“I know, I know. Why do you think he’s so afraid of rafting, but he’d let you hike the Knife Edge in Baxter?” he muses as we climb the steps toward the cabin and stand at the edge of the highway, waiting for a pickup to pass. “The Knife Edge is not exactly kiddie play. People die there, you know.”
I shrug. I can’t explain that my dad would prefer me dangling from high-rises to even smooth sailing. Justin and I have been going out long enough, and I suppose I could tell him. Tell him that my mom walked into the Delaware one summer and never returned. But I’m not speaking of her. I refuse to let her have any bearing on my life right now, despite what my dad wants.
We step into the cabin and out of the chilly early May air. I set my plate of food on the small table in the foyer, let down my hair and start shaking it out, only to bump into Justin. He’s standing like a massive tree trunk in the center of the hall. I try to shove him but I realize he’s dropped his plate of food. On his feet. And yet he doesn’t seem to have noticed that. He’s just standing there, frozen.
“Justin, you—” I start, but then I realize what has captured his interest.
“Hi, guys!” Angela springs up from the probably-fake bear rug at the center of the great room. She’s trying to straighten her rumpled T-shirt and wipe her mouth at the same time. Hugo gets up behind her. Both of them are all red, like they’ve been …
Yikes.
“Damn!” Justin shouts, like, twenty seconds too late, jumping back and looking at the mess on the floor. We both stoop down and start picking barbecue chicken and coleslaw off his hiking boots. “I mean, um, sorry if we were …”
“Oops,” I say, grinning at Angela. I take Justin’s plate and throw it in the trash, then pick up mine, trying my best to be quick about it. “You know, don’t mind us. We’ll just, um, take all this stuff and go upstairs. Okay?”
Angela looks totally embarrassed. She starts to argue, but then Hugo, who growls as if he’s about to kill us for disturbing them, pulls on her wrist. “Um, all right,” she says.
Justin plucks a corn kernel out of his laces. “Yeah. You guys … As you were, soldiers,” he mutters in an authoritative voice, taking my hand and pulling me up the stairs.
“What about your food?” I ask.
“What about it?”
“Do you want to get more?” I ask, but by then he’s slammed the door behind me and has pushed me up against the bureau. I struggle to put my plate down as his hands find their way under my jacket. They’re warm but his skin is rough against my belly and so it tickles. When he pushes his tongue into my mouth, I can’t stop laughing.
He pulls away. “What?”
Oh, how can I explain it without hurting him? When Justin kisses me, his tongue probes my mouth, so I rarely get a chance to kiss back. And his hands are so big and pawlike, they don’t touch me in a way that elicits shivers. The words “Justin” and “romantic” are opposites. I don’t know if the stuff from romance novels is real, if it can be real to have a guy who is caring and who makes me feel weak in the knees. Justin is smart, sweet, and stable, which are all good things. He’ll never be the one to make me swoon, but some things are more important than romance.
I ask between kisses, “Um, why this sudden interest in making out?”
He nibbles on my ear. “The adrenaline. It’s killer.”
“But I’m hungry,” I say, pushing him away gently. “And sleepy.”
He pulls away, his eyes searching mine for a moment. Then he says, “Right. Sorry. You’ve had a crazy day. You should get your sleep.”
I wrap my arms around him and give him a big kiss on the lips. “Will you stay with me?”
As an answer, he pulls me closer. That night, we share my plate of chicken, though he lets me have most of it. I try to come up with a poem about my trip down the river but end up writing only three words in my notebook, words said to me by a figment of my imagination: It’s too dangerous. Then I fall asleep in Justin’s arms, with the sound of the hockey game in the background. With his arms around me, I’m almost unafraid to close my eyes. But I know there’s little he can do to protect me from the things he cannot see. And he can’t protect me from myself.
Chapter Eleven
The early sunlight glows orange through the trees. When I wake, the house is so silent I can hear the ticking of the clock in the kitchen echoing through the open-floor-plan space. It’s still quite dark outside; the trees are a single black-green mass against the orange background. I sit up and pry Justin’s heavy arm off my body, but he doesn’t stir, just pushes the side of his face deeper into the pillow.
Downstairs, Hugo and Angela are still sleeping, their bodies wrapped together in such a way that I’m almost ashamed to look, even though they’re fully clothed. I shudder. Angela, Angela, Angela. I may be going crazy, but I’d never be so insane as to think that Hugo was someone I’d want to be that close to.
I check through the kitchen cabinets and find some whole coffee beans, but I have no clue how to grind them. Then I remember that the Outfitters had some coffee. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind me bumming a cup. After all, I’m the miracle girl. I’ll just have to avoid any reporters.
Reporters and … unsavory and possibly imaginary characters, I think as I step out into the chilly morning. It’s actually warmer than yesterday, and now the sun is starting to peek through the trees more. I jog down the driveway and across the highway, avoiding the river. The sound of my running shoes on the gravel effectively drowns out the gentle hum of the current. I don’t stop until I’m in the Outfitters. But as I’m pulling open the door, I catch sight of that photo in the glass case, and I hear it.
What the devil is that?
“Don’t you start, Uncle Robert,” I mutter as I step inside.
It’s just as busy as yesterday. A new group of adventurers is suiting up for the river. Some faces look familiar, but most are strange. They don’t know that I’m the one. That’s a good thing. A guy who is standing at the door looks at me growling to nobody and assumes I’m talking to him. He scoots aside, apologizing so effusively for being in my way that I feel bad. I blush and try to explain that I wasn’t talking to him, but stop. Maybe it’s for the best that he think I was talking to him. Better to be a bitch than a nutcase.
“Hey! Ice Girl!” a voice calls. It’s Spiffy. He’s wearing what I think is the same outfit he had on yesterday, and looking like he slept in a tree. “How are you? Ready for Round Two?”
I blush more, embarrassed. So they really are calling me that. “Um, not in a million years, thanks. I came for the coffee.”
He laughs and points to the kitchenette. “Just made a fresh pot.”
I inhale the heavenly scent of the beans as I start to cross the room, but freeze when I see who is there, pouring himself a cup. He has his back to me but the thick strap of his camera is wrapped around his neck, so I know it’s him. I curse and turn around quickly. Spiffy notices, so I say, “I don’t want that guy to see me. He wants to do a story on me for the Herald.”
Spiffy watches him. “Don’t worry. You’re old news. He has a better scoop.”
“Really?” I exhale and loosen, wondering how that could’ve happened so quickly. I know news moves fast, but this is kind of ridiculous. “Which is?”
“When they were combing the river looking for you, they found another body.”
I put my hands over my mouth. They must have found Uncle Robert. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”