Still, Oliver is sullen as we hike across the peninsula, his arms crossed over his chest. They stay firmly in place as I throw my backpack in the rowboat and pull it out into the water. Clearly, I’m the one who has to row us back home.
“I had fun,” I tell him as we push across the calm, warm waters. “Thanks for having Theo invite me.”
Oliver blinks, then looks away from me, out at the lake. I slap the oars into the water and wish I knew what to say. This is part of why I gave up on working as a translator; at the end of the day, I’m just not that good with people.
Same as Theo, I think wryly.
I row the boat over to Oliver’s pier, and I’m relieved that the house still looks closed up, like it did last night. I half expect Blaire or his sullen father to burst out of the back door, screaming at us, but nothing happens. I tie the boat off.
“Are you gonna have to sneak in?” I ask, knowing that I’m being a terrible role model.
Oliver looks up at me with that heartbreakingly sad expression. He climbs out of the boat without answering, and the worry in my throat tightens again.
Something’s wrong. Even I can tell that.
I jog after him, put my hand on his shoulder. “I can take the blame,” I say, “If you’re worried you’re going to get in trouble.”
He stops and looks up at me, the wind blowing his hair into his eyes. Then, finally, he says something.
“I’m not going to get in trouble.”
He doesn’t exactly seem happy about it, though.
He turns from me and keeps walking up the pier. My worry deepens, and I keep looking to the back door of his house, to the white vertical blinds blocking the view of the living room. I dig out my phone and check the time: almost eight-thirty. Surely someone would be awake by now?
Oliver jumps off the pier and walks around the side of the house. I follow after him?—
And that’s when I see it. His parents’ big Range Rover is still gone.
The worry turns into a dark, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, especially as I watch Oliver flip over a rock in the flower bed—a rock that I see quickly enough is one of those decorative key hiders. He pulls the key out and squeezes it in his little palm.
“Your parents left you alone?” I cry out. “Overnight?”
Oliver looks over at me, his eyes shadowed.
“You can tell me.” I rush over to him and kneel so we’re eye level. He keeps staring at me. “They shouldn’t have done that.”
He breathes out. “They’ll be back on Sunday night,” he says.
I gape at him. “That’s tomorrow!”
“I wanted to say with Theo.” He turns away from me, moving toward the front door.
“But they didn’t know that,” I say. “Your parents.”
He shrugs.
“Oliver!” I follow after him, and he stops and looks up at me, as weary as an adult. “Your parents expected you to be by yourself for the whole weekend,” I whisper. I don’t know much about kids, but I know that you shouldn’t do that. Not with a ten-year-old.
“They always do that,” he says. “When they get tired of me.”
My heart cracks. I don’t know what to do. If I should call someone. If I should leave him alone.
No, I can’t do that. And I can’t send him to stay with Theo. Not for two days.
“Stay with me,” I say. “Okay? I know that’s not as good as staying with Theo, but Theo—” I search around for the right words. “Theo’s not really equipped to handle a, uh, a living boy, you know? Because he’s a ghost.”
It feels absurd, saying the wordghostout here in the bright summer sunlight. Especially when I know the truth of what Theo is.
