms. Paxton appears from the kitchen, wrapped in a bright blue kimono. Her long hair cascades over one shoulder like a waterfall made of tar.

Kresley walks up beside her, and I jump a little at the sight.

“I was just dropping off your things.” Kresley’s eyes widen as she takes Wesley in. She runs her teeth soft over her swollen full lips, as if beckoning him to reevaluate his stance on their relationship. Kresley looks gorgeous in her tight black dress and heels with long, silver spikes. It’s like she knew we were coming and she made sure to dress to impress. I have a feeling after Wes sent his mother the text—she sent one of her own.

Ms. Paxton gives a gentle clap. “I was just heading up to watch a little television, maybe read a book. Stay as long as you like.” She looks from Wes to Kresley like I wasn’t even in the room—as if she were merely giving the happy couple some well-deserved alone time.

The three of us watch as she trots on up.

“It’s right here.” Kresley points over to a large box, the size of an apple crate. I don’t know why I envisioned a shoebox. “Remember this?” She snatches a stuffed mouse from the breakup bin and makes it dance through the air.

“Keep it,” he flat lines. He dips his gaze into the black hole of their relationship before shaking his head. “I don’t need any of it.”

“I thought you might like it.” She steps into him and runs her finger over his lips and he snatches her up by the wrist. “I don’t want the box, and I don’t want this.” He gently returns her hand.

Her mouth squares off in horror. She takes a swift step in my direction and pauses to take me in. Kresley evaluates me as her replacement with a knife-sharp hatred.

“Wes says he feels sorry for you,” she starts.

“Out.” Wes hardens his voice just this side of shouting.

“He says you need his help because you’re too stupid to figure things out on your own.” She bleeds a black smile.

Wes takes her by the shoulders and maneuvers her swiftly to the exit.

She spins around. “He’ll leave you by homecoming.” Her voice echoes over the vaulted ceiling. She grabs a hold of the doorframe and resists being forcibly removed.

Wes folds her limbs and lands her onto the porch.

“He says you’re just like a sister!” she screams as he shuts the door.

Wes gives a placid smile.

“Is that true?” I’m horrified by this. Had he been talking to Kresley about me behind my back?

His chest rises and falls with an exasperated sigh. He comes over and wraps his arms around my waist, places a simple kiss over my left brow.

He shakes his head. “That first night after you kissed me, I told her I thought of you like a sister. But I have news for you, Laken,” he whispers, blessing me with a heated kiss over my lips that suggests anything but a familial connection, “I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you—I’m going to marry you one day. I can feel it.” Wes bears into me a gaze that galvanizes those words into a covenant between us, welds our souls together in a unifying bond so strong that it already feels as if we’ve incurred matrimonial ties.

He crashes his lips over mine and absolves all of Kresley’s words. All thoughts of everyone else dissipate under this newfound bliss with the one true love of my past, present, and future.

You’re almost back
, he smolders over me, riding his hands hot under my sweater.
Come back, Laken. Remember who you are. Stop fighting for something that never existed
.

Wes pulls me toward the wall and switches off the lights, lands us soft on the couch without ever moving his lips from mine, the leash of his tongue holding us together.

I love you, Wes
. I press into him.
I’ve never stopped loving you and
I’ll never stop fighting for everything that once existed.

The next day, in lieu of sound doctrine and the clarity of hope and character that chapel has to offer, Mom picks Jen and me up for a serious wardrobe injection. As hard as I try to migrate over to the deep discount stores that sell both house wares and underwear just aisles apart, the woman who claims me as a spawn from her uterus, herds me right back out.

Instead, we end up in a department store laden with the thick fragrance of honey-scented perfume. A security guard slouches near the entrance. There’s another one stationed inside a glass room filled with fur coats—nothing but a mass grave for foxes and chinchillas.

I’m not sure why they have so much quasi law enforcement present. Back home it would have been completely necessary. Our mall was rife with shoplifters. But here in Trinity, where the wealthy grind up dollar bills and drink them for breakfast simply for the fiber content, security seems like an unnecessary extravagance, a secret service for the VIP elite.

Two women appear to help us with heavily made-up faces. You would think they had just stepped off a stage, finished a stint of dinner theater and dashed to their second job at the mall. They have a slight transvestite appeal with their dark outlined lips, caked-on foundation, and eyebrows that look like someone drew them in with a Sharpie while they were sleeping. They don red matching suits and tend to us like servants as my mother rattles off a slew of necessities in our respective sizes—bras and underwear, socks, hose, and something called dickeys. I try to hold back the unwarranted laughter. Truth is, I don’t even know what the hell a dickey is. At first, I thought she said
hickey,
and I had a mouthwatering flashback of Cooper’s neck, but when she ordered it in eleven different colors for both Jen and me I figured it was something akin to a handkerchief or some other impractical accessory only the rich and not-so-famous find logical to include in their wardrobes.

We meander through aisles of pretentious-looking clothes, colors, and textures that I wouldn’t readily grace my person with, and the prices are so high I’m beginning to wonder if they accidentally put a dollar sign in front of the SKU numbers.

Jen makes her purchase decisions based solely on designer. She likes one designer in particular—Tao Ettera. His questionable accruements looks like a derelict pulled a few things out of his bag and let a cat claw on them for good measure. Jen has to have all of the pieces, a.k.a. crap in his collection, because as she assures me, Tao is a styling genius. Personally, I think we should report him to the fashion police. Clearly, he’s committed an entire host of fabric-based felonies that should land him in a cloth-deprived prison cell. He should be forced to weave baskets out of hemp for a living because obviously he’s been smoking it. They should bar him from
wearing
clothes, let alone creating them. Then, as the ultimate punishment, they should hang him by way of one of his asymmetrical sweaters for furnishing the world with such atrocities.

I pull out the label on one of the shirts and have the misfortune of seeing the dollar amount it commands. A gurgle gets lost in my throat. I don’t know whether to insult Jen or ask to have her arrested for negligence and abuse of the monetary system.   

“It’s an investment,” she defends the rainbow vomit with a price tag laden with far too many digits. “Plus it’s heirloom quality.” She glowers into me as if any idiot with half a brain would rather choose an Ettera over a brand new car. Of course it would be a mid-priced car, and Jen and the rest of the spoiled brood of Ephemeral Asses would sooner shove a bastardized Ruger down their throats than be seen in one of those—but not Coop. 

Jen glances at her watch before abandoning her allegiance to the aforementioned textile artesian and begins plucking up everything in a five-foot radius. The department store droids spring into action and make a mad grab, catching hangers midflight.

“Don’t just stand there,” Jen snipes amidst the flurry. “We’re going to miss the premiere if we don’t leave in a half an hour.”

God forbid we miss Grayson’s fifteen minutes of shame.

“You can catalog shop.” My mother pauses to pull a hair off her tongue and examines it a moment. Strangely this act of the commoner endears me to her. It seems so very human, normal, as if life still affects her with its basic irritants even though poverty and devastation were two things she needed to travel abroad to witness.

“Laken.” Her features sharpen with disapproval. “You’ll need your sister’s guidance. Just the basics, you’re in uniform all week anyway. Focus on slim fitting, complimentary pieces, not the garbage bags you’re used to draping over yourself.” She pats the air to deflect the fur from one of Jen’s sweaters. “You should consider cutting out the fries and sodas. Your face is starting to pock.” She leans in for a closer inspection and wrinkles her nose at me.

I touch my hand to my cheek. I have a perfectly clear complexion. The only thing irritating my skin is her trying to crawl underneath it.

And this is the mother I’m related to? I’m starting to miss Suzanne Stewart and her eighty proof nightcaps. Although, the more I study Claire Anderson, the more I see a resemblance, though vague and distant. How could it be, that my mother back in Cider Plains wasn’t a relation at all? And I can’t get over what it might imply about Lacey. Not that it matters. Family is family. You don’t need blood or paperwork to prove it.