Justin’s plate and throw it in the trash, then pick up mine, trying my best to be quick about it. “You know, don’t mind us. We’ll just, um, take all this stuff and go upstairs. Okay?”
Angela looks totally embarrassed. She starts to argue, but then Hugo, who growls as if he’s about to kill us for disturbing them, pulls on her wrist. “Um, all right,” she says.
Justin plucks a corn kernel out of his laces. “Yeah. You guys … As you were, soldiers,” he mutters in an authoritative voice, taking my hand and pulling me up the stairs.
“What about your food?” I ask.
“What about it?”
“Do you want to get more?” I ask, but by then he’s slammed the door behind me and has pushed me up against the bureau. I struggle to put my plate down as his hands find their way under my jacket. They’re warm but his skin is rough against my belly and so it tickles. When he pushes his tongue into my mouth, I can’t stop laughing.
He pulls away. “What?”
Oh, how can I explain it without hurting him? When Justin kisses me, his tongue probes my mouth, so I rarely get a chance to kiss back. And his hands are so big and pawlike, they don’t touch me in a way that elicits shivers. The words “Justin” and “romantic” are opposites. I don’t know if the stuff from romance novels is real, if it can be real to have a guy who is caring and who makes me feel weak in the knees. Justin is smart, sweet, and stable, which are all good things. He’ll never be the one to make me swoon, but some things are more important than romance.
I ask between kisses, “Um, why this sudden interest in making out?”
He nibbles on my ear. “The adrenaline. It’s killer.”
“But I’m hungry,” I say, pushing him away gently. “And sleepy.”
He pulls away, his eyes searching mine for a moment. Then he says, “Right. Sorry. You’ve had a crazy day. You should get your sleep.”
I wrap my arms around him and give him a big kiss on the lips. “Will you stay with me?”
As an answer, he pulls me closer. That night, we share my plate of chicken, though he lets me have most of it. I try to come up with a poem about my trip down the river but end up writing only three words in my notebook, words said to me by a figment of my imagination: It’s too dangerous. Then I fall asleep in Justin’s arms, with the sound of the hockey game in the background. With his arms around me, I’m almost unafraid to close my eyes. But I know there’s little he can do to protect me from the things he cannot see. And he can’t protect me from myself.
Chapter Eleven
The early sunlight glows orange through the trees. When I wake, the house is so silent I can hear the ticking of the clock in the kitchen echoing through the open-floor-plan space. It’s still quite dark outside; the trees are a single black-green mass against the orange background. I sit up and pry Justin’s heavy arm off my body, but he doesn’t stir, just pushes the side of his face deeper into the pillow.
Downstairs, Hugo and Angela are still sleeping, their bodies wrapped together in such a way that I’m almost ashamed to look, even though they’re fully clothed. I shudder. Angela, Angela, Angela. I may be going crazy, but I’d never be so insane as to think that Hugo was someone I’d want to be that close to.
I check through the kitchen cabinets and find some whole coffee beans, but I have no clue how to grind them. Then I remember that the Outfitters had some coffee. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind me bumming a cup. After all, I’m the miracle girl. I’ll just have to avoid any reporters.
Reporters and … unsavory and possibly imaginary characters, I think as I step out into the chilly morning. It’s actually warmer than yesterday, and now the sun is starting to peek through the trees more. I jog down the driveway and across the highway, avoiding the river. The sound of my running shoes on the gravel effectively drowns out the gentle hum of the current. I don’t stop until I’m in the Outfitters. But as I’m pulling open the door, I catch sight of that photo in the glass case, and I hear it.
What the devil is that?
“Don’t you start, Uncle Robert,”