“I—” I looked at the door, at her, back at the door again. “Okay,” I agreed. “I’ll be right back.”
I thundered down the stairs and flung the front door open. There was Greer on the other side of it in hunter-green galoshes, her hair in a long braid over one shoulder. “Hi,” she said.
“Hi.”There was a shiny black Jeep idling behind her at the curb, Maggie Rogers faintly audible on the sound system. I could see Margot scrolling through her phone behind the wheel. “Um. How did you know where I live?”
Greer tilted her head, her quirked lips slick with cherry ChapStick. “That,” she said archly, “is…notquitethe welcome I was hoping for.”
“No, that’s not—I mean, I’m glad to see you,” I backpedaled—laughing a little, stepping back to let her into our dingy foyer. There were phone books piled to one side of the door; some mysterious company kept dropping them off faster than we could tossthem into the recycling. A snow shovel leaned against the pockmarked wall next to a crusty five-gallon bucket of ice melt, even though the first snow was still at least a month away. “I’m just…surprised, that’s all. Hi,” I said again. “For real.”
“Hi for real.” Greer smiled at that.
“How was Thanksgiving?”
“Oh, god, you don’t want to know.” She shook her head. “It’s over, which is honestly the nicest thing I can say about it. Oh, and there was creamed corn.”
“I actually kind of like creamed corn,” I admitted.
“You would.”
“Is that an insult?”
“Maybe.” Greer shrugged. “Anyway,” she said, “I didn’t come here to talk to you about that. I came here because I think I might have…overreacted the other day. When I told you not to come to camp.”
“Oh yeah?” That got my attention. “You might have, huh?”
“Yeah.” She blew a breath out. “You were just trying to protect me, right?”
I thought about that for a moment.Trying to protect herwas one way of looking at it, obviously. It was what I’d told her last weekend underneath the bleachers, and it wasn’t like it wasn’t true: I cared hugely about Greer. If somebody wanted to hurt her, I wanted to stop them. If somebody was coming after her, I sure as shit wanted to stand in their way. But truthfully, there was more to it than that, something I knew I’d never be able to explain to her or, maybe, to anyone: the deep satisfaction that came fromfollowing a trail of clues, turning over rocks, and shining light into dark places. Of figuring out who’d done what and why. It was hard to name what I felt, solving mysteries with Holiday. If it hadn’t been entirely too humiliating to contemplate, the word I might have used wasalive.
“Yeah,” I agreed quietly. “I was just looking out for you.”
“Okay.” Greer shrugged. “Well. Anyway. Everyone else thinks you’re fun and wants you to come to Maine with us, so.”
“Shows how much they know.”
That made her smile. “Just,” she said—taking a step toward me so our hips were only barely touching, a chilly wind blowing in through the open front door and ghosting over the back of my neck. “Come.”
I took a breath. “Okay,” I said, then immediately thought of my mom and Holiday two floors up, Holiday already in her puffy parka. I thought ofLive Poultry Fresh Killed.“Let me, um…I’ll meet you in the car, okay? I just need a minute.”
Greer looked at me a little suspiciously. “Who are you embarrassed of here, Linden?”
“What? Nobody,” I said, though of course the real answer was all three of them, for completely different reasons, in completely different ways. “They’re—I mean, my mom is probably going to give me a hard time for bailing, that’s all.”
Greer nodded slowly. “Well,” she said, and tipped her face up to kiss me. “In that case, I will have to be sure to make it worth your while.”
I grinned against her mouth. “I’ll be right back.”
“Uh-huh.” She laid one chilly hand against the flat of my chest, then slid it down my body and squeezed. “I’ll be here.”
When I got back up to the apartment, Holiday was still wearing her coat, her tote bag slung over one shoulder. “Ready to go see the chicken sign?” she deadpanned. Then, off my presumably stricken face: “I’m kidding, dumbass. Go do your thing.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, scrubbing a hand through my hair. “I feel like a total dick.”
“I mean, youarea total dick,” Holiday said cheerfully, “but it’s fine. Seriously, Michael, go have fun.”
“Really?” Normally, I knew when Holiday was full of shit, but I couldn’t get a read on her expression. It was disconcerting; she was a good actress, sure, but I wasn’t used to her turning that particular skill on me. “Are you sure?”
“Yes!” She laughed—a little shrilly, maybe? I wasn’t sure. “Dude,” she said, “you obviously want to go. Iwantyou to go.”
