I quickly grab my helmet and put it on, watching the door of Lulu’s. I’m on the bike before I realize Wes is standing there, staring at me.
“I don’t mean to be nosy,” he says, “but are you on the run from the cops or something?”
“What?” I ask, surprised. He smiles.
“I’m kidding,” he says. “Mostly.But the fact that wasn’t immediately obvious is worrisome.” He puts on his helmet and gets in front of me on the bike. I slip my arms around him and lean in closer, my heart racing as I wait for Michael Realm to appear.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m just a little freaked out right now.”
“Why? Because I—”
“No, nothing about you,” I say. “It was this guy.”
“Huh,” Wes says, kicking the bike to life and revving it loudly. “Another promising development.”
“It was the guy I saw earlier—the one I pointed out in the parking lot?”
Wes turns to me, his eyes concerned. “He’s following you?”
“Us.” I pause. “Or me, I don’t know.”
“And why would he be doing that?” Wes asks, his voice ticking up.
“I’m not exactly sure,” I say. “At first, I thought it was because you just returned, you know? But now I’m thinking it might be me. I don’t know. Let’s just get out of here.”
“Done,” Wes says, telling me to hang on. We ride out of the parking lot, on our way back to school, when I lean forward, my lips near his ear.
“Would you take me home instead?” I ask. Despite everything going on, home seems the safest place to be.
“Of course,” Wes says, and I give him my address.
I glance back and make sure that no one is following us. I notice the first return of clouds clinging to the sky and immediately miss the sun. Wind blows through the trees, and Wes has to tighten his grip against it.
At the next stoplight, Wes turns slightly to talk to me. I love this angle of him, so familiar. I lean in closer.
“So who is this guy?” Wes asks as if he’s just curious. “What’s his name?”
“Michael Realm,” I say. The light turns green.
“Stupid name,” Wes says under his breath, and continues toward my house.
CHAPTER FIVE
MY STREET IS QUIET FROMthe absence of children, cars gone from driveways. It’s like we have the entire block to ourselves. And as far as I can tell, no one followed us from the café.
Wes pulls his bike up on the side of my house, off the road and hidden. It’s the same place he’d always park, and I wonder if it just makes sense or if it’s a memory. Wes looks at my modest house—not nearly as nice as his. I don’t have an entire basement apartment to myself like he does.
“You mentioned your grandfather,” he says, both of us climbing off his motorcycle. “Do you live with him?”
“Yeah. Him and my gram.” I unsnap my helmet and set it on the seat.
“Your parents, too?” he asks.
“Nope. My mom’s remarried, and I see her on holidays sometimes. We’re not close. And my dad—I don’t know where my dad is. New York, maybe.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why?” I ask. “My grandparents are great. They—” But the words, the ones I’ve said over and over through the years, fall silent on my lips. I was going to say my grandparents are great—they never let me down. They’ve always had my back.
