Page 88 of Life and Death
Breakfast was the usual, quiet event I expected. Charlie fried eggs for himself; I had my bowl of cereal. I wondered if he had forgotten about this Saturday.
“About this Saturday . . . ,” he began, like he could read my mind. I was getting really paranoid about that specific concern.
“Yes, Dad?”
He walked across the kitchen and turned on the faucet. “Are you still set on going to Seattle?”
“That was the plan.” I frowned, wishing he hadn’t brought it up so I wouldn’t have to compose careful half-truths.
He squeezed some dish soap onto his plate and swirled it around with the brush. “And you’re sure you can’t make it back in time for the dance?”
“I’m not going to the dance, Dad.”
“Didn’t anyone ask you?” he asked, his eyes focused on the plate.
“It’s not my thing,” I reminded him.
“Oh.” He frowned as he dried his plate.
I wondered if he was worried about me being a social outcast. Maybe I should have told him I had lots of invitations. But that would obviously backfire. He wouldn’t be very happy if he knew I’d turned them all down. Then I would have to tell him that there was a girl . . . who hadn’t asked me . . . and obviously I didn’t want to get into that.
Which got me thinking about prom and Taylor and the dress she already had and Logan’s attitude toward me and that whole mess. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. In any universe, I wasn’t going to prom. In a universe where Edythe Cullen existed, I wasn’t going to be interested in any other girl. It wasn’t fair to just go along with Taylor’s plan when my heart wasn’t in it. The problem was figuring outhow. . . .
Charlie left then, with a goodbye wave, and I went upstairs to brush my teeth and gather my books. When I heard the cruiser pull away, I could only wait a few seconds before I had to look out of my window. The silver car was already there, waiting in Charlie’s spot on the driveway. I took the stairs three at a time and was out the door in seconds. I wondered how long this strange routine would continue. I never wanted it to end.
She waited in the car, not appearing to watch as I shut the door behind me without bothering to lock the deadbolt. I walked to the car, then hesitated for just a second before I opened the door and climbed in. She was smiling, relaxed—and, as usual, so perfect it was painful.
“Good morning. How are you today?” Her eyes roamed over my face, like the question was something more than simple courtesy.
“Good, thank you.” I was always good—much more than good—when I was close to her.
Her gaze lingered on the circles under my eyes. “You look tired.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I admitted.
She laughed. “Neither could I.”
The engine purred quietly to life. I was getting used to the sound. The roar of my truck would probably scare me the next time I drove it.
“I guess that’s right,” I said. “I probably did get more sleep than you.”
“I would wager you did.”
“So what did you do last night?”
She laughed. “Not a chance. It’s my day to ask questions.”
“Oh, that’s right.” My forehead creased. I couldn’t imagine anything about me that would be interesting to her. “What do you want to know?”
“What’s your favorite color?” she asked, totally serious.
I shrugged. “It changes.”
“What is it today?”
“Um, probably . . . gold, I guess.”
“Is there anything material behind your choice, or is it random?”
