“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For taking care of me this week.”
“There’s nothing else I would rather be doing,” I tell her and the urge to grab her hand and hold it, just hold it, just feel her, is so strong that I nearly have to step away. “If the rest of my life turns out to be this, just you and me, on a lake in the snow…I would go to my grave a happy man.”
She turns to look at me, her eyes large and liquid. We’re so close I can see the snowflakes caught in her eyelashes, can feel the warmth of her breath in the cold air.
God, I want her. God, Iloveher.
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe neither of us moves, maybe we just drift together like gravity, like something inevitable. Her face tilts up toward mine and I lean down and for one perfect suspended moment we’re almost there, almost touching, close enough that I can feel the ghost of her lips?—
And then she pulls back.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, turning her face away from me.
“So am I,” I tell her, meaning it.
We stand there in the snow, not touching, the almost-kiss hanging between us like a promise or a threat.
“We should go inside,” I finally say, clearing my throat. “It’s cold and I need to put the coffee on. Please tell me your father has good beans at his place, because as much as I love being here and playing lake house with you, I’ll be happy to never have a cup of stale swill again.”
She laughs and it’s enough to put things between us back to normal, whatever normal is.
That afternoon, we wash and put away the Thompson’s clothes that have treated us well during the week, then get back into our own clean ones. Mia only has her pants, boots, and a shirt, so we have to steal a sweater and puffy winter coat from their closet. When I come back to get her after the bank, I’ll make sure to leave money behind.
Then we clean and tidy the house and by the time we’re done, it’s time for me to go to the bank.
“Do you even know where the nearest bank is?” Mia asks, sitting on the porch as I step down into the slushy yard, the snow melting. “Do you even know what town we’re near?”
“Nope but I’ll figure it out quick,” I tell her. “I’ll fly over invisible, zip through the closest town, spot the bank. Find a safeplace to turn visible and go inside. With any luck I’ll be in and out in a flash.”
“Be careful,” she says.
“Always am.”
She gives me a look that sayswe both know that’s bullshit.
I go invisible and lift off, heading south toward what I hope is civilization.
The town is called Phoenicia.
I spot it from about two thousand feet—a main street, a general store, a diner, and there, right on the corner, a bank. Small town America, complete with a hardware store that already has their Christmas decorations up.
I land in an alley behind the diner, turn visible, and walk around to the bank like a normal person. The sign on the door says they close at five. It’s 4:47.
Inside, there’s maybe six people. An old guy at the counter, a mom with two kids waiting in line, a couple of employees behind the glass. The security guard by the door is the first to notice me, and his eyes go wide.
“Holy shit,” he says. “You’re—you’re Vanguard.”
So much for keeping a low profile.
The mom turns around. The kids turn around. The old guy at the counter turns around. Within thirty seconds I’m surrounded by people who want to shake my hand, tell me their friends willnever believe this, and ask me what I’m doing in Phoenicia of all places.
“Just passing through,” I say, pasting on the smile I’ve perfected for press events. “Taking some personal time.”
“Can I get a picture?” The mom is already pulling out her phone. “My husband loves you.”
“Sure. Of course.”
I pose for three photos. Sign a receipt someone shoves at me. Shake more hands. The whole time I’m watching the clock on the wall tick closer to five, and the teller behind the counter—a woman in her fifties with reading glasses on a chain and an expression like she’s seen it all and wasn’t impressed the first time—hasn’t moved from her station.
