Read Online The Kissing Game by Marie Turner - Free Book Online Page A

you grab a handful of that mane and look hard into those eyes,
you’d see a different person. You’d see the boy I see.”
    He waves a cautionary hand out in front of him. “You alright
there? You look a little off. I’m sorry, what is your name again? I can’t even
remember if you told me your name.”
    “Caroline,” I say. “My name is Caroline.”
    “Robert talks about you sometimes. Not very often, but he says
things.”
    “What does he say?” I blurt, a barren feeling growing in my
stomach.
    “Oh, I can’t remember. Can’t remember at all right now. Ask me six
hours from now and I’ll remember. My medicines kick in in the morning and I
can’t remember anything until mealtime. I knew you who you were though because
of the red hair. He’s talked about your red hair before.” Mr. Spencer leans
back into his bed and pulls out a power cord. On the end of a cord are buttons.
He presses the green one and the bed transforms into a kind of mammoth chair.
Mr. Spencer leans back and takes a book off his nightstand. On the cover is a
man holding a gun.
    “But you don’t remember what he said?” I ask.
    “No, no. Have you ever read John Grillan? Great author, writes the
best mysteries. I like to try and solve it before the end. I never get it right
though. I’m just not conniving enough to think like a bad guy which is why I
can’t figure out who did it. Robert says it’s good for my memory to keep
trying. This one is about a man who’s married to a woman he thinks is a normal
housewife. I suspect she might be a killer though. We’ll soon find out, won’t
we?” he asks the book more than me. With thumbs that look like misshapen little
clubs, he finds his spot in the book and opens it.
    “I’ll let you get to your reading,” I say, standing and
deliberately stopping to check the weather outside the window. The sky holds
slumped, dangling clouds, frozen in place.
    “Nice to meet you, Caroline. Come by again. I like to have
visitors. Lunch is a good time. I always have my lunch in the little dining
hall if you ever want to join me. They make pretty good turkey enchiladas on
Tuesdays.” He opens the nightstand drawer and retrieves his reading glasses.
Then he pops them on, looking above them to totter his fingers at me.
    “Bye Mr. Spencer,” I say.
    “Bye, Caroline. Close the door tightly on your way out.”
    I pull the door tightly shut and make my way down to the street,
which seems to be full of the silhouettes of mortal men, their dark caped
shapes moving in and out of buildings. They all have closed umbrellas in their
hands. A drift of gutter smoke rises out of the sidewalk as I glide past.
    Realizing I won’t have time for a real lunch, I roughly ransack a
small convenience store along the way. There I rustle up a half turkey sandwich
and a bottle of water. On the street, I eat and walk while the wind whines
through my open raincoat. All the time my thoughts are fully shaped and
ever-moving. I wonder how I could have worked for Robert for two years and not
known about his gnarled past. I ask myself questions. Does this truth make
Robert’s assistant-trampling acceptable? Does his past excuse him from somehow
and fuel his cruelty? Does he deserve special treatment because his mother was
a meth-addict? Has being abandoned just made a bad person? Is he the bad guy? Or
am I now the bad guy for sending the video?  And why would Robert send me on
such a personal errand now, when he never has before? I coax my thoughts,
trying to come to some palpable resolution, but the questions just circle, like
a merry-go-round without end. They cling to nothing.
    After arriving at the office, I barely have time to haul what I
need down to the street, where Robert is standing there, holding the door to
the town car open. The car sits idling on the curb. A patch of sunlight shines
on the building across the street, making several windows crimson, gold, and
rose. I see the sun also hits Roberts face, banding and