anniversary.”
“Thirtieth? Wow.” I wonder what that might be like, having a big family to text with, to celebrate with.
“Do you have brothers or sisters?”
“Just Lindsey.”
His frown begins to take form—“How are you and Lindsey …”—only to be relieved by his text alert. “In all honesty, all they have to do is tell me when and where, you know? Theoretically, my responsibility begins and ends with showing up. Not like they’d trust me to actually do something anyway … One second.” He replies again. “There. That oughta do it. So.” He smiles.
We’re in a cozy booth at the Vagabond on the west side of the shack, overlooking the water. John’s sitting across from me, sipping a coffee, black.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” I say. “That note. The rosary reference.”
“Yeah.” He looks up at me, smiles, then glances downtoward his mug. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“Doubtful.” I think of my recently refilled prescription of Ativan, which is hidden in the front pocket of my backpack, and remember my mother’s commentary on the subject. “Crazy is relative, you know?”
“Interesting that you wanted to meet here.” John Fogel glances again at his watch, then trips his gaze around the room, as if searching for something that used to be there. “Ever come here on Fortune Night?”
Suddenly, my throat is dry. “Yeah. They don’t do it anymore.”
Not in just over a year, but I don’t want to talk about the reasons why their mystic is imprisoned at a mental health institution. When I glance over at the bar, I imagine my mother sitting at the end, flipping cards.
A strong sigh slips from between his lips. “You remind me of the woman who used to read cards here.” He clears his throat. “Look, Callie.”
I’ve never heard him speak my name before. It sort of stuns me for a moment, the natural intonation, as if he’s spoken my name a million times before.
A nagging sensation rises from somewhere in the back of my mind, as if I’ve forgotten to do something, or bring something of importance somewhere. Just as I’m about to let it go, the word arises from the clutter: Cobblestone. Cobblestone. Cobblestone . I press my hand against the front pocket of my backpack, feel the small, cylindricalcontainer stashed there. Maybe popping an antianxiety pill would be better than graphing out in front of him. Discreetly, I unzip the front pocket, open the vial, and extract a pill. I don’t have to take it. But if I want to, I can. I’ll bite it in half, maybe. Just take half. I rub my temples to ease the pressure building in my head. “Lindsey’ll be here soon.”
“I’m going to level with you,” he says. “I don’t care if Lindsey shows up or not. I didn’t come to see her.”
“Of course you did.” I don’t know who I’m trying to convince more, him or me. “She wrote you a note, and—”
“Did you write it? The note from Lindsey?” He squints a little, challenging me. “You spelled my name wrong.”
“Well, I know how to spell your name, and I have better things to do.”
Although he keeps fidgeting with his watch, his stare is unrelenting. I know he doesn’t believe me. But it’s not entirely a lie. I do have better things to do. Just not better enough. The Hutches are good to me. I’d write Lindsey’s doctoral dissertation, if she asked, even if I had a to-do list a mile long.
“I have better things to do, too,” he says.
My heart beats more intensely. Cobblestone paths, cobblestone paths, cobblestone paths . I feel like someone’s watching me, watching us. It’s a foreboding presence, one I felt on the altar moments before Palmer caught me with Andrew Drake. I scan the sparsely populated café,searching for the familiar glance of my father.
But of course he isn’t here. I’m safe, I remind myself. He wouldn’t come back here, and even if he did, I wouldn’t have to go back to Holy Promise with him. Guidry would see to
“Thirtieth? Wow.” I wonder what that might be like, having a big family to text with, to celebrate with.
“Do you have brothers or sisters?”
“Just Lindsey.”
His frown begins to take form—“How are you and Lindsey …”—only to be relieved by his text alert. “In all honesty, all they have to do is tell me when and where, you know? Theoretically, my responsibility begins and ends with showing up. Not like they’d trust me to actually do something anyway … One second.” He replies again. “There. That oughta do it. So.” He smiles.
We’re in a cozy booth at the Vagabond on the west side of the shack, overlooking the water. John’s sitting across from me, sipping a coffee, black.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” I say. “That note. The rosary reference.”
“Yeah.” He looks up at me, smiles, then glances downtoward his mug. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“Doubtful.” I think of my recently refilled prescription of Ativan, which is hidden in the front pocket of my backpack, and remember my mother’s commentary on the subject. “Crazy is relative, you know?”
“Interesting that you wanted to meet here.” John Fogel glances again at his watch, then trips his gaze around the room, as if searching for something that used to be there. “Ever come here on Fortune Night?”
Suddenly, my throat is dry. “Yeah. They don’t do it anymore.”
Not in just over a year, but I don’t want to talk about the reasons why their mystic is imprisoned at a mental health institution. When I glance over at the bar, I imagine my mother sitting at the end, flipping cards.
A strong sigh slips from between his lips. “You remind me of the woman who used to read cards here.” He clears his throat. “Look, Callie.”
I’ve never heard him speak my name before. It sort of stuns me for a moment, the natural intonation, as if he’s spoken my name a million times before.
A nagging sensation rises from somewhere in the back of my mind, as if I’ve forgotten to do something, or bring something of importance somewhere. Just as I’m about to let it go, the word arises from the clutter: Cobblestone. Cobblestone. Cobblestone . I press my hand against the front pocket of my backpack, feel the small, cylindricalcontainer stashed there. Maybe popping an antianxiety pill would be better than graphing out in front of him. Discreetly, I unzip the front pocket, open the vial, and extract a pill. I don’t have to take it. But if I want to, I can. I’ll bite it in half, maybe. Just take half. I rub my temples to ease the pressure building in my head. “Lindsey’ll be here soon.”
“I’m going to level with you,” he says. “I don’t care if Lindsey shows up or not. I didn’t come to see her.”
“Of course you did.” I don’t know who I’m trying to convince more, him or me. “She wrote you a note, and—”
“Did you write it? The note from Lindsey?” He squints a little, challenging me. “You spelled my name wrong.”
“Well, I know how to spell your name, and I have better things to do.”
Although he keeps fidgeting with his watch, his stare is unrelenting. I know he doesn’t believe me. But it’s not entirely a lie. I do have better things to do. Just not better enough. The Hutches are good to me. I’d write Lindsey’s doctoral dissertation, if she asked, even if I had a to-do list a mile long.
“I have better things to do, too,” he says.
My heart beats more intensely. Cobblestone paths, cobblestone paths, cobblestone paths . I feel like someone’s watching me, watching us. It’s a foreboding presence, one I felt on the altar moments before Palmer caught me with Andrew Drake. I scan the sparsely populated café,searching for the familiar glance of my father.
But of course he isn’t here. I’m safe, I remind myself. He wouldn’t come back here, and even if he did, I wouldn’t have to go back to Holy Promise with him. Guidry would see to
Similar Books
