CHAPTER ELEVEN
The cab brings us to the art supply store, where I allow my sister to buy me some primary acrylic colors, a few brushes and palette knives, and a large canvas . . . even though the last thing I feel like doing right now is painting. Hoping for inspiration, I also put a box of rubber gloves on the pile at the cash register. They aren’t something I’ve ever used with my work before, but I read an article a few months back about this other artist who does use them and I feel inspired to give her technique a try.
Amber holds up the box. “What are these for? Protecting your manicure?”
I take the gloves from her and put them on the counter with the other supplies so the man can ring everything up. “No. It’s a secret.”
“Oooh, I like secrets.” She leans in close and wiggles her eyebrows. “Tell me all of yours.”
I push her on the shoulder. “No. Go away.”
Sam is waiting for us at the front of the store, about ten feet away, his expression beyond bored. I’m not going to feel bad about it, though, because he didn’t have to come. We offered to drop him off somewhere, and he turned us down.
“I’m going to pay you back for all of this,” I say. I left my purse in my room, thinking we were dealing strictly with hot dogs.
“Don’t worry about it. I have loads and loads of money now.” Amber grins big at me.
I roll my eyes. She knows I don’t care about money. “Good for you.”
“We’re still going clothes shopping, I hope you know.”
I glance up at Sam, who’s busy staring at his phone. “Not now. Sam would kill us if we asked him to do that.”
“You are correct on that,” he says without looking up, making my heart jump. I was thinking he wasn’t paying us any attention when he was actually hearing every word.
Amber sticks her tongue out at him before she responds. “No, he’s not invited to that outing. We’ll go tomorrow or the next day.”
“Can we go back to the apartment now?” I ask quietly as the clerk finishes bagging up our purchases, hoping Sam doesn’t have superhero hearing. “My stomach is bothering me.” I rub it, seriously regretting my lunch choices. No wonder my sister spent so much time in the bathroom today. Those hot dogs are murder. I’m glad I didn’t order the chili or the onions.
“Yeah, we’ll go back right now.”
I look at Sam and drop my voice even lower. “Do you think he needs anything before we get back? Like at the grocery store or whatever?”
“I don’t know . . . let me ask.” Amber raises her voice. “Hey, Sam! Em wants to know if you need anything while we’re out!”
I could seriously kill her right now. I hold in my reaction, trying to act like being outed by my sister isn’t totally embarrassing. Now he knows I’m afraid to talk to him.
He shakes his head, his expression getting darker and darker the more he stares at his phone.
“Looks like he got a text or an email that’s not making him very happy,” Amber whispers over my shoulder as I reach for my bag of goodies. “I wonder what it says.”
“Whatever, Nosey Parker. Mind your own business.” I pray he can’t hear us digging into his life.
He turns abruptly and exits the store, stopping outside on the sidewalk. Amber and I stare at him through the window as he punches in somebody’s phone number and then starts talking rapidly. He is not happy at all; that much is clear.
“I hope he doesn’t cause any trouble while he’s here,” Amber says under her breath.
“Why would you say that?” We walk as slowly as we can toward the door, giving him time to have his conversation in private and giving us time to gossip about it.
“Think about it . . . ,” she says. “He got here three weeks early because something was going on in California? That can’t mean anything good.”
I won’t share my crazy ideas of him running from the law and whatever else my imagination was cooking up earlier. He doesn’t seem like the type, now that I’ve gotten to know him a little bit more. At least I don’t think he does. Not that I have any experience with criminals or anything. Jesus, what am I thinking? For all I know he could be an ax murderer. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I say, trying to reassure Amber and myself.
“He’s a tortured soul.”
“Really?” I pause to look at her, my hand on the door. “What does that mean?” I can’t tell if she’s being facetious or not.
“We’ll talk about it later.” She pushes the door open, mumbling under her breath, “Let’s go. I don’t want him taking off and running around the city with a chip on his shoulder.”
“What do you mean? Why would you say that?” I’m hurrying to catch up to her. She’s making no sense.
She’s bearing down on Sam as he takes a couple steps away from us. “I know the look of somebody who’s about to rabbit off.”
He looks perfectly calm to me—maybe a little angry, but not like he’s about to run away. “I think you’re imagining things.”
She stops suddenly, causing me to bump into her as she turns around to face me. “I’ve been living with you for twenty-five years, Little Miss Scared of Her Own Shadow. Trust me . . . I know when somebody is about to take off because they’re freaking out about something.”
“What? You’re crazy.” I can’t tell if she’s joking around, but I sure don’t appreciate being called that name.
And then Sam starts to walk quickly down the sidewalk away from us.
“See? Told you.” Amber starts to jog after him, and I hurry to follow. My heart feels heavy as I realize she was right about him, and that she could be right about me, too. Am I really afraid of my own shadow?