I go downstairs in my pajamas, and I find a full lunch waiting for me, including scrambled eggs, fruit, fresh coffee, and a bottle of champagne. Bradley pulls out my seat for me, then places a rose beside my plate.
“What’s all this for?” I say, unable to stop myself from smiling. “You didn’t need to do this.”
“Of course I did.”
“Eggs? I thought those were verboten,” I say, remembering Grace’s pescatarian diet. “Still no carbs, though.”
“Out with the old,” he says absent-mindedly, leaning back with his coffee. “I was thinking of you this morning and how I came over to the cottage at night. It reminds me of this poem by Robert Browning. ‘A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch, and blue spurt of a lighted match.’”
I resist the urge to say he didn’t actually do that—not when I was expecting him, at least. I waited a week for him at night, and he never came.
“‘Two hearts beating each to each!’” He grins. “Isn’t that really what life’s all about? The excitement of sneaking into the room of a lover. The scratch on the window. The risk, the anticipation!”
I smile at his boyish enthusiasm. Grace’s words come to mind once more. He is a boy, in many ways. Boyish enthusiasm. Boyish charm. Boyish appetites.
“What happens when you no longer need to scratch? It won’t be like this forever.”
“We can cross that bridge when we’re old and decrepit.”
“Aren’t you afraid we’re crossing it now?”
“Not at all! Never!” He takes another sip of coffee, then a bite of eggs, before standing. He has the restless energy of a hummingbird. “I’d show you right now if I had time. I’d sweep everything off this table. But I need to make a phone call.”
“Who?” I ask, without thinking.
It’s a silly question—I barely know anything about Bradley or who he might talk to. I don’t know the names of his parents or friends. I don’t even know where he grew up.
He pulls his cellphone from his pocket and starts to dial.
“It's time I called the police.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
As I finish breakfast, I try to ignore the tightness in my chest. I want to stay in the room while Bradley calls, but he waves me away and walks outside to the back garden.
I wonder what will happen next. Will there be stories in the paper? Will we be taken for questioning? Will they search the house?
I finish my champagne and take a second glass to the kitchen. I turn on the radio and listen for news of the fires. Apparently, the wind has picked up again, and it’ll be days before it’s safe to leave. I’m stuck here—but even if I wasn’t, would I really go?
I’m glad I don’t need to find this out just yet.
I walk with the radio through the house while these questions bounce around in my mind. If I left, where would I go? Some cheap town in the Midwest? Australia?
And what would I do? Waitress again?
There’s no extraordinary life waiting for me outside of Pine Ridge. I’m not eighteen anymore. I don’t have any fantasies about what life can be. I’ll just work to make ends meet.
I remember what Bradley said about Grace, that she didn’t understand how risky life could be. She never knew how far there was to fall. For people like me, life is always precarious. I’ma few poor decisions away from living in my car again. I probably always will be.
I go back to the table and pour myself a third glass. With every sip, I feel my thoughts getting clearer, my choices becoming more obvious. I attempt to raise a forkful of egg to my mouth, but it slips off and lands on my pajamas, leaving a dark streak below my waist. I clean myself as best I can at the table, then go upstairs to change.
I look for my pack in the corner of Bradley’s room, but it’s gone. Typical. He must have unpacked my clothes into the wardrobe—yet another attempt to make my presence in this room feel inevitable. I slide open the wardrobe door, but everything is Grace’s. I look through his clothes, too, until I see a familiar pattern peeking out from one of his drawers. I pull it open and find my pack, but it’s completely empty.
“Bradley!” I storm down the hallway and find him standing at the bottom of the stairs.
“What is it?” he asks, climbing up to meet me.
“Where did you put my clothes?”
