19
I WOKE UP gasping. There was a weight on my chest, crushing my heart, squeezing the air from my lungs. So this is it, I thought, this is what it feels like to die.
Next: Oh my God, I haven’t kissed Robinson yet. Except for that one time, ages ago, when I had that beer, which didn’t even count …
I clawed at the covers, my lungs screaming. My desperate fingers felt something hard and round—a small, bony knee.
There was a shriek, a high giggle, and suddenly the weight was gone. I sat up, dazed and blinking. There was a boy on the floor, gazing up at me with giant green eyes.
“My name is Mason Drew Boseman,” he said pertly. “I’m four.”
“You must weigh fifty pounds,” I gasped, rubbing my sternum, where he’d just been sitting.
Then a small girl wandered in, clutching a dirty stuffed bunny. “That’s Lila,” Mason said. “She’s two and she doesn’t know how to use the potty.”
“I’m … Bonnie,” I said, my breath finally returning to normal. “Nice to meet you both.”
Mason ducked his head, suddenly shy, like he hadn’t just nearly killed me. Lila simply stared, then slowly brought her thumb up to her mouth and began to suck.
“Maybe I’ll get up now,” I said, untangling myself from the clean but ratty blanket. Still they stared.
I walked into the kitchen, following the smell of coffee. “Morning—” I began to say.
But I stopped. Because Chrissy, who was barefoot and in a silky red nightgown, had Robinson pressed up against the counter—and she was kissing him.
And it looked for all the world like he was kissing her back.
I turned around and stood shaking in the hall. Had I really just seen that? Was there a chance I was still dreaming? Mason looked up at me questioningly.
I counted to twenty, then coughed and tried to make it sound like I was coming down the hall to the kitchen. I heard the shuffling of feet, the screech of chair legs against linoleum.
This time when I rounded the corner, Robinson was at the kitchen table, reading the paper like he was the man of the house. “Morning, sunshine,” he said, pushing a mug of steaming coffee toward me. He needed a shave, and there was a smudge of dirt on his cheek.
“He changed my oil, can you believe that?” Chrissy asked me. Her cheeks were flushed.
“That’s not a metaphor for something, is it?” I asked, looking pointedly at Robinson.
He chose to ignore the question. “I woke up early. Thought I’d do a friend a favor.”
That was Robinson. He never missed an opportunity to help someone out. Apparently, he also never missed a chance to kiss someone—unless that person was me.
Chrissy had hopped up onto the counter, and she was looking at him like she was ready to ask him to move in. She might have two kids, but she was probably only a few years older than we were.
Mason tugged at my leg. “Did you know that dead squirrels can eat you? They have very sharp teeth. Dead squirrels are cool. Also dinosaurs are cool, and Batman, but Spider-Man is better because he got bitten by a spider.” Mason began hopping up and down, narrowly missing my foot. “Superman can go into space because he can fly, but not Spider-Man because he needs a web and he can’t shoot it in space because there’s no buildings up there.” His hopping had progressed to a wild bouncing.
Chrissy giggled. “I swear I don’t give him coffee.”
“He’s charming,” I said—through gritted teeth.
“I’m not charming. I’m starving!” Mason said.
I took a step forward. “Will you let me cook breakfast?” I asked. “So you can relax?”
Chrissy looked at me in surprise. “Uh … okay.”
“You took us in—it’s the least I can do.” The fact was, I didn’t know what to do with my hands, and cooking would calm me down. So I made omelets for everyone, with cheddar cheese and snippets of chives from a pot that Chrissy kept on her windowsill. I thought about undercooking her omelet and putting bits of eggshell in it, but I reminded myself that she wasn’t really the wrongdoer. I’d told her Robinson wasn’t my boyfriend, so as far as she knew, he was available.
Not that I totally forgave her.
“Wow, I lucked out bringing you two home,” Chrissy said, her mouth full of eggs. “This is the best omelet I’ve ever had.”
“I’ve made a lot of them,” I said. “I’m no gourmet or anything.”
Robinson pointed his fork at me. “Not true. She can cook anything. She’ll make someone a good little wife someday.”
“Watch it,” I warned.
“It’s a compliment,” Robinson insisted.
“I didn’t take it as one,” I said.
“You guys bicker like a brother and sister,” Chrissy said, giggling. Then she looked serious again. “Do your parents know where you are?”
I turned back to the stove. “We plead the Fifth.”
“We’re on vacation,” Robinson said.
Chrissy sighed and leaned back in her folding chair. “Okay,” she said, “I won’t pry. Everyone’s entitled to their secrets. But here’s a piece of advice: get out of Las Vegas, okay? Because you come here and you just get stuck.”
She gazed toward the window then, the one that looked out over the Neon Boneyard, where old signs go to die. Something told me that getting stuck was exactly what had happened to her.
I looked at Robinson, who was dumping sugar into his coffee. We’d never get stuck anywhere, not even if we wanted to. There was an undeniable reason for that—but it was one of our secrets.